Sorcery and the Single Girl

by Mindy Klasky

  “I don’t have a choice.”

  “You always have a choice.”

  I shook my head. “Not this time.” I tried to think of how I could phrase this, how I could make Gran understand. “This isn’t a group that I’ve chosen to belong to. It’s not like the concert opera guild, or the Friends of the National Zoo. This is more. It’s deeper. I was born a witch. It’s in every fiber of my being.”

  “But you don’t have to associate with those women!”

  “I do, though.” I clenched and unclenched my hands, frustrated by the search for appropriate words. “I’ve been trusted with great power. Now, I’ve got great responsibility.”

  Wonderful. I was reduced to quoting Spiderman to justify myself.

  “Gran, I don’t have to agree with everything they do. I don’t have to be involved with every project they undertake. But I do have to work with them—or I’m going to be forced to work against them. They’re the only game in town, quite literally. David says that there aren’t any other witches in D.C., Maryland or Virginia. Teresa Alison Sidney is the strongest Coven Mother that any American coven has ever known, and her territory has grown as she has matured.”

  “That Teresa Alison Sidney—” Gran said, and she shook her head in disapproval.

  “What, Gran? I thought you liked her?” Wasn’t Gran the one who had been so enamored of the Coven Mother? Hadn’t Gran contemplated inviting her to join the concert opera guild? What had changed?

  Gran pursed her lips. “She was rude to me. And to your mother. You might not think that we care about this witchcraft nonsense, but we do, on some level. And we don’t like to be made fools of in front of everyone.”

  Her voice was trembling. Tears had actually gathered in her eyes. My heart clenched, and I felt truly miserable, like I was leaving my family to seek my fortune, like I was turning my back on the woman who had raised me. “What happened, Gran?”

  My question flustered her. She removed the cozy and lifted the china teapot, gently sloshing it from side to side to test how much water remained. “Do you want some more tea?”

  “No, Gran.” I waited for her to tell me.

  “Now, you’ve let that muffin get cold. Let me pop it into the microwave, freshen it right up.”

  “No, thank you, Gran.” I tried to keep an edge from my voice.

  “Maybe you’d like some fruit? I’ve got some lovely pears—first ones of the season. Let me slice one for you.”

  I settled my hand on her wrist, keeping her from flying off to the kitchen counter. “Gran, what did the Coven do?”

  She fretted at the edge of her napkin. “Clara got a phone call yesterday afternoon.”

  Yesterday. The day after the Coven’s business meeting. “Who was it?”

  “One of the witches. She didn’t give her name, but her voice was older than Teresa Alison Sidney’s.”

  “How did Clara even know it was someone from the Coven?”

  “Who else begins a conversation, ‘I speak as the messenger of Hecate’?”

  Well, Gran had a point. I asked, “What else did she say?”

  “She said the Coven had reconsidered. Teresa Alison Sidney had spoken. The witches decided to take back the jewelry that they gave us.”

  “The Torches?” I immediately thought of my conversation with Haylee. Had I said something to make the Coven act? But there had been no indication that my longing for Gran’s Torch was anything out of the ordinary. Besides, the witch who had phoned couldn’t even be Haylee. Not if her voice was old. And Clara had received the call. Not Gran. Not the grandmother I had inadvertently framed when I said I longed for a Torch.

  No. I remembered Haylee’s tingling fingers on my hand. Haylee was my friend. She would not turn the Coven against me. Against Gran and Clara.

  Gran shook her head and sighed. “I mean, neither Clara nor I thought they were so important in the first place. You know that I was willing to give you mine.”

  “But they shouldn’t just be able to ask for them back, for no reason. Did the witch give Clara any explanation at all?”

  “She only said that the Coven had reconsidered. That the two of us aren’t worthy of membership. That our powers aren’t strong enough.”

  I went back over the secret meeting. Maybe this had nothing to do with me at all. Had there been any mention about rescinding membership? Had anyone said anything about getting back jewelry that had already been distributed? I could have missed the details, if they’d been buried in some committee report when my attention was wandering.

  No. Gran and Clara’s status with the Coven had not been part of the meeting. It must be separate. Personal.

  But I still couldn’t yield to Gran’s request. This was one promise I just couldn’t make. I took her right hand between both of mine, squelching a moment of surprise when I realized how thin her bones were, how papery her flesh had become. “Gran, I’m so sorry. But I can’t promise. Not now. Let me try to make this right, from inside the Coven. Let me explain to them that they’ve been wrong.”

  Gran sighed. “Jane—”

  “Gran, you have to let me go ahead with this. Once I’m in the Coven, I can learn things. And I can teach them, too. They were wrong to have treated you the way they did. They should have been more respectful. And once I’m inside the group, I can work to change that. I can work to build a group where all witches are welcome, even ones who—” I caught myself just in time, barely stumbling before I completed my sentence. “Even ones who are newly come to their powers.” No reason to rub in Gran’s and Clara’s limited abilities.

  Gran sat back in her chair. She took her eyeglasses from the bridge of her nose, spending an inordinately long time polishing them against her apron. “It’s just that I love you. We do, Clara and I, both. And we want what’s right for you.”

  “I know that, Gran. I truly do.” I leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “And now, what’s right for me is that I get to work. Evelyn will kill me if I’m late.”

  Gran took a deep breath, and then she pushed herself up from the table. “Take her some muffins, dear. She’ll forgive anything with a fresh-baked muffin on her desk.”

  Yeah. A fresh-baked muffin and a half caf, half decaf latte with an extra-large cap of whipped cream. I sighed and wrapped up a treat for my boss. After Gran walked me to her front door, I stopped with my hand on the shiny brass knob. “Are we all right about this? You and me? And Clara?”

  “We’ll be fine, Jane.” Gran flashed me an unsteady smile. “We always will be.”

  The conversation bothered me as I walked all the way home. I could have taken a cab and saved some time, but I wanted a chance to think about what Gran had said. Besides, it had rained the night before, and the city streets shimmered with the first hint of true autumn chill. (And Gran was absolutely right about one thing—Evelyn would forgive my late arrival if I sweetened that news with a treat.)

  Did I really want to be a member of a club that intimidated my closest family members? That invited people to join and then took away their membership on a whim? Did I want to be one of the Popular Snobs?

  The problem was, every time I asked myself the question, the answer kept coming up yes. I could still feel the thrill of realizing that Haylee James was asking me to go to the National Gallery. (Me! Silly, new-witch, me!) My fingers tingled as if she were still touching me with her cool, steady hand.

  And aside from the new friendship, I could remember the power I had felt at the midnight Coven, the silver-traced energy that bound the women together. There was strength in their rituals, traditions that gave them roots. My entire body could still remember the pull of the tall-case clock, the expectancy that grew out of its deep chimes.

  A part of my witch’s soul longed for that sense of togetherness, that bonding with others. I began to realize there was a reason that witches came together in covens. We were Wyrd Women. We did experience the world in strange ways. We needed to share those experiences with one another, order them, make sense o
ut of them. We needed the sisterhood to sustain us.

  By the time I got back to the Peabridge, it was already nine. I ducked into my cottage and donned my colonial attire in record time. I was still pinning my mobcap to my hair as I burst through the library’s front doors.

  Fortunately, Evelyn was away from her desk. I was able to slip the muffins onto her blotter without her ever being aware of my late arrival, using the treats to anchor a Post-it note saying that I’d brought them just for her. I powered up the coffee bar, grinding a batch of beans so that I was ready to greet the first customer of the day.

  “Excellent!” my boss said, as she returned to the main reading room from the cataloging office downstairs. “It’s a pleasure to see you so prompt and responsible.”

  At first, I thought she was mocking me, but a quick glance at her close-set eyes convinced me that she really meant to deliver a compliment. I shrugged. “You know, anything for the Peabridge.”

  “That’s the spirit!” Evelyn said. “Now, when you get a moment, come into my office, so that we can discuss your next Monday session.”

  For once, I was actually grateful to see a trio of customers approach, and I took my time brewing their complicated requests. I hadn’t settled on a lecture topic yet: I’d been a little preoccupied the past two weeks.

  Covens in colonial life, I thought, trying to generate a suitable subject.

  Social hierarchies amid closed-membership eighteenth-century cabals.

  Secret societies and the Founding Fathers.

  Secret societies and the Founding Mothers. And daughters. And granddaughters.

  I laced a mocha with whipped cream, nodding to myself. That was actually a possibility. Oh, not the secret society part. But mothers and daughters and the tug of filial duty through the ages. Evelyn would be sure to love the idea.

  By the time I got back to my desk, even I was brimming with enthusiasm for my session topic. I could bring colonial mothers and daughters to life. I could present an interesting lecture about the pressures of multiple generations living and working in the same house, competing for respect in the same territory.

  I sat down at my desk and smiled at the icon in the lower right corner that said new mail had arrived. My fingers moved automatically, clicking on the flashing yellow envelope.

  To: Jane.Madison@peabridge.org

  From: Warning@example.com

  Subject: We Are Watching You

  How much does the Coven mean to you? How much are you willing to invest in their safehold? How much is the centerstone really worth?

  Beneath the words was a picture. A red jasper vase filled the screen, black veins ugly against crimson stone. Four sprigs of herbs were stuck in the vase, herbs as familiar to me as Gran’s battered copy of Joy of Cooking. Feathery dill. Fennel, turned upside down, so that I could not miss its branched white bulb. Oregano, with its simple, flat leaves. Thyme, all woody stem and tiny, spiky leaves.

  This time, I didn’t need David to tell me I was being warned. I didn’t need my warder to recite medieval texts. Dill, fennel, oregano, thyme. All were popular in contemporary cooking. All had survived to the twenty-first century because people believed the herbs held extraordinary properties. Lifesaving properties. The ability to stop a witch in her tracks.

  My hand shook as I forwarded the message to David and then clicked on the delete icon. Someone did not want me placing the Coven’s centerstone. How far was he—or she—willing to go to stop me?

  14

  I stared out at the Potomac River, trying to will my tears not to trickle down my cheeks. I could sense Graeme standing beside me, but I wasn’t ready to look at him yet, wasn’t ready to talk. Instead, the Kennedy Center fountains chimed away behind us, filling the silence with water sounds. Half the lights on the marble terrace had already been turned off; the huge entertainment complex was going to sleep now that its last evening performance was over.

  How many productions of Romeo and Juliet had I seen in my lifetime? How many versions of the star-crossed lovers had I watched flit across a stage? How many times had I screamed inside my head, warning Juliet not to drink her potion, begging Romeo not to fall on his sword?

  But tonight’s show had been special. Well acted. Well designed. But something more than that—it had moved me. For the couple of hours that I had spent watching the play, I had forgotten that I was surrounded by red velvet and gilt lighting fixtures, that I had a library job to worry about, a coven to occupy my spare time.

  The characters had lived and breathed and been, and now they weren’t, and I could barely keep from sobbing as I stared out at the nighttime lights of Georgetown.

  Graeme passed me an immaculate linen handkerchief and said, “They were wonderful, weren’t they?”

  “Yes,” I managed, and then the tears did break loose, and I was looking away, trying not to let him see me act like a fool.

  Maybe I was just overwhelmed by everything that was happening in my life—the Coven and its centerstone (which I still hadn’t learned enough about), Gran and Clara and their demands that I back away from the witches, the Peabridge and the increasing hours that I spent brewing coffee when I should be researching colonial history…

  Graeme…

  He rested his hand against my back. I could feel the warmth of each finger as he set his palm between my shoulder blades. I was wearing a light cardigan sweater, emerald-green over my black sheath dress.

  I resisted the urge to lean back, to feel the taut muscles of Graeme’s chest, to fold myself inside his arms. If I let him touch me, I knew I would truly start sobbing like a child. I knew that I would turn to face him, and he would see mascara blobbing around my eyes like a raccoon mask, and he would realize that I was a sentimental fool, and he would be convinced that he wanted nothing more to do with this hysterical, gibbering woman.

  Better to stare out at the water. Better to focus on the flickering lights and stopping the tears that leaked from my eyes. Better to wait until I could talk without sobbing, until I could force myself to be coherent.

  “Do you know what gets me every time?” he asked, mercifully filling the conversational gap.

  “Hmm?” I managed to make a questioning sound without actually shaping any words.

  “The nurse.” He shifted his weight, and the motion exposed my side to the steady breeze that blew off the river. Impossible as it was to believe, I was actually chilled out here on the marble patio. Every year, I thought we’d be doomed forever to eternal sweltering heat, and every year, I was surprised by the sudden autumn change in September’s weather.

  I rubbed my arms to tame the goose bumps that had sprung up under my sweater, and I asked, “The nurse?”

  “She’s the only person in the Capulet household who truly loves Juliet, who truly understands what Juliet is willing to do for her love. She’s the only one who isn’t surprised the morning after. But she’s the only one who isn’t allowed into the crypt at the end.”

  I sighed, thinking about the production we’d just seen, the actors ranged around the bodies. The young lovers had been so hopeful, so certain of themselves. Life—and love—could be so very unfair.

  And that thought led me into very dark places. Places I didn’t want to go—not with a gorgeous man standing by my side. A gorgeous man who was waiting patiently for me to recover from my morose sadness. Waiting patiently while I finished dabbing at my eyes with his handkerchief and hiding the mascara-streaked evidence inside my clenched fist.

  Another gust of wind picked up off the Potomac and—despite my best intentions—my teeth started to chatter. “Come along now,” Graeme said, his Britishness rising to the surface with more distinctiveness than I’d heard all evening. “Let’s get you out of this weather.”

  “No!” I said, and then I realized that I sounded like a five-year-old spoiled brat. “I mean, it feels wonderful, after all the heat we’ve had. Do you mind very much staying a bit longer?”

  Mind very much? I was starting to sound British
again. I gritted my teeth. I hated the way I picked up other people’s accents. I could watch a few episodes of Upstairs, Downstairs and sound like an English lass for hours. And watching an evening of Shakespeare didn’t curb the tendency one bit.

  Graeme didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he smiled and slipped off his jacket, draping it over my shoulders with a protectiveness that made my heart skip a beat. A half-dozen beats. Nearly stop beating altogether.

  Had any other man ever watched out for my comfort this way? Certainly not Scott, my former fiancé and philanderer extraordinaire. And the I.B.? It would never have crossed his Infantile Belittled mind to protect me.

  “Mmm,” I said, and then I did lean back against Graeme’s chest. I let his arms fold around me, felt the warmth of his fingers spread like fans across my hip bones.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Graeme whispered, his lips close to my ear.

  “Yes?” I managed to say, barely remembering that I needed to hold up some small part of the conversation.

  “You’re going to think that I’m daft.”

  What? Graeme had fears about what I would think? Me? The woman who bathed in Deep Woods Off! and then attracted the entirely unwelcome attention of the Park Police? The woman still recovering from Romeo and Juliet, like some lovesick teenager? “I doubt that,” I said.

  “It’s just that you’ve told me about your…powers.”

  My belly went cold. Colder than the breeze off the river, colder than my memories of Scott and the I.B. How long had Graeme been thinking of me as “other,” “different,” “strange”?

  “Yes.” I pushed the one word past the lump that suddenly threatened to close my throat. I didn’t want him to believe that I was some bizarre creature, something he couldn’t relate to, couldn’t speak to. Didn’t want to spend time with.

  “You’ve told me about them, but I’ve never seen you use them.”

  Yeah, like that had gone so well with men in the past. I thought of the Impressive Bother, and the times he’d seen me use my witchy attributes. The first occasion, in my cottage’s kitchen, he’d been so unable to cope that he’d ascribed my magic to his own confused senses. And the last time, up at Gran’s farm…well, there had been no confusion then. The Impetuous Blackguard had understood exactly what he was seeing. And he had been terrified.