I didn’t walk a fine line between blood and earth magic, I danced a jig right over it.
But Nicholas never said a word. Sprigs of balsam and evergreen were arranged around a white plate centered on a gold disc in the middle of his altar. For his incense, he chose spruce and pine. Solstice marks the rebirth of the sun. Everything he placed on the counter signified it from the glittering gold sun wheel to the citrine and orange calcite. His offering of shortbreads and mulled wine were the only similarities— simply because he provided them. He lit the gold pillar candles and said his prayers— something I preferred not to do aloud. With one last thanks to the Goddess, he stepped away from the altar and headed for the door.
I looked at my altar one last time, hoping it was enough and followed Nicholas.
Lars grabbed his backpack and slung it over his shoulder. “It’s about time. It’s starting to smell like an elf took a shit in the woods in here.”
I did the same, darting in front of him to be the first out the door. “You might want to give an altar a try. I don’t think the pine tree air freshener dangling from your rearview is going cut it this year.”
Lars gave me a friendly shove on the shoulder. “One altar and you’re suddenly the expert?” Like me, Lars never held to ceremony and preferred to keep his prayers to himself. But his faith never wavered and that seemed to be enough for the Goddess.
When it wasn’t, he’d be the first to know. She wasn’t shy about things like that.
***
Hallows Hill was both everything I expected and entirely different at the same time. Sprawling grounds were separated from the rest of the quaint neighborhood with wrought iron fencing. Ivy crawled over the gothic stone building, softening its sharp angles and jutted corners. Best known as the Lynnwood estate from May until October, the Victorian era mansion served as a seminary for witches in the tourist off-season. We paid the five-dollar entrance fee to tour the grounds by car before heading to the bed and breakfast where Nicholas made our reservations for the duration of our stay in Sleepy Hollow. The witching community’s ability to hide magic on such a scale in plain sight never ceased to amaze me. Mundanes paid the same five dollars, more if they wanted to tour the inside of the mansion, completely unaware of what really happened within the walls of one of the town’s most popular tourist destinations.
Nicholas had an appointment with the admissions department the following morning. Lars and I planned to tour the campus and do a little research in the libraries. Despite more acreage at Lynnwood, there was less ground to cover where we were concerned. All the information we needed to uncover was within the walls of the seminary itself which was substantially smaller than the campus in Providence.
With less than forty-eight hours to figure out what we were looking for and then find it, smaller was better.
After following the paved roads twining through the Lynnwood property, we made our way to the exit and toward the bed and breakfast— which was really just a bed because they did not serve breakfast. Less than a mile from the famed Irving Sunnyside property was a small cottage nestled on a corner lot with large trees and a breathtaking view of the Hudson. Ice covered the river’s edge, reflecting the sunlight and giving a false sense of warmth on an otherwise bitter cold winter’s day. I took the bright rays of light highlighting the backdrop of our home base for the weekend as a sign from the Goddess.
Wine and cookies went a long way— the Goddess was still a woman after all.
I pulled my knit hat down over my ears and tucked the ends of my scarf back into my coat as Nicholas pulled the car up to the front of the B&B. We got out, grabbed our bags from the trunk, and headed inside. My hand hovered over the silver bell on the check-in counter as a woman entered the lobby from a room off to the left. She was elderly by mundane standards, around seventy-five if I had to guess, and short in stature based on where she met the antique mahogany counter.
The woman stepped up on a box or stool, elevating her to a normal height behind the counter. “Welcome to Crane House. I’m Margret.” Her accent was thick and difficult to place. “We’re booked for the weekend. Unless you have a reservation?”
Nicholas stepped forward. “Yes, Abrams, for three.”
“Ah, yes.” Margret peered over her horn-rimmed glasses. “Mr. Abrams. You’ve booked both rooms for the weekend.” She opened a drawer and pulled out two keys. “The third room is reserved for staff.” Margret peered over the rim of her glasses, studying us. “In other words, me. If you need anything during your stay at Crane House, let me know. I’ll be here all weekend.”
Something about the way she said all weekend put me on edge. Was she working for the Magistrate? Did Winslow know where we were? I planned to ask Lars and Nicholas if they picked up the same vibe from our innkeeper once we got to our rooms and were out of earshot.
Lars stepped up and took the keys from Margret before Nicholas had a chance. “Well, roomie,” he clapped Nicholas on the back, “what do you say we drop off our bags and hit the town?” He tossed me my key and headed toward the room with the corresponding number on the door.
The look on Nicholas’s face sent me into a fit of laughter. I’m not sure if he hoped we were bunking together or that I would be the one stuck trying to sleep through Lars’s snoring. Either way, the mortified look on his face was hilarious. I hooked my finger through the keyring and grabbed my backpack, slinging a strap over one shoulder. With a shake of my head and a few more chuckles of laughter, I headed to my room; doing my best to ignore the feeling that Margret was watching my every move.
Paranoid? Maybe. But paranoia is considered a survival skill when going up against the Magistrate.
To my surprise and relief, there were no wards on the entrance to my room. Something I rectified immediately. Lars and Nicholas could come and go as they pleased. Margret, on the other hand, required fine-tuning. The security ward would allow her to knock, but not enter without my consent. It was an advanced ward, one I’d learned from Lars but I had a feeling it wouldn’t trip Margret up for long.
Good thing we weren’t staying beyond the weekend.
When I opened the door to my room, I found myself torn over the length of our stay. Lars couldn’t have known that he gave me the key to the master bedroom— with a bathroom in-suite— but he did and no matter how much he begged, I would not swap rooms. The soaker tub in the bathroom was enough to make me weep. I never considered myself a bubble bath sort of girl but after months of “tiny house” living, I fully intended to use every bath bomb in the hospitality basket.
After I checked them for magical properties, of course.
There was a knock on the door, two quick raps of a knuckle on the wood, before Lars popped his head in. “Want to grab something to eat?”
“Will there be pancakes? And copious amounts of coffee?”
“So, you’re in the mood breakfast food?”
“Am I ever not in the mood for breakfast food?”
“Valid point.” Lars held the door open, whistling as he took in the suite. “I should have checked the rooms before handing out keys.”
“If you’re a good boy, I might let you use my shower.”
“Is that a basket of bubble bath?” Lars peered over my shoulder to get a better look at the basket of goodies sitting on the middle of the queen-sized bed. “All we got were fresh towels and a few mints.”
I grabbed my backpack and locked the door behind me before Lars rushed in and made off with my basket of bath bombs. “Let’s go. I’m starving.”
My stomach rumbled its agreement. The topic of pancakes had been raised and my appetite would not be satiated until I had some. I followed lars down the short hallway past their room where we picked up Nicholas. But not before I did another check on my wards.
Paranoid? Who, me?
Margret sat in an oversized armchair to the left of the reception counter that dwarfed her small frame. She laid the open book she’d been reading face down on her lap and watched us like a hawk
as we left the cottage. I hopped in the back seat of the car, craning my neck to look out the rear window to find Margret standing at the front window, curtain pulled back for a better view.
We found a little diner a few blocks away from the bed and breakfast in the town square. Situated on the corner, it had expansive windows on both sides of the building and offered a nice view of the surrounding shops, restaurants, and even a statue of the Headless Horseman. The décor was a retro throwback to a time in the fifties of misplaced nostalgia. Red and white vinyl covered the booths and stools at the counter. Black and white diamond linoleum covered the floor. The only thing missing was a waitress on roller skates.
Amber, our friendly and perfectly mundane server, took our order and I set about casting a spell to mute our conversation. Safe within our magical bubble, we could discuss anything from the Magistrate to Winslow to the latest and greatest spell recipes while those around us would hear chatter about the local tourist traps. Margret and her unusual behavior were at the top of my list of topics, but not before I had my pancakes. Lars and Nicholas reviewed the agenda for our visit to the seminary while I tucked into my short stack.
I swirled my last bite in the pool of syrup on my plate before shoving it into my mouth and washing it down with my third cup of coffee. “So, Margret, she’s weird right?”
Lars set down his glass of soda. “You think everyone is weird.”
“No, I don’t.” I gave a friendly wave to the waitress for another refill of coffee.
“Uh, yeah, you do.” Lars proceeded to tick off examples. “The guy at the gas station, the clerk at East Side—”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m weird, you’re weird. Everyone is weird, okay? But Margret... She is weird.” A genuine smile lit my face as Amber, the waitress, filled my mug.
“You mean Margret from the Crane House?” Amber wiped a drip from the coffee pot off the table. “She’s a little off but otherwise harmless. I highly recommend the afternoon tea. She brews a wicked cup.”
Amber casually strode over to one of her other tables and a patron in need of something, while the three of us stared in wonder at how she’d overheard our conversation through the spell.
“This whole town is weird.” Lars sat back in the booth, a dumbfounded expression on his face. “What the hell, Del? You set the spell.”
“First, that’s too much rhyming. Second, when have I ever botched that spell?” I pushed my mug away, suspicious of Amber and her wily ways. “No mundane should be able to hear us.”
Nicholas leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. “She’s not a mundane.” He nonchalantly pointed to part of a tattoo peeking out from the top of her booby socks. “Not if that’s the symbol I think it is.” The tips of two crescent moons and a part of a circle were visible as Amber’s sock slid down.
“The Goddess.” Lars leaned forward, momentarily blocking my view. “That explains it.”
“Does it?” I wasn’t as convinced as my partners. “She may be of the magical variety but she shouldn’t have been able to hear us.” I scooted across the bench seat, shoving Lars out of the booth so I could have a word with Amber.
“Del,” Lars realized what I wanted to do and used his body mass against me. With very little effort, he became an immobile object. “This isn’t the time or the place.”
“No? When would be a good time, Lars? When we’re back in the Magistrate’s clutches?”
“How about somewhere other than a diner filled with mundanes in the town square of a popular tourist destination?” Lars looked over to Nicholas for help but he was already out of the booth and walking toward Amber. “What is he doing?”
I stopped trying to shove my Lars across the bench seat and relaxed. “Exactly what I was going to do.”
We both watched— well, I watched, Lars gaped— as Nicholas tapped Amber on the shoulder and struck up a conversation with her once she turned around. From where we sat, everything appeared normal. None of the other patrons seemed concerned about the confrontation. Just another impatient customer stopping his server with some special request. The talk was brief, ending with Amber headed into the kitchen and Nicholas back to the table.
“I hope you saved room,” Nicholas dropped a few twenties on the table and grabbed his coat off the bench seat, “because it looks like we’re having tea.”
I scooted across the seat and rushed after Lars, who was already following Nicholas. “With Margret?”
Nicholas looked over his shoulder to answer me. “Amber’s her niece. Margret is a clairvoyant. She called Amber and scripted her on what to say.”
“Of all the diners in all the world...” Lars shrugged on his coat while he walked. “So Amber was just having some fun at our expense? Acting like she could hear our conversation through the spell?”
“Did she say what Margret wanted to talk about over tea?” I asked, after catching up to Nicholas who just shook his head no in response. “Great.”
According to Amber, Margret already put the kettle on and the table was set. Tea sounded harmless enough but it still felt like a setup.
Chapter Five
Gravel crunched under the car tires as we followed the driveway and stopped in front of Crane House. From the outside, everything looked the same as it had two hours before when we left in search of pancakes. Tension tightened every muscle in my body as I got out of the car. My stomach tied up in knots in anticipation of an ambush. Lars and Nicholas moved with a similar apprehension. Each step we took was carefully placed to prevent tripping a ward or stepping on a booby trap spell. We watched each other’s backs. I half-expected a Magistrate man to pop out from one of the holly bushes and scream “boo.”
But we weren’t ambushed.
We walked up the front steps experiencing nothing more than a slight tingle as Margret’s wards scanned approaching visitors. A table for tea wasn’t all Margret set while I busied myself with a short stack. Traps had been set around the property as suspected but they weren’t for us. I closed my eyes and sampled the energy. I took a deep breath through my nose and pulled the magic in, savoring it as tendrils of power danced across my skin. Margret was a defector. The magical bells and whistles surrounding the house were added after our arrival.
Not to alert the Magistrate as I feared, but to keep them out.
“Hey, Nicholas, how did you find this place?” I asked, standing beside him as we waited for the scan to finish and the door to unlock.
“In one of my father’s old datebooks.” The lock released with a click, signaling the scan’s completion. Nicholas reached for the doorknob but Lars stopped him from going inside.
“You didn’t think to mention that before?” Lars asked through clenched teeth. Their friendship was a tumultuous one. It was easy for him to slip back into the comfort of distrust and question Nicholas’s motives.
Nicholas sighed. “You’re right. I should have. It slipped my mind when Del found the letters.” He reached inside his coat, pulled out a pocket calendar, and handed it to Lars. “My father noted Crane House on two occasions in nineteen-ninety-five.
“You were what, six then?”
The door flew open on its own, ending Lars’s line of questioning before it even began. “The tea is getting cold,” Margret shouted from somewhere inside the house.
I wedged my way through Lars and Nicholas, snatching the mini-planner as I went and stopped inside the doorway. “Margret doesn’t strike me as the patient type. Let’s get through tea and then we can talk about this.” I gave Nicholas and incredulous look and held up the date book before shoving it in the back pocket of my jeans.
Left with two options— stay on the porch and finish their discussion or join Margret and me for tea— they opted for the latter and followed me as I followed the smell of tea and warm scones into the parlor.
Margret occupied one of the two chairs at a small square table by the window with service set for one. Her gray hair was pulled back into a tight bun except for the few wisps that escaped the hair
style to frame her face. Cat-eye frames dangled from a string of pearls around her neck. She looked like a librarian out of the fifties but we all knew better. The only books Margret buried her nose in were spellbooks. She was a witch and based on that perimeter ward scan, a powerful one at that.
But the table, set for one, told me something else about Margret. She wasn’t just a clairvoyant witch. She was a tesseomancer, offering divination one cup at a time.
Terrified to hear my future or lack thereof given the path I set myself on, I shoved Nicholas forward. “You first.”
My heart sank like a rock in a pond when Margret shook her head no and crooked a finger in my direction. I stood fixed to my spot on the Persian area rug covering the wooden floor as dread turned my feet to lead. Lars placed a hand on my lower back and nudged me forward until I was standing in front of the chair opposite Margret. Left with little choice, I pulled out the chair and took a seat opposite a witch several decades my senior who was small in stature but packed with power.
She filled my teacup with a brew so dark it hid the intricate astrological designs painted around the inside of the china. Once I drank the tea, small bits of leaves would cling to the sides which Margret would interpret using the symbols on the cup. Steam swirled up from the porcelain cup, bringing with it the heady mix of lemon balm, mugwort, eyebright, and rose hips. All typical ingredients for a tea of clarity. Only one of them gave me pause— lemon balm. In high doses, it can impair the central nervous system.
Did I trust Margret enough to risk the physical and mental vulnerability if the tea was made for something more nefarious than peering into the future? No. I palmed the safety pin I slipped out of my pocket. The crone was within arm’s reach. I could drop her with a mark before the tea took full effect. Lars and Nicholas flanked my left and right, standing guard. If she incapacitated me with a cup of tea, she would still have them to contend with.
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