“No, but I felt something,” Tate responds quietly, eyes fixed on the doorway to the foyer. “Something dark.”
“Dark?” I ask, surprised. “I heard laughter. Same as when we arrived.”
He runs a hand over his dreadlocks. “Interesting. What I experienced was a quick flash of nervous panic. Like someone got caught doing something forbidden.”
“I think our couple dashed down the hall again.” I tilt my head toward the wall behind us where the secret room lies behind a hidden panel. The one the ghost couple showed us earlier. “Same direction as before.”
“Is anyone going to invite me into the house? I see the salt line and want to be a good guest.” Professor Philips voice carries from the front door.
“I thought he was at the ballet,” Martha mumbles, standing and facing the entry. Unlike Sarah’s messy bun and chopsticks, Martha’s gray hair is more of a nest crowning her head. She presses a hand on Sarah’s shoulder. “Don’t bother getting up. I’ll greet him.”
Tate stands and stretches to his full height. At over six feet, he towers above Martha who is more round than tall. Rolling his shoulders back, he appears even taller. With a dry tone that reeks of formality, he says, “My house, I’ll do the honors.”
For the first time, I realize how well Tate can play the society game.
Andrew shadows him to the front door. When they step out of view, I lean forward to keep them in sight.
“Professor Philips, come in. We weren’t expecting you.” Tate’s words are friendly, but neutral. “Is The Nutcracker over already?”
A low, grumpy voice replies. “I never stay for the second act. All the plot takes place in the first part. The rest is just dancing and all that spinning. Spinning, spinning, spinning.” Entering the library, Philips draws circles with his index finger. “It’s excessive.”
Sarah stands from her perch on the coffee table. When she passes me, she gives my shoulder a soft squeeze. “I assume you got our messages?”
“My phone started beeping like a teenager’s as soon as I turned it on. Code black?” Philips glances around the room. “No one seems to be dying and the house is still standing. Bit of an extreme reaction, don’t you think?”
“We’ve had a dose of excitement.” Martha sidesteps him and moves to the center of the room before catching my attention. Pressing her index finger to her lips, she shakes her head, warning me not to speak.
Philips removes his old-fashioned overcoat and brushes his mop of gray hair into some attempt at order. “Let’s see, are we missing anyone? Someone get turned into a toad or salamander?”
“Is that possible?” Sam whispers to Tate.
With his focus on Philips, Tate shakes his head before speaking softly. “Mostly old rumors. I’ve never seen it with my own eyes.”
Catching Andrew’s gaze, I widen my eyes.
His shrug doesn’t reassure me.
I know I used to joke about kissing toads and hoping they’d turn into princes, but I didn’t consider transmogrification to be real.
Given some guys I know, I wonder if it works in reverse.
Like maybe Hamilton, my freshman regret, really is a toad boy.
With a shake of my head, I dismiss the thought. Too horrifying to think I kissed an actual toad masquerading as a human.
Poor Lucy. She’s completely in love with him. Then again, she’s as superficial and obnoxious as he is—the perfect match.
Andrew steps into my line of sight. “What are you thinking about? Your face is all scrunched up and it looks like you’ve sucked on a lemon.”
“Remember when you adopted Hamilton’s personality and turned into a jerk?”
He nods. “Not my best moment in life.”
“Philips comment about someone being turned into a salamander got me thinking.”
With a tilt of his head, Andrew encourages me to continue.
“Is it possible for a witch to turn a toad into a human?” Spoken aloud, my question sounds crazy to my own ears. “Never mind. That’s ridiculous.”
“Transmogrification doesn’t work that way. And even if Luke Hamilton goes through life operating mostly with his lizard brain, pretty sure he has human parents.”
I laugh at his reassurance. “Poor Lucy.”
“Lucy?” Mrs. Howe asks from her spot near the fire. Her gravelly voice sounds like she smoked most of her life. She could be a well preserved seventy or a hard-living fifty. I can’t tell by her face, and her fluffy, teased blond hair twisted up in a clip doesn’t give me a clue either. Large tortoiseshell glasses on an elegant gold chain frame her pale eyes. In a sparkly red sweater and black pants, she’s elegant without revealing her age. “My granddaughter Lucy is around your age.”
Sam’s mouth pops open. “Does she go to Hawthorne?”
Mrs. Howe nods. “I believe she’s a junior.”
Wracking my brain, I try to think of Lucy’s last name. I don’t think it’s Howe, but I’m drawing a blank.
Sam’s brain must work quicker than mine. Her voice wobbles with shock. “Lucy Putnam is your granddaughter?”
“Lucy’s a witch?” I blurt.
Sam twists her hands together. “I didn’t know. She asked me to do a tarot reading for her at the beginning of last semester. And I had to buy new cards after. I should’ve known.”
Sarah places her arm on Sam’s in a motherly gesture. “You didn’t know true magic existed then. How could you have known?”
Sam blinks back emotion in her eyes and speaks to Mrs. Howe. “I’m sorry to say this, but her energy ruined my cards. I’ve never had that happen before.
Mrs. Howe’s lips form a pencil thin line as she frowns, but remains silent.
Philips takes up a spot to the left of her chair, next to the fireplace. Exaggeratedly rubbing his hands together in the heat from the flames, he comments on the damp winter night. His body shivers as he rolls his shoulders. “These old homes never seem to warm, do they?”
“Non sequitur much?” Tate whispers under his breath.
“The Putnams?” Andrew asks, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.
Mrs. Howe sighs. “Unfortunately, yes. Can you imagine a Howe marrying into a notorious family of accusers? I’ve never felt more ashamed.”
“Now, Marjorie, there’s nothing to be ashamed about. We can’t help who we fall in love with.” Sarah uses a soft tone to reassure Mrs. Howe. “Look at me.”
At the mention of Andrew’s father, her son blows out a long exhale and runs his hands through his hair. “I can’t imagine Lucy’s father is as terrible as Stanford.”
“I believe they belong to the same club in Boston.” Mrs. Howe removes her glasses and rubs her pinkies along her nose. “And he’s still married to my daughter.”
At least Sarah divorced Andrew’s father ages ago.
“Does Lucy know?” I ask.
“Her family’s history? Of course. You know how we trade in family heritage in New England like currency. Having lineage going back to the seventeenth century is a point of pride. As you should be aware, Miss Bradbury.”
I agree with her point, but she misunderstood my question. “I apologize. I wasn’t clear. Does Lucy know she’s a witch?”
Scattered around the room, the remainder of the coven has been quietly listening to our conversation. Everyone shifts their attention to Mrs. Howe. Dr. Philips clears his throat and rests his hand on the back of her chair.
“I’m not sure. We’re not close. I haven’t spoken to my daughter in several years.” Emotion clogs her throat. “I couldn’t say if Lucy’s realized her powers or has been told they exist.”
“How old is she?” Martha asks.
“She’s twenty-one, but we’re not exactly … friends.” My pause tells more than my attempt at diplomacy.
“I believe she’s the girlfriend of Miss Bradbury’s former paramour.” Dr. Philips gives me a conspiratorial wink.
“A love triangle?” Martha asks, amused.
“Ther
e’s no love between Hamilton and me. No reason to be jealous of Lucy.” I swallow back my disgust at Philip’s suggestion. “Trust me.”
Andrew chuckles beside me. “You should believe her.”
Sarah laughs and it sounds like she’s close to snorting. “This isn’t a soap opera.”
“Dear child,” Mrs. Howe chides her. “For centuries these families have been creating drama. Shakespeare pales in comparison to the comedies and tragedies of our histories.”
“Complete with ghosts and curses,” Sam says.
Dr. Philip’s attention swings to her. “Do tell.”
Sam widens her eyes at me in a silent “Help me.”
“Don’t forget the wars and nefarious pacts.” Tate ignores Philip’s request, saving Sam from responding.
My mouth is half open to change the subject when Tate’s phone rings, interrupting me.
Pulling the phone out of his pocket, he frowns. “It’s the security company.”
Pressing the screen, he stands. “Tate Winthrop. Yes. Hold on a second.”
He quickly strides out of the room. Because of the hard marble surfaces of the foyer, his muffled voice carries back into the library. “Thirteen, sixteen, ninety-two.”
That’s all I can hear clearly but he continues speaking. The echo of his footsteps covers his words.
“It seems my love of the ballet has caused me to miss some revelations this evening. Sarah, we should have coffee and you can fill me in.”
Sarah’s gives him a short nod, her posture remains relaxed but her voice lacks emotion when she speaks. “Come by the shop tomorrow.”
If the Winthrop mansion and my grandmother’s farm are enchanted, I imagine the Spelling B, Sarah’s store, must be equally protected. Knowing she trusted Philips enough to make him Andrew’s godfather eases my mind. A little.
Tate returns and loiters in the library’s entrance. “It appears that a silent alarm was triggered. And despite me giving them my name, our code, and answering every security question correctly, the Marblehead police will be arriving any minute.”
Mrs. Howe slowly rises from her chair. “I believe that’s my cue to leave. Thank you for playing host for our impromptu party. We’ll see you on St. Brigid’s Night.”
Everyone else follows her cue. Sarah Wildes might be the most powerful witch of her generation, but Marjorie Howe is the group’s matriarch. Mr. Bishop steps forward to tuck her arm around his elbow, subtly edging Dr. Philips out of the way.
Sarah and Martha say their goodbyes as Tate escorts the rest outside. Car doors closing and engines starting break the silence in the house. A log collapses into embers in the stone hearth, sending a few sparks up the flue.
“Do you know about a silent alarm?” I ask Andrew.
“We’ve never triggered it before.” He paces around the room. “Typically, when an alarm is activated, the security company calls within a couple of minutes. No one had left the library since Philips arrived, so unless there’s a trigger in here, it doesn’t add up.”
I check the time on my phone. It had been a couple of hours since we entered the secret room. My gaze shifts to the bookcase lined wall.
“Why the delay?” Sam asks. “If we triggered something, wouldn’t lasers or spikes have shot out of the walls?”
“You’ve watched too many Bond films,” Andrew tells her, his lips fighting a smile. “Tate loves them, too. You should ask him to Netflix binge with you.”
At Andrew’s friendly suggestion, Sam’s cheeks color with a blush. “Good to know.”
A few minutes later, red and blue lights flash through the large windows as gravel crunches beneath the tires of the police cruiser.
“At least they resisted using the siren,” Andrew huffs, stalking toward the door. Sam and I spring out of our seats and follow him.
A single car is parked in the driveway, its lights still flashing. The middle-aged officer who approaches the house looks bored, and a little surly.
“Mr. Winthrop,” he greets Tate. “Having another party?”
Tate laughs. “Evening, Officer Smith. Do you see any cars or hear any music? At least in my experience, four people don’t constitute a rager.”
“I passed several cars on my way here.” The officer ignores his snarky response.
“The alarm company said something about a silent trigger.” Tate ignores his observation.
Andrew steps forward to flank his friend. Sam and I stand slightly behind them in the open door.
“Could be. All I know is I responded to the call to come out and make sure everything is okay.”
“Well, here we are. House is fine. You already know me, so you can confirm with the station everything is a-okay dandy.” Tate spreads his feet and crosses his arms.
“Mind if I come inside and take a look around?” the officer asks. “It’s a large house. Perhaps a window was opened without your knowledge. Could be something as minimal as a cracked pane of glass from the cold. Better safe than sorry. It’ll only take a few minutes to scope things out and then we can all be reassured nothing’s amiss.”
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes as he steps closer.
A dull ache from my earlier headache pulses above my eye. Pressing a finger against the spot, I try to relieve the pain. I was pain-free the entire time inside the house.
A chill slithers down my spine.
It would be normal to ask to check the premises, but something about the formal request to enter reminds me of Andrew’s father’s visit. Does this cop know about the enchantment of the Winthrop mansion?
A sense of calm wraps around me like a warm blanket as Tate speaks. “That won’t be necessary. We’re about to leave and it’s getting late. I’ll make sure the main alarm is set and functioning. You’re welcome to wait and follow us off the property.”
Andrew steps forward. “Perhaps you should call your parents and Officer Smith can speak with them.”
The cop presses his lips together in a grim line. “No, that won’t be necessary. I’ll wait in the cruiser for you to lock up.”
No one moves at first. Underneath Tate’s calming energy, I feel my fight or flight instinct push adrenaline into my bloodstream.
Tate uncrosses his arms. “Give us two minutes.
Andrew tugs my elbow, turning me to face the door.
Inside, we find our coats while Tate covers the fire with a screen. None of us speaks. Sam and I hold a silent conversation with our eyes as Tate continues to spread calm over us.
Once the lights are off, we stand by the front door. Blue and red lights swirl and pulse around the darkened foyer, casting the room in an ominous glow.
Waiting for Tate to reset the alarm, I refocus on the ghost couple. Silently, I tell them to guard the book for me. A pale blue haze shimmers in the corners of my vision. I hear a female voice say, “Shh” before fading into a gentle chime of bells.
“Ready?” Andrew asks, his breath warm on my cheek.
“I think so.” I hope the book will be safe. That’s all I can do for now.
Outside, Smith sits in his car, the engine running but thankfully he’s turned off the flashers. He gives us a curt nod.
When we reach our cars, Tate turns his back to the cop. “Probably best we all go home and forget about all this until after the New Year. The house is secure.”
“Silent alarm?” Andrew asks, keeping his mouth as still as possible in case Smith is watching us. “Something new?”
“I texted my dad before the good officer arrived.” Tate glances over his shoulder. “He confirmed my suspicion. No silent alarm was triggered.”
I inhale too quickly and the frosty air causes me to cough. Andrew pats my back. “I’m okay,” I assure him, but I can’t fake the confidence to back up my words.
He rests his palm between my shoulder blades. “It’s safe, Madison. The house will protect it more than any alarm system.”
I want to believe his reassurance.
“On that note, let’s get out of he
re,” Sam mumbles. “I want to sleep in my own bed. I think maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow remembering a very strange dream.”
Tate slings his arm around her shoulders. “Not a dream, but it’s been a strange evening. One for the books.”
Andrew and I both groan.
Tate laughs before asking, “Too soon for puns?”
“Way too soon.” Sam shakes her head.
I realize I have to say goodbye to Andrew. We haven’t spoken about seeing each other over break and suddenly, despite everything that’s transpired over the past forty-eight hours, I feel nervous about being apart from him.
Slipping his fingers under my chin, he brings my attention to his eyes.
“I’ll call you tomorrow morning.” He dips his head to whisper against my ear. “I’m going to miss you. And I’ll miss waking up next to you. You can surprise me like that anytime.”
Heat covers my cheeks as I remember how I slipped into his bed last night. “Was that only this morning?”
He nods before brushing his lips against mine. “It’s been a long day. Get home and text me you arrive safely.”
I tell him the same before kissing him, really kissing him, good-bye.
Sam and Tate exchange a hug, one that lingers a little longer than friendly, before she joins me in her car. Andrew waves from the driver’s seat of his Audi.
Sticking to his word, Smith follows us down the long driveway and through town until we cross back into Salem. Before turning around, he flashes his lights and I wonder if he’s signaling someone. I’m probably just being paranoid, but I watch the road behind us all the way home.
Three
After the weirdest end to a semester in my life, Christmas was boring. Thankfully so. Spending winter break with my parents doing nothing couldn’t have been a better antidote to the magical madness of life in Salem. Finals seem a lifetime ago.
A few weeks with my parents, binging on mom’s cookies and a couple of series on Netflix, is just what I needed.
No ghosts, no blue light, no visions, and no headaches.
Several times I tried to see the past versions of my room or the living room, but nothing changed. I guess a house built in 1992 probably doesn’t have layers of the past, unless it was over an old burial ground. Ours wasn’t. Yes, I checked.
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