Velda smiled toward the tall man with big ears who was speckling a pan of gingerbread stars with edible glitter. “Who’s he?”
Helena glanced over her shoulder. “Ren Cunningham. He owns the watch store next door.”
“Easy on the eyes, right?” Velda nudged Tara.
Tara jerked and flushed. She cut her eyes to the floor, but it was too late. Both her great-aunt and her great-grandma had caught her staring not at the tall man with the big ears but at the teenage boy. He was gangly and loose-jointed, his chin and nose dusted with flour. Tara was sure he must smell like cookies up close, and the thought made her blush an even deeper scarlet.
“Tara, do you want to meet Leo?” Helena asked. “He’s our helper. He’s about your age, I think.”
Tara shook her head, and her golden hair fell into her eyes. She mumbled something about wanting to look at dresses and ran toward the kitchen door so fast that she upset a tray of pfeffernüsse. The clattering drew the attention of the cookie makers, and Leo glanced up, locking eyes with Tara for just a moment before the door swung closed behind her.
***
Velda took Tara for cheeseburgers and hot fudge malts at the A & W before driving her home. “You know, it smells like love is in the air,” Velda said when they were within minutes of the square house.
Tara scrunched lower in her seat. She’d managed to avoid any sort of meaningful conversation with her great-grandma. She was confused by the rush of emotions she was feeling, and she wanted to be alone in her room to sort it all out. Her stuffed animals on her bed, her journal in hand, she would make sense of this. She knew she was small and bony for her age, her long flax hair straight. Her elfin ears poked out on each side. They were pointy, like her nose and chin beneath her too-big owl eyes. Yet, something about the way that boy had looked at her had made her feel liquid and beautiful.
“I sure wouldn’t want to miss out,” Velda continued.
Tara sat up a hair, her curiosity winning over her instincts. “Are you in love with someone?”
Velda laughed. “Not me, child. I took a vow many years ago never to fall for love again. But it is fun to be loved. After spending the better part of this afternoon watching you moon-pie over that boy at Seven Daughters, I have a hankering for some romance. I believe I’ll stop by your grandma’s for a potion before I go home.”
Tara would remember the crunch of the snow under the Cougar’s tires as they pulled into her driveway. It sounded like rabbits screaming. “Do you get elixirs from grandma very often?”
Velda put the car into park. “Nope. This’ll be the second time.”
Chapter 28
Ursula
When Velda marched through the cottage door, knocking snow off her boots, Ursula felt her blood run cold and then drain out of her. Velda had never before visited her in her workshop.
“It’s me,” Velda had said.
Ursula stood behind the table where’d she’d been distilling anise, watching flakes dust her mother’s white hair, the setting sun outlining her petite shape. The air smelled like metal. Ursula and Velda had connected one day in their lives, the day they’d conspired to murder. “What do you want?”
Velda pushed past her oldest daughter. “What everyone wants when they come here.”
Ursula listened to her mother’s request, wondering why now of all times, promising herself she would say no, she would finally stand up to Velda, she was old enough after all and her own person, had been her own person since she’d begun raising herself back in March of 1965, but…soon enough, she felt the soothing comfort of Velda’s charm wash over her, and she was unable to resist the full power of her mother even though she was cognizant of the self-hatred burning through her cells.
She shrank to twelve all over again as she stirred the wild pink rose petals, clover honey, and brandywine under her mother’s watchful eyes, a little girl who wasn’t and would never be good enough. Ursula concentrated the liquids, strained the clear amber liquid into a pink jar, and corked it.
“Why do you even need this?” Her voice sounded whiny to her. She knew the answer to her question: Katrine was back in town, and her magic was making people reach for more than they thought they could. “Can’t you just use your regular charm?”
Velda took the jar as she licked her lips. “This is an especially tough nut to crack. I think he might actually love his wife.”
Ursula swallowed, her jaw set. “If he drinks all of this and you are the next woman he sees, he’ll be overcome with desire for you.”
Velda nodded. “Exactly what I want.” She put out her hand.
Ursula dropped the still-warm bottle into it. She did not want to know the name of the man who would be swallowing it. She consoled herself with the knowledge that at least this time, it wasn’t poison, and that because it was winter, the snakes couldn’t come.
When Velda left, Ursula felt wrong and ugly, so she opened the Book of Secrets. Despite turning to the first page, the book fell open in the middle. The borders of the paper were hand-painted with tiny lavender and pink petals threaded with finger-shaped leaves of dark emerald. The writing was elegant.
The Catalain Book of Secrets: Rue
Rue is a natural remedy for curses and negativity. Dried rue tied in a red bag and hung over your door will dispel bad luck and welcome powerful good.
Ursula said a word of thanks. Leaving the book open, she strode to her wall of apothecary’s drawers and opened the third from the left, seventh from the top. She pulled out a sprig, wrapped it in a scrap of red velvet, and bound it with a golden cord. She walked to the cottage door, dragging a chair, and opened the door so she could balance the chair over the threshold. A frigid gust of blue air entered, confronted the peppery, witchy wall of heated air inside the cottage, and retreated.
Ursula spotted a woman who wasn’t after a love potion navigating the snow-sentry path to her laboratory. The woman slithered as though her skin was all that held her bones together.
Ursula was still feeling out of sorts from Velda’s visit. “Yes?”
The woman stopped, her eyes afraid but her jaw set. She seemed to be expecting anger or impatience. Her face was bland, as if it were missing glasses or more permanent features, and her ears stuck out like teapot handles. “Ursula Catalain?”
“Yes?” Ursula repeated. She ran her fingers through her hair, realizing that a stalk of rue had found its way behind her ear. She pulled it out.
“My husband and I are new to town. I live over in the Havership Development? I must have taken a wrong turn. I’ve heard about you but don’t really need a spell. I was just driving and got lost, and your lights back here were the only ones on.”
Ursula glanced at the Queen Anne through the front window. All the lights looked like they were off. Damned house. It had conspired with the night to send this woman to her. She was the worst kind of client, a person who needed help but wasn’t willing to come out and ask for it. “I’ll get you,” Ursula said to the house in a tired voice.
The woman looked over her shoulder, confused but not frightened. “Who are you talking to?”
“No one. I was just making some tea. Would you like to join me?” You can only help those who ask for it, but there were tricks for hurrying them to that point.
“I really should be going,” the woman said without conviction. “I was on my way to a class. It starts in twenty minutes.”
Ursula didn’t move a muscle.
“But I suppose, if the water is hot…”
Ursula sighed and pulled the chair out of the way so the woman could enter. She closed the door behind her. A bit of winter caught in the space between jamb and door, and there was an angry squeak. She always had hot water ready. She grabbed peppermint leaves from their drawer, then two mugs from a high shelf.
“Are you a chemist?” the woman asked, staring at the wall of bottles and the other of tiny, labeled drawers. Ursula’s work table was covered with three hotplates, knives and leaves, pots of oil and a
lcohol, and, over all that, towered intricate glass tubing leading to beakers shimmering with liquids.
Ursula poured steaming water from a beaker into each of the glasses, not answering the question. The woman would see what she wanted to see. She handed the woman a mug. She reached for honey and squirted a dollop into her tea before offering it to the woman. “You and your husband enjoying Faith Falls?”
“Yes.” She accepted the honey, glancing at Ursula. “But he wouldn’t approve of me being here.”
Ursula was beginning to get the picture. “Here” was not a specific place; rather it was anywhere he wasn’t. “How are you?”
The question worked as a lancet, piercing the woman’s protection and letting the words flow hot. “I was sick for a whole year when I was 13. I’ll never get that year back. I think it would have been my favorite. They say your wedding day is the best day of your life, but I wished I had been sick for mine, sick and young with my mom to feed me soup and make sure I didn’t get too lost inside myself. It’s not that my husband is bad. He’s loud, and angry, and cruel, but he’s got this energy. He’s the red in my gray. He’s always been that way, grabbing life and letting it know who’s boss. But he lost his job, and we had to move, and I don’t know anyone, and I thought, just maybe thought, that I could do something for myself. I lied to my husband and told him I was going to check out an evening service at the Catholic church so I could get away to the class.”
Ursula realized what it was about the woman’s face that seemed off. It wasn’t a permanent feature she was missing. Rather, there was an asymmetrical, unnatural smoothness to her, as if someone has broken every bone in her face and reset it from memory. “You want to make some red of your own?”
The woman nodded into her tea. Her hands were shaking. “Can you help me?” Her voice was a husk, a tender slip of dried paper offered to a world that had burned her.
Ursula couldn’t take her eyes off the pudding of the woman’s face. “Yes.”
In the end, she gave the woman a placebo because she needed permission, not a spell. That’s all she gave most of them: permission to use their own magic.
The Catalain Book of Secrets: Self-love Potion
This spell is simple. Under a full moon, gather rose hips and petals from wild pink roses. Also, have on hand saffron, red wine, sage, water, and a moonstone. Put all ingredients in a pot in a 1:1 ratio over medium heat. Allow the mixture to come to a boil, stirring the entire time. As soon as rolling bubbles begin, remove the pot from the heat. Cool, then strain. Reserve the moonstone to sleep on that night. Drink the liquid. The next face you look at will reflect your true beauty back to you.
p.s. The Law of Helping Others
Only enter a house through an open door. There are always windows, or locks to be broken, but if the door isn’t open, it’s not time to enter. This is the same when helping others. It’s only possible to provide help when it’s asked for. The rest of the time, all you can give is love.
Chapter 29
Katrine
She was working for the newspaper and grudgingly enjoying it. She’d been out with Heather a handful of times, and felt they were building a friendship. Black-eyed John had asked her out twice, and she’d turned him down both times. There wasn’t a morning she didn’t think of Adam, didn’t wish he’d show up and whisk her away to the life they’d once shared, but reaching out to Jasmine made that hurt less. In fact, every minute she spent in her sister’s company felt like balm. Plus, the winter air held more love particles today than usual. That energy drove her to Jasmine’s house as the sun was setting.
Katrine didn’t bother knocking. “Hello?” She crossed into the living room, a smile on her face. It fell to the floor when Tara raced into the room, her face white.
Katrine rushed to her niece. “What is it?”
Tara pointed behind her, unable to speak. Katrine raced into the kitchen, preparing for the worst. Instead, she found Dean and Jasmine on the floor, husband on wife, locked in the most passionate of embraces, oblivious to the world. She clamped her hand over her mouth to keep from hooting and backed out of the room. She grabbed her ashen niece’s hand and led her out the door.
It wasn’t until they were buckled in the car that she let out her breath and started laughing so hard that her jaw hurt.
“How can you laugh?!? Did you see what they were doing? Gawd. It’s like that image is burned into my eyelids.”
Katrine held up her hand, fighting for breath. “I’m so sorry. That is a horrible thing to have to see your parents doing. I’d tell you about the time I walked in on Ursula, or Xenia, or even Helena, but I’m confident that wouldn’t make you feel better.”
“How can they still do that? They’re so old.”
Katrine let another peal of laughter escape as she backed out of the driveway. “I won’t take that personally. And be glad that they still do that.”
Tara looked doubtful.
“Okay, be glad that they love each other enough to do that.”
Tara appeared to taste those words. Not for the first time, Katrine wished she could get inside her niece’s head.
“You know,” Tara began, “I don’t think they’ve done it for a while.” Her cheeks blushed violently, and she fought through the stammering. “I don’t mean because it looked like they were out of practice or anything. I mean I don’t think they’ve been close like that for a long time.”
She grew quiet. “Except, I’d be okay not seeing it for a while.”
Katrine couldn’t help it. The giggles overtook her again.
For a dear moment, all was in balance in Faith Falls. But the snakes were on their way, just as they’d come every 25 or so years since time remembered.
Chapter 30
The Queen Anne
Xenia and Helena were busy arranging the nativity scene on the front porch. Xenia had received the charming, half-scale set in exchange for a shimmering periwinkle dress crafted by hand sewing strips of beads onto a simple jersey pattern. The customer had been staring at the dress through the window of Seven Daughters for three weeks, until Xenia came out to ask her what she needed. After much cajoling, the woman confessed that her beloved daughter was getting married, but she was a single mother who’d spent all her limited income on the wedding and had nothing left over for herself.
Xenia had been waiting for the owner of the lavender blue dress to show up since she’d sewn it three years earlier. It was a relief to get it off her hands. She would have been just as happy to give it away, but the woman insisted on some form of payment. When she revealed that she was an artist who specialized in painting wooden statues, the exchange for the nativity scene had been agreed upon. While not Christian, Xenia and Helena enjoyed a good tradition as much as the next person.
“Want to help me move this manger?” Xenia asked. “What are you doing, anyhow?”
“I was brushing the stuffed donkeys.”
“You aren’t supposed to brush donkeys.”
Helena poohed her. “You don’t know that. Have you ever owned a donkey?”
“Of course. I’m a wise woman,” Xenia said, indicating the robes she’d worn for Christmas in case any carolers stopped by. She and Helena were brewing mulled cider and had insulated cups ready to distribute. “I know all there is to know about donkeys.”
“Well, then you know they need to be brushed. A lot.”
Meanwhile, inside, Ursula was cooking.
“You sure you don’t need help with the turkey?” Katrine stood at the threshold of the kitchen, a room which smelled like roasting meats and sage, and was ten degrees warmer than the rest of the house. Garland was strung over the doorway, and the table behind her had been set for a feast. Ursula was peeking in the oven and releasing a perfume of fresh-baking bread and roasting turkey.
“I’m fine,” Ursula replied. “You can relax.”
Katrine was relaxing. In fact, she was happy. It didn’t mean she was healed, or that she’d gotten her sister to share the me
mory of the event so horrible that she’d cast a spell to push Katrine away, but it did mean she was building something in Faith Falls. Not a life, exactly, but a safe resting spot. On top of slowly reconnecting with Jasmine, Katrine had grown close to her niece, taking her out for day trips to window shop, or grab lunch at Great Hunan or Mort’s Diner, or sneak a makeover at the Herberger’s counter that they’d scrub off before returning home. This felt like stolen time to Katrine, a way she could rescue her niece if not her sister.
Ursula had invited Jasmine to cook with her this year, as she did every year. When Jasmine turned her down, as she always did, Ursula had begun cooking the feast on her own. She didn’t even allow Helena to help. She roasted a turkey stuffed with pearl onions, lemons, and sage. She baked a ham drizzled in honey and spiked with cloves, which caramelized to a sweet-salty crust as it rested on the counter.
Her corn-bread dressing was bursting with slivered sweetbreads and almonds, creamy and crunchy and comforting. The center island was lined with three different kinds of salads, cream for peas, candied yams glazed with browned butter, and six kinds of pie: pumpkin, cherry, mincemeat, apple, lemon meringue, and French silk. None of her magic aided her in cooking, but she was a mother, and she poured all the love she had for Jasmine and Katrine into this meal, hoping they would recognize it. She didn’t know this, of course. She just cooked.
Velda strode through the front door without knocking, brushing back the green and silver garland that had caught on her shoulder.
“I’m here!” she called. A Santa hat perched on her head. “Merry Christmas!”
Artemis followed, pausing to tap the snow off his boots before removing her coat. The affair she’d required Ursula’s love potion for had come and gone, at least for Velda, like her trysts always did. Artemis had remained a constant calm friend throughout this last one, and she’d been happy to invite him to Christmas. He hung her parka on the coat rack alongside his, balancing the bottle of champagne in his hand. It was wrapped in deep blue foil with a forest green bow.
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