by Vicki Vass
I turned to stare at her. “Anne Hathaway was a witch. Her family name was Hawthorne. You don’t think Shakespeare came up with that line himself, do you? His wife was more than his muse. Many of the great women in history were witches.”
“I was kidding. I didn’t mean anything.”
“Be careful what words you speak, Abigail Oakhaven. For a witch as powerful as you, words hold great magic.”
Abigail shrugged and retreated into the cabin, leaving me in the darkness.
Chapter 2
The Gold Spoon
October 31, 1862,
Agatha Hollows’s cabin,
Black Mountain, North Carolina
“Take what you need, but leave me enough for the winter,” Agatha gasped out, her words cutting through her pain. Blood stained her sleeve. I huddled in the corner, waiting to pounce.
The Confederate lieutenant examined her wound, his hand lingering. She winced as he squeezed her arm. “It’s just a nick. I’ll be fine,” she said, pushing his hand away.
“We’ve come to commandeer supplies for the effort,” he said, opening a large grain sack, then walking cautiously toward Agatha. I feared it wasn’t food he sought. We heard a noise. The lieutenant turned to a young private, standing in the doorway.
The private spoke. “Sir, we have to leave her something.”
The lieutenant raised his whip, and the private cringed, lowering his eyes before leaving. From across the yard, I heard the heavy door of the storehouse opening.
The lieutenant sat down across from Agatha. She drew back from him, cringing. There was something about him, more than the deformity that he wore with pleasure. He seemed to enjoy the terror. He smiled. “Mrs. Hollows, ma’am, it’s not safe for you to be out here on your own.” His soft Southern drawl held a grit to it.
Agatha shifted in her rocking chair next to the blazing fire.
“I'm going to bring you back to Asheville.” The lieutenant bent down next to her chair. I could smell the foul stench of gangrene.
Agatha stirred the fire. “Can I get you some tea?” Not waiting for an answer, she poured cups of nettle tea. Then she reached in the dry sink, pulling out a small gold teaspoon given to her by a wealthy Ashevillian she had healed. The only item she had of value. With a slow hand, she placed the teacups on the table. “Sugar,” she asked. The lieutenant didn’t answer. She scooped sugar into his teacup, stirring it with the gold spoon.
He stared at Agatha as she stirred his teacup with the gold spoon. Then he pushed himself away from the table and stood. “We’ll be back,” he said, stepping toward the door.
As the door closed behind him, Agatha collapsed in her chair. I jumped onto her lap. “The spoon as I feared. Terra, he’s a hunter,” Agatha said. “Never let him know your true identity. It’s too late for me.”
“Agatha, what about the gold spoon? What are you talking about?” I asked.
I watched as Agatha gathered her remaining belongings. She ran to the herb shed carefully choosing what to bring with her. “What do you mean hunter? Where are you going?” I asked.
Not stopping to answer, Agatha collected several jars and ran into the cabin. I sat on the rocking chair by the fire and watched in silence. Agatha stopped for a moment and put her hands on her hips. She gazed around the tiny cabin. It had been her home since she had escaped from the Trail of Tears, the forced eviction of the Cherokee from their mountain to the west.
Over the years we had been together, she had become a mentor and a friend, as much of a friend as she would allow. She taught me with her actions more than her words. I watched carefully as she healed the mountain folk and spoke with the spirits in the woods. I had not asked her for her help in my turning back to my true form. There was only one witch who could change me back to a girl—no, a witch. Elizabeth, leader of my coven. It had been nearly two centuries since Elizabeth and my sisters met their fate. I felt in my blood that they did not die a true death. They drifted into the other realm. I glanced up to see Agatha staring at me.
“Elizabeth will find you, Terra. She’s searching for you. There’s a darkness, a shadow that hides you from her. Find her bloodline and you will find her.”
“Where will you go?”
Agatha ran into the bedroom. I watched as she removed the floorboard under the bed and retrieved an old parchment. She placed it on the table, grabbed the lantern, and held it close. On it was a drawing of a field of flowers and in the very distance a bridge. She sat down, examining the drawing, running her finger along it. Then she stood, holding her gnarled hands by the fire, still stained with her blood. The vessel that held her was old and withered, merely a façade to put the humans at ease. Humans rarely took notice of the elderly. “Across the border into South Carolina to Glassy Mountain. The Confederate deserters and northern sympathizers take refuge in the Dark Corner.” Agatha paused, smiled, and went to the door. She stopped and retrieved the gold spoon and then grabbed her sack and left the cabin. Her dogs waited on the porch. “Go, my children, keep your bloodline in these woods,” she said as she kissed each dog’s head. They sat still and watched us leave.
Chapter 3
A Blood Relative
Tangledwood Estate, Biltmore Forest
I accompanied Mrs. Twiggs to Mrs. Tangledwood’s. I knew it would be a difficult day for her. Mrs. Tangledwood had been her dear, dear friend. We rode up the long driveway in Mrs. Twiggs’s Volvo. Inspired by the nearby Biltmore Estate, Mrs. Tangledwood’s brick-and-stucco French chateau style rose up to greet us. Adorning its rooftop were six peaked gables. Over the massive door hung a gargoyle. Mrs. Twiggs politely knocked with the heavy brass doorknocker. The ten-foot-high hand-carved wooden door opened slowly with a creak. The young housekeeper, donned in ripped jeans and T-shirt, curtsied. This attire would not have been acceptable if Mrs. Tangledwood were still here. “Mrs. Twiggs, Miss Hartwell is expecting you,” she said, pointing in the direction of the library.
Mrs. Twiggs’s practical heels clicked on the Italian marble of the great foyer as we went to the library, which was adjacent to the winding staircase. The room was circular, lined with mahogany bookshelves. Mrs. Tangledwood had shared Mrs. Twiggs’s love of books and delighted in collecting old, rare editions, especially those on mysticism, magic, and mayhem.
Unlike the housekeeper, Miss Hartwell maintained her professional appearance, dressed in a smart pantsuit of navy-blue silk with a white blouse. Her brown hair was kept short and neat. She was not unattractive for a woman of nearly sixty. She was—had been—Mrs. Tangledwood’s personal assistant, confidante, and in the waning years, her nurse. Mrs. Tangledwood’s will had named her executor, so she stayed on to help with the estate sale. She sat in a red leather chair by the fireplace, which did not please Mr. Tangledwood. I had seen him several times before sitting in that very chair—it was his favorite. He gave her a disgusted look and then disappeared into the wall.
“Miss Hartwell.” Mrs. Twiggs stepped across the Persian rug to greet the woman.
“Mrs. Twiggs, so good of you to come.”
Mrs. Twiggs went to sit in the leather chair next to Miss Hartwell in the chair Mr. Tangledwood was about to sit in. He jumped up with another disgruntled look on his face and disappeared back into the wall, leaving the faint smell of cloves. Mrs. Twiggs sniffed. She had not seen him, but I’m sure she felt him.
“I think we have everything organized for the sale. I’ve had the staff inventorying and tagging items,” Miss Hartwell said.
“Thank you, Miss Hartwell, it will make it a lot easier for us the day of the sale. Preparation is always appreciated.” Mrs. Twiggs smiled.
“There are some items, however, that Mrs. Tangledwood left for her friends and family.”
“Family?”
“Yes, of course. Her great-niece Charlotte arrived yesterday.”
“Oh?” Mrs. Twiggs appeared confused. “Emma never talked much about her family, a sore subject she would say.”
“Let me go get Charlott
e.” Miss Hartwell left the room.
Mrs. Twiggs turned to me. “Terra, Emma’s bloodline.”
Before I could answer, Miss Hartwell came back with a young twenty-something girl who shared Mrs. Tangledwood’s auburn hair. I had only known Mrs. Tangledwood the elder, but I could see the resemblance and imagined a young Mrs. Tangledwood. Charlotte’s features were pleasant; her stature was slight, no more than five feet I’d say. She seemed fit and healthy. She wore a proper yellow cashmere sweater set and pencil skirt, almost too proper for a girl of her age, but then I was used to seeing Abigail wearing tattered jeans, biker boots, and leather coats. The girls of this era lay no claim to style. “Mrs. Twiggs, this is Charlotte Tangledwood.”
Charlotte smiled and extended her hand. Mrs. Twiggs grasped it, giving her a warm smile. “Oh, my dear, you are a young Emma, aren’t you? I can’t begin to tell you how pleased I am to meet you.”
“U-uh,” Charlotte stuttered, shifting from foot to foot. “I… only met my great-aunt once when I was very young. I didn’t know her. I didn’t even know of her death until Miss Hartwell contacted me.”
Still holding her hand, Mrs. Twiggs said, “Please come sit down. Tell me everything about yourself.”
Charlotte glanced back at Miss Hartwell, who guided them back to the chairs by the fireplace. “There’s not much to tell, Mrs. Twiggs,” Charlotte said.
“Please, dear, call me Beatrice. Start with your family.”
“My parents died when I was little. I was raised by a foster family. I was told that DCFS reached out to my aunt but never heard back.”
“Oh, my dear, that’s terrible. It doesn’t sound like Emma. She was very compassionate.”
“From what I understand, there was a lot of family fighting and they weren’t very close—my parents and her. I came to pay my respects and put closure on it, you know.”
“You’re Emma’s family, which means you’re our family now and you’re most welcome.”
I smelled the clove and turned to see Mr. Tangledwood in the far corner behind the rosewood writing desk, puffing away on his imaginary pipe. He had only passed some twenty years ago, and as many young ghosts, he didn’t realize he had crossed over and was continuing his human habits despite a lengthy battle with lung cancer. He saw me staring at him, snuffed out his imaginary pipe, and disappeared out the window.
“Miss Hartwell had a room made up for me. I’m going to stay for the estate sale and the closing of the will,” Charlotte said.
“The Ladies of the Biltmore Society, a garden club you might say that your great-aunt chaired, will be anxious to meet you. We’ll have to throw a party,” Mrs. Twiggs said.
Charlotte smiled.
Chapter 4
A Grand Reopening
Biltmore Village
Nestled in the mountains where the Swannanoa River flows into the French Broad was Biltmore Village, formerly known as the town of Best and before that it was home to the Cherokee. That all changed when George Vanderbilt began construction on his great estate and needed homes for the craftsmen required to build it. Biltmore Village was modeled after a small English village, providing a fitting and quaint entrance to the Biltmore Estate.
In the middle of the village, the green was being mowed for the upcoming May Day celebration. In the early 1900s, the parish school erected a maypole and a flower-adorned throne for the May queen, a celebration the ladies were bringing back this spring.
Stepping along the uneven cobblestone sidewalk, we reached the Leaf & Page, standing as it had for over a century. It was hard to distinguish from the others as all the homes, now storefronts, were built from brick, stucco, pebbledash, and wood timber, giving the building an old-world charm in this new-world town. In the etched glass of the picture window, Mrs. Twiggs displayed first editions related to the Vanderbilt family, the Biltmore Estate and Asheville along with her jars of exotic teas. Mrs. Twiggs unlocked the door of the Leaf & Page. I hurried in behind her, Pixel behind me. Abigail pulled a cigarette out of her leather coat. As she raised it to her lips, I gave her a quick tap with my claw on her leg. She glared at me, harrumphing, and shoved the cigarette back in her pocket.
Mrs. Twiggs opened the door, flipping on the lights. We followed her inside. She strolled about the front room, opening the shutters, letting in the early morning sunlight. She walked behind the cash register counter and stared at the portrait of her late husband Albert. The picture blurred and swirled into a mist as Albert appeared in front of us. “My darling, you seem troubled,” Albert said, levitating inches off the floor.
Mrs. Twiggs reached to embrace him. “Shadows and mist,” I whispered.
Albert’s memory was etched into the walls of the Leaf & Page. Mrs. Twiggs had always felt his presence, but since her turning, she could now see and communicate with him. She pulled back not able to touch him. “Albert, I miss you so.”
“Beatrice, my love, we have many lives together before and after this world.”
Mrs. Twiggs smiled. In his previous life, Albert had been a cynic, a lover of science, a pragmatist, but since his death he had become a believer.
A torn and tattered book floated off the shelf, landing on the counter, its pages flipped open. Mrs. Twiggs smiled and read the passage from The Journal of Elizabeth Lightfoot Roadman Rankin. “My beloved William struggles with the conflict. His friends and peers sympathize with the secession of the South, but he feels it will tear our beloved Asheville apart as others fight to keep the Union together. In hopes to quiet the hearts of our community, I am hosting a dinner to bring both sides together. Maybe they can come to peace.”
Mrs. Twiggs closed the journal. “Terra, I’ve been asked by the curator at the Biltmore to help with their upcoming Civil War exhibit.” Encompassing eight thousand acres, the Biltmore Estate was a grand mansion. Its two hundred fifty rooms made it the largest mansion in the United States, and it brought droves of tourists to Asheville. Their exhibits changed seasonally.
“Are you sure you’re up to all this? Opening the store? Helping at the Biltmore?” I asked her.
Mrs. Twiggs fell onto a chair with a heavy thud. “It’s not the same without Emma. She was the Biltmore Society. I feel I owe it to her to continue on.” She patted the book in her lap. “This journal was written by the wife of a predominant Asheville businessman. She chronicled the events of Asheville before and during the Civil War. I hope it will help with the exhibit. They’re bringing in an expert, a scholar from the University of Richmond, to curate.”
Albert glided across the floor and sat down next to Mrs. Twiggs. He reached for the book but was unable to turn the pages. She held it out to him, hovering it above his lap. He skimmed the pages, his head nestled alongside hers.
I strolled across the top of the couch, listening as they read from the memoirs. They read late into the night, Mrs. Twiggs’s head bouncing up and down, struggling to stay awake. Until finally sleep took her. I said good night to Albert as he vanished back into his portrait.
I heard moaning from the back room. I ran to find Pixel hunched up in a corner under a table. “Pixel, what’s wrong?”
“Terra, Pixel scared.”
“Scared of what?”
“That man. He not real.”
“You can see Albert, Pixel?”
Pixel nodded his head.
“It’s okay, Pixel, he’s a friend.”
“He not real, Terra.”
“He’s a ghost, Pixel, a good ghost. That’s Mrs. Twiggs’s husband.”
“He dead?”
“He left this life, and he is living another, Pixel. He lived many lives.”
“Pixel no understand.”
I could hear his stomach growling. “How about we have a snack and I’ll explain.”
Pixel thought for a moment, scratched his chin, and said, “Pixel eat.” He came out from under the table and circled around me. He made fast work of the butter cookies that Mrs. Twiggs had next to her tea. I watched him carefully. Something was not right.
First the premonition, now he was able to see ghosts. These were abilities of the fairy world. Not seen nor understood by the humans who shared the earth. Animals especially cats can sense the spirit world; upon occasion they will sit perfectly still, staring at a wall. Cats’ whiskers are like a tuning fork. They send out vibrations that attract spirits; in turn, the whiskers can sense the vibrations that spirits create as they part the molecules that comprise the waking world. Spirits, more so ghosts, as the humans call them, are memories and energy with no form in the physical realm. They appear as we expect them, as Mr. Twiggs, for example. He appears to his wife as he did in life, and I see him through his image from his portrait above the register. Pixel knew him not by either, yet he saw him in the form of a man as fairy folk would. That gave me great concern.
“What fairies, Terra?” he said, looking up with crumbs on his whiskers.
“I didn’t think I thought that out loud.” Curious and curiouser, I thought, stealing a line from Lewis Carroll.
Pixel finished his cookie. It was nearly midnight. Mrs. Twiggs would be up at five, preparing the store, making blueberry muffins. I could tell that the events of Halloween were a strain on her. She needed to return to normalcy, get back to her human routine. I curled up next to Pixel by the fire, its heat warming us, and drifted off.
When I woke, I heard Mrs. Twiggs bustling around the kitchen, Pixel underfoot.
“Me hungry. Me hungry,” Pixel chanted repeatedly.
“It’s coming, Pixel,” Mrs. Twiggs said.
I sauntered into the kitchen, my tail swiping the wall as I entered. Pixel scurried in between Mrs. Twiggs’s legs, his tail pointed upright, shaking ferociously. It was early, not quite dawn. But the announcement of the reopening of the Leaf & Page would bring all the regulars out hungry for Mrs. Twiggs’s tea, scones, and muffins.
