Sorcery and the Single Girl (24 page)

“Sun. Oven. I get it,” I said. “Look, Gran. Pastry chefs spend years learning how to make things like baklava. I don’t think that
Melissa
has even tried it.”

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Sure enough, Gran swooped in for the kill. “Speaking of Melissa, have you phoned her yet?”

“I’ve been busy,” I said through set teeth, and then I regrouped. “Gran, if I’ve been too busy to return your calls, then you know I’ve been too busy to talk to Melissa.”

“It’s just that you promised, Jane.” She sounded utterly disappointed.

“Have I ever broken one of my promises?”

I could almost see her shaking her head. “No, dear.”

“And I’m not going to start now.” I glanced at my watch. Two o’clock. I was due back at the library an hour ago. “I’ve got to run, Gran.”

“Shall I send you my baklava recipe by e-mail?”

Cruelly, I pictured her typing in the entire thing, hunting and pecking for each honey-soaked letter. “Why don’t I stop by and pick it up? Some time in the next few days?”

“But what will you do for November first?”

“Brownies, Gran. I’m going to bake brownies. According to all the etiquette books, baklava is the traditional pastry for the
second
week of a bakery’s existence.”

She actually laughed and hung up, without wringing out any more precious drops of guilt. When I turned around, Neko was staring at me with horror. “You’re going to make baklava?”

My smile was sweeter than the most honey-drenched Turkish confection. With rose water. And pistachio cream. “Only if you and David are standing by to put out the fire and stop the floods and settle the earthquakes and handle every other natural disaster from the end of the world as we’ve known it.”

I left the men to their own devices and headed back to the library. Evelyn was standing by my desk, tapping her shoe and staring at the clock on my computer. I followed her gaze and winced involuntarily. Two-fifteen. Whoops.

“Jane, could you come into my office?”

Good things never happened inside Evelyn’s office. Well, except for when she offered me the cottage as a place to live. But I hadn’t realized that was a good thing at the time. “Could I make you a latte first? We have a fresh bottle of cinnamon syrup.”

“No.”

One-word answer. That wasn’t good. Not good at all.

She barely waited for me to sit down in the chair opposite her cluttered desk. “Jane, I can’t help but notice that you’ve been taking very long lunch breaks.”

“I can explain—”

“The Peabridge is an excellent institution of higher learning. Our patrons depend on us to be here when they have questions.”

When they want coffee, I thought, but I knew better than to say that out loud. I took a deep breath. “Evelyn, I’ve been working on our new patron program.”

“Patron program?” The fact that I had an explanation—any explanation—stopped her cold in her tracks. “What patron program?”

“The new baked goods. Remember? We’re going to start serving them on November first?”

“Well, I knew that we were going to launch something, but I wasn’t certain that we’d settled on the date.”

“We have. Just today, I was speaking with a consultant about baklava. Homemade Turkish baklava with rose water and pistachio cream.” I actually floated my hand in the air, adding a fillip to the pastry’s name, elegant and yet familiar, as if I made it every day.

“Homemade—” Evelyn shook her head, like a terrier trying to fling dirt from its ears. “But wouldn’t that be terribly sticky? We don’t want to do anything that might endanger our collection.”

What? Protect the books in our
library?
What a fantastic idea! I resisted the urge to look at the paper coffee cup in Evelyn’s trash can, at the film of foamed milk that could just as easily have spilled over our holdings. I feigned concern. “Well, if you think that baklava might be too much…”

“I’m sorry, Jane. I realize that you’re putting a lot of hard work into this project. But I think we’d do better to stick with something simpler. Maybe brownies.”

Ha! I shook my head mournfully. “I suppose I
can
find another use for all those pistachios.”

“There!” she beamed. “You’ll see. We both want what’s best for the Peabridge.”

And the funny thing was, she was right.

I tried not to let her see my relief as I walked back to my desk. Truth be told, I’d been afraid that she’d put me on probation—or worse. Now, all I had to do was make the revamped coffee bar a success.

No problem.

No problem at all, for a witch like me.

Twenty-four hours till Samhain, and I was pacing my kitchen like a madwoman.

I had pulled a dozen recipes for brownies off the Internet, and they all called for the same basic ingredients—butter, flour, eggs, sugar, chocolate.

I had scorched the butter for the first batch, melting it before I added anything else.

I had carefully measured the flour for the second batch, but neglected to remember that I was doubling the recipe until after the glop was baking in the oven.

I had broken eggshells into the third batch.

I had spilled way too much sugar into the fourth batch, foolishly believing I could target a measuring cup held over a boiling saucepan of almost-batter.

I had turned the melted chocolate of the fifth batch into an acrid pool of charcoal-tinged glue.

And I had burned the sixth batch, leaving the perfect batter in my oven too long, forgetting that the damned thing always ran hot. Very hot. Inferno hot.

As the clock chimed midnight, I sent Neko and Jacques to the all-night grocery store for more ingredients, and I collapsed at the kitchen table to drown my sorrows in the last remnant of a bar of Ghirardelli. Who knew how long it would take for the boys to get back? And who knew how many more ways I could ruin a perfectly simple batch of brownies?

I wanted to call Graeme. But I was the one who had told
him
I needed the evening off. He had wheedled in that unbelievably seductive way of his, but I had held fast. I didn’t want to chance staying up too late. Being too exhausted tomorrow. It really was for the best, I reminded myself for the thousandth time.

The knock, when it came, seemed to make the entire cottage shudder. After my heart had slithered down out of my throat, I darted to the front door, taking care to stay away from the windows.

Was this my jasper stalker? Had she realized I was alone and vulnerable, my trusty familiar scouting out grocery store aisles, with a robust, full-bodied distraction keeping him from hearing any frantic summons?

I closed my hand over David’s Torch and looked out the peephole.

“Haylee!” I exclaimed, tugging open the door. “You scared me half to death!”

Her spiky hair was perfect—as ever—as she waltzed into my living room. She had draped a large cashmere scarf around her neck, flinging it over one shoulder with a perfect casual air. She sniffed as the door closed behind her, peering curiously at the disaster area in the kitchen.

I took advantage of her distraction to tuck David’s Torch inside my blouse. No need for her to see his gift. No need for the Coven to question my right to wear the symbol.

“So you sacked the kitchen in the midst of your terror?”

“Oh,” I said, smiling weakly. “I’m trying out some new recipes. For work.”

“I knocked loudly because I thought you’d be downstairs. Studying.”

I shrugged. “I don’t think there’s much more that I can cram in, in one night. I can either do the working, or I can’t.”

She laughed. “You know, I said almost exactly the same thing, the night before I was tested.”

“What did they have you do?”

“I can’t tell you. You aren’t a member of the Coven yet. Teri would kill me if I shared our secrets with a stranger.” She smiled, but the words made my cheeks flame. I’d been presumptuous in asking. I hated the reminder that I was
different. Other.
Not one of the cool kids.

Yet.

Haylee reached inside the pocket of her impossibly slender slacks. “I wanted to give you something.”

“What?”

“It’s passed through generations of women in my family. My mother gave it to me, the night before I was tested.” My heart clenched at her words. Haylee was reaching out to me. Like a…sister. A true friend. “I know that your mother and grandmother won’t be there tomorrow. That must be hard for you—most witches can look around the Coven and find at least one friendly face when they complete their testing. I wanted you to be able to look at this tomorrow, and to know that I was thinking of you. That I’ve been thinking of you, ever since you first came to the Coven.”

She took her hand out of her pocket. I extended mine without thinking, palm open. I met her eyes, matched my lips to her smile. And she opened her fingers.

A silver ring.

A plain silver ring. No engraving, no stone, and not a hint of tarnish. Absolutely no indication of its history or its meaning.

I shuddered as I slipped it onto my finger. The cool metal made my hand tingle, vibrate as if my flesh were awakening for the very first time. It fit snugly, occupying the place of an engagement ring on my right hand. “Haylee,” I said, imagining the strength of the witches who had worn it before me.

“Good luck tomorrow,” she said.

“I can’t—” I started to protest.

“You can. And you will. Just look at it tomorrow night, and remember.” Before I could say anything else, she gave me a quick, bony hug.

I asked, “Would you like to stay? Could I get you a drink? A brownie? Um, after Neko gets back?”

“No thanks,” she said, and I think I detected a tremor that had nothing to do with witchcraft or covens or magical family-history rings. She looked into the chaos of my kitchen, and once again fought valiantly to hide her dismay. “I really have to be going. And you should get some sleep.”

“I will.” Before she left, I held out my hand, fingers extended to best show off the ring. “Thanks, Haylee.”

After I closed the door, I sank against it, letting my knees buckle and my back slide toward the floor. It was happening. It was really happening. By this time tomorrow, I was going to be in the Coven. Or out of it forever.

“G
ood riddance!” Neko said, slamming my front door. “They’re all thieves! Vicious little thieves!”

“They’re children,” I said, stepping out of the bathroom. I had just fought, and lost, the fourth battle of the night against my hair. “They’ve been looking forward to Halloween for weeks. And they’ve probably been eating candy since they got home from school this afternoon. Cut them some slack.”

“I’d cut them all sorts of slack, if they’d left a single Three Musketeers bar.” Neko stared dolefully at the bowl of candy in his hands.

“You don’t even like Three Musketeers,” I reminded him.

“But Jacques does. I promised I’d save one for him.”

“You should have taken it out before answering the door the first time.” I returned to the mirror, tugging my hair out of its collapsing chignon and brushing furiously before starting again.

Secretly, I was pleased that we had paid off a handful of trick-or-treaters. The year before, no one had dared walk through the library gardens to get to my cottage. I mused, “Of course, you can always try mugging some kids on the street. They’re sure to have a few candy bars you can give your beau.”

“I should just get some of that nasty peanut butter taffy, the stuff wrapped up in orange and black wax paper. Serve him right, for abandoning me to door duty tonight.”

I shook my head. I had long since stopped marveling at Neko’s awareness of mundane details in our modern world, things like rock-hard peanut butter Halloween taffy. I had to agree with his assessment of the revolting sweet. I had always pawned mine off on Gran. She, showing perfect unconditional love, had accepted it with a smile and a hug. Years later, I’d found out that she’d actually buried it deep in the trash can, so I’d never know she hated it as much as I did.

I eased a decorative chopstick into my thoroughly pinned chignon and reminded Neko, “Jacques wasn’t the one who abandoned you tonight. You abandoned him. Remember?”

I could barely make out the words that Neko muttered under his breath—more common knowledge that he couldn’t have absorbed when he was suspended in his cat statue form. And he hadn’t learned it from me—I tried my best to avoid that type of language. I didn’t always succeed, but I tried.

This time, I could empathize with Neko. Graeme had called me three times during the day, trying to convince me to change my mind and attend a Halloween party hosted by friends. Friends from work, he’d said, dangling a bait that I would have snatched up any other night of the year. Finally—the chance to meet his colleagues, to find out more about his “acquisitions,” to learn juicy office tidbits about my amazing mystery boyfriend.

A fancy-dress party, he’d called it in his droll British way. Costumes, he’d meant. I’d begged him to tell me what he was going as, but he’d refused, teasing that I’d never know if I couldn’t be bothered to join him.

My frustration had only mounted because I couldn’t tell him what I was really doing. I couldn’t endanger the Coven by advertising our working, by announcing to anyone—even to Graeme—that I was going to set the centerstone at midnight.

There’d be other parties, I tried to comfort myself. Maybe even more fancy dress. We could come up with costumes together—literary husbands and wives, musical lovers. Once I was officially in the Coven, everything in my life would fall back into its proper place.

I slid the second chopstick home and tried a tentative shake of my head. Everything stayed where it was supposed to, and I sighed in relief.

“So,” I said, stepping back into the living room. “How do I look?”

Neko set his right hand on a jutting hip bone, taking time to scrutinize me from the crown of my chopsticked head to the toes of my practical pumps. I’d gone with black. Basic black—the heart and soul of my wardrobe, especially when I wasn’t with Graeme.

My slacks were lightweight wool. They should provide protection against the cool nighttime breeze. I’d selected a silk blouse, one of the most demure garments I owned, with a placket that buttoned up to the neck. Fearing the midnight weather, and knowing that I did not want to be hampered by a coat, I’d added a wool sweater and taken care to smooth it evenly over my blouse.

I looked like a high-class cat burglar, ready to romp around on Riviera rooftops with Cary Grant. My only concession to color was the deep blue of my sodalite earrings and necklace. I had chosen them specially, valuing their ability to provide clear sight and confidence. I worried that I might need both before the night was done.

“Okay?” I asked.

“Perfect.” I knew I should be pleased by Neko’s approval, but his single word only made me more nervous. He never thought I was perfect. Anything but. He was obviously trying to calm me. To steady me. To help me through my testing with the Coven so that his own fate was secured.

Before I could demand an honest appraisal, there was another knock at the door. “I know, I know,” Neko said, throwing open the door. “Trick or treat.”

“Treat, thank you.” David perused the bowl of candy, digging deep to see what we had available. “No Three Musketeers?” he asked, stepping into the living room and closing the door behind him.

“Not anymore,” Neko said, and he sounded so doleful that I actually laughed.

“I’ll buy you a Three Musketeers tomorrow,” I promised. “A king-size bar, if you’re good tonight.”

“Oh, I’m good,” he said, nodding vigorously. “I’m good
every
night.”

“That’s not what I meant!”

He winked at me slyly.

Okay. So he was only trying to cheer me up. To distract me. But I was enjoying the attention all the same.

“Are you ready?” David asked.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” I looked around the room. “What am I forgetting?”

“I’ve already got the herbs in the car. And the silver flask of rainwater,” David said. “You don’t need anything else.”

I’d given David a shopping list earlier in the day—most of the ingredients for my working were common enough, but I’d wanted to make sure there were no surprises. Neko’s feelings had been hurt, until I’d tasked him with picking out the trick-or-treat candy. He didn’t seem to realize it was one thing to select sugar infusions for costumed beggars—another thing entirely to determine my future with the Coven. My future and his.

“What should I do with this?” Neko asked, raising the almost-full bowl of candy.

“Just leave it on the doorstep. It’s late for trick-or-treaters, but if anyone comes back here after we’re gone, they’re welcome to whatever they want to carry off.”

That was the smartest move, I told myself. Otherwise, I’d be eating leftover candy for weeks. Who was I fooling? I’d eat it all in three days and then swear off sugar for the rest of the year. Or at least until the stores started stocking miniature candy bars wrapped in Christmas red and green.

David made short work of settling the three of us in his car. I tried to relax against the rich leather seats, forcing myself to take deep, calming breaths. David had a CD playing—piano music that was perfectly soothing and utterly boring. Chopin, maybe? Gran would know.

I settled back into the onyx leather and watched the roadside lights glint off the car’s walnut trim. The Lexus seemed to pull us forward into the night with a magic of its own, silent, powerful. I imagined witches in ages past, riding horses to their safeholds. All of that equine energy, mastered by a couple of leather strips…. They were better women than I.

David’s keys jangled softly as he changed lanes. Involuntarily, I settled my hand over my heart, pressing against his Torch, which I still wore. I closed my eyes and took another calming breath, and then I dared to ask, “Do you need it back?”

He glanced at me quickly before returning his attention to the road. “Only if you want me to take it. I don’t want it to distract you during the working.”

“I’m used to it now,” I said.

“Then you can return it after you receive your own.”

I smiled weakly. “You seem so confident.”

“I’ve seen you work. I know how much time you’ve spent preparing for this. Our lunch meetings every day, your studying every night. You’re ready.”

Yeah, I wanted to say. Except I wasn’t studying witchcraft at night. I shivered, despite my wool pants, as I thought about Graeme, wondering again what costume he’d chosen for his party.

Oh well. No reason to confess to David now. No reason to let him know that I was winging it more than he knew. Neko shifted in the backseat, but he kept silent. I whispered a quick prayer of gratitude for small mercies.

Before I was ready, we reached the long road that snaked up to Teresa Alison Sidney’s house. We had plenty of time, and David pulled off to the side, extinguishing his headlights and turning off the ignition key. His face was lit only by the moonlight that streamed through the oak trees.

“You remember the layout, don’t you?”

I nodded. He had told me at least a dozen times. I said, “They’ve leveled the land near the creek bed. It’s out the back door of the house, down a flagstone path. We won’t be able to see the house once we get there.”

“The foundation was poured two weeks ago. It’s had plenty of time to cure.”

I looked at him curiously. “Have you seen it, then?”

“Of course.” He shrugged. “I needed to make sure that there wasn’t anything…unexpected before the concrete was poured. All of the warders and I, we supervised clearing the land last month—Fire and Air and Water, of course.”

Of course, I nodded to myself. How else would a witch prepare for her new home?

“It’s ready for the centerstone,” he said confidently. “Ready for you.”

The engine ticked in the nighttime, cooling off as we waited. I took another deep breath, and this time I could smell the herbs in the cotton sack at my feet. Paper or plastic? I was certain the woman had asked David at the organic market. But the greenery was in natural cloth now, ready to play its part in the evening’s magic.

“David?” I said.

He grunted a wordless reply.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For helping me. For having faith in me. For bringing me out here to the Coven in the first place.”

“They didn’t give me a lot of choice, did they?” He smiled wryly. “Don’t worry. You’ll do fine.”

I thought back to the first night I’d met my warder. He had thoroughly intimidated me, swooping in like a madman, demanding to know what I was doing with my powers. Since then, our relationship had mellowed. Sure, he pushed me. Pulled me sometimes. Twisted me, even, into his version of what a witch should be, could be.

But underneath it all, I had come to know—come to
believe
—that he was there for me. Would always be there for me. He wouldn’t let me go forward with this working if he thought there was a true risk of failure. A real possibility of losing Hannah Osgood’s collection. Of forfeiting Neko.

I tried to bleed off some of my nervousness by drumming my fingers against the dashboard. The moonlight glinted off the silver ring that Haylee had given me the night before.

“What is that?” David had stiffened beside me.

“What?” His alarm startled me. “This? A ring.”

“I can see that.” His words were suddenly terse, tense, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think that he was angry with me.

“It’s okay,” I said, realizing that he must suspect the jasper-stalker. “Haylee gave it to me last night.”

“Take it off.” Okay. He
was
angry with me.

“David, what is your problem with Haylee? She’s the only woman in the Coven who’s reached out to me, the only one to take the slightest step toward being my friend.”

“Jane, how many times do I need to tell you that Haylee is not your friend? Not last night, when she gave you that ring. And certainly not tonight. Not when you’re about to set the centerstone.”

I spread my palms against the walnut dashboard. Truth be told, I twisted my wrists a little, maximizing the milky sparkle of moonlight off the ring. “What happened between the two of you?”

“Nothing.”

I heard Neko shift in the backseat, and I might have missed his smothered cough of disbelief if I hadn’t been listening for it. I didn’t bother looking at him: I knew he would never actually divulge David’s secret. Instead, I clenched my ring-enhanced fingers into a fist and settled back in my seat, feeling every inch a spoiled, immovable brat.

“You have to tell me,” I said, playing my hidden ace. “I’m going to see both of you at the working tonight. I’ll be distracted if I don’t know what’s going on.”

Actually, I wasn’t just being manipulative. I was speaking the truth. I
would
be distracted. It was novel enough that David would actually be present at this working. This was the first time I would see any of the warders. They’d be a reminder that the magic I’d be working was dangerous—more dangerous than anything that had transpired in Teresa Alison Sidney’s living room.

I’d never thought of myself as a Band-Aid rip-off girl. I’d always been the sort to take a long, luxurious bath, to soak off a bandage with the perfect combination of bubble bath and aromatherapy oil. But now, with both the Lexus engine and the clock ticking, approaching midnight on Samhain, it was time to rip away. Time to get to the heart of David’s antipathy toward Haylee. Especially if it had any potential to spoil the looming magical working.

And he must have agreed. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand from his forehead to his chin. He clenched both hands on the steering wheel, and then he collapsed back against his leather seat. Finally, he spoke.

“Haylee was my witch.”

“What?” I couldn’t believe I had heard him right.

“Haylee. The witch who terminated me two years ago. The one who gave me back to Hecate’s Council.” The one who had condemned him to a life as an administrative clerk. Until I’d found Neko. Until I’d opened up the Pandora’s box of Hannah Osgood’s collection. Until I’d summoned him back into the business of witchy protection.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“What was I going to say, Jane? Don’t be friends with the witch who was mean to me? Don’t hang out with one of the bad girls?”