Still, only a small part of my mind asked those questions. The rest of me just wanted to watch.
• • •
The girl held up her arms, and the man picked her up and whirled her around in a cloud of butterflies. Then he set her down, admonishing her with an upheld index finger to stay.
The girl’s face fell. She ran toward him, her arms outstretched once again. But this time he did not pick her up but pushed her away gently, shaking his head. She cried as he moved farther and farther away, growing dimmer with each step as if he were being enveloped in mist.
“Da,” she called, but she knew she could not bring him back. He would return when he wished, when he could spare the time from his other life, his other child, whom he loved more than he loved her.
“Please don’t go,” she whispered, sinking to her knees. No one heard her. Strands of her long hair fell across her eyes and stuck to her teary face. “Don’t leave me—”
And then she heard them. Looking skyward, she saw vultures flying toward her, their huge wings making shadows on the earth beneath them, surely coming for her.
“No. No,” the little girl rasped, staggering to her feet and stumbling forward, her head craned to see the creatures behind her. “No!”
She ran as fast as she could, but she could not outrun the gigantic birds. They swooped down on her, their ragged wings enveloping her as they grasped her thin bones with their claws and screeched into her ears.
“Da!” she called helplessly as she tried to cover her head. “Come back for me, please, Da.”
• • •
I jumped up so fast that for a moment I didn’t remember where I was. My hands were trembling. I opened them slowly. In my right palm, which was marked by their sharp edges, were the two pieces of plastic I’d found under my desk.
It had been a long time since I’d “read” objects without thinking about them. I guessed it was because I’d forgotten that I was holding those plastic bits. But what exactly had I been reading? Almost reluctantly I let the pieces fall back into the box where they had been since Peter had found them. Even in the box they seemed to be vibrating with energy. And my ring . . .
The ring from Morgan’s store was glowing again, a bright opalescent blue.
Still breathing hard, I put the lid on the box and placed it on top of my dresser. Psychometry was strange that way. Usually the vibes I got from objects were pretty drab, but occasionally, if the thing I touched had a lot of emotion attached to it, it could be a pretty intense experience.
One thing I knew, though, was that the emotions I’d gotten through those bits of plastic hadn’t belonged to Summer Hayworth. Those thoughts had come from a witch, one who could turn flowers into butterflies at an age when most children were learning to roller skate.
So how had they gotten into Summer’s room?
• • •
After finishing my sandwich, I tried to call Peter again, but this time he didn’t answer at all. He was probably getting his pants fitted, I thought.
Or else he just didn’t want to talk to me.
Suddenly all thought of my psychometric experience vanished, replaced by paranoid thoughts about Peter Shaw. Did he even love me anymore? My “Insecure Katy” voice kept piping up. Well, why should he? it said. I was okay for Tuesday evening, maybe, but why should Peter stay with me now that he was a part of the great Shaw family again? He wasn’t the poor little orphan boy anymore. The richest man in town was re-inheriting him.
I wondered how long it would be before the Muffies at school started to treat him like one of their own. They’d always liked Peter—you couldn’t look like he did without having girls fall all over you—but now he was in their league. Becca Fowler had told me that she’d overheard a group of Muffies comparing notes about Peter. Two of them had asked him to Winter Frolic, but he’d turned them both down because, as one of them had said, he was stuck with “the kitchen girl.”
That was me, I guess. There was no way they could understand that cooking was something I liked to do. Not to mention how the extra money I was making would come in handy when I went to Harvard after I graduated the following year. Me. With Peter. Alone, since there was no chance that any of those Barbie doll cretins at Ainsworth School would be going there.
Still, it was a long time between high school and college, and with his recent ascent in social status, my guess was that Peter was going to start looking more like Muffy candy and less like someone who’d want to spend his life with the kitchen girl.
Insecure Katy wasn’t someone I liked to listen to.
To get rid of her I called my great-grandmother’s cell. “Where are you, Gram?” I demanded. “It’s almost seven o’clock.”
“Oh, dear,” she said, sounding dismayed. “Are you at home? We thought you’d be working tonight.”
“I was supposed to, but—”
“Agnes and Jonathan and I are on our way to Heath’s for dinner, and then afterward we’ll be stopping at the hospital. Jonathan’s agreed to put up some bookshelves in the children’s play area. Do join us, Katy.”
“Er . . . thanks, but I’ve already eaten,” I said. It was a pretty safe bet that Heath’s had been Gram’s idea, since it specialized in soft white food for old ladies. Jonathan must have been loving that. Not to mention working at night for free. But hey, maybe that was what happened when you got married. You ended up living a life you didn’t even want. Maybe that was what Peter was afraid of. Maybe the prospect of throwing his future away on the kitchen girl—
“Oh, stop it!” I said out loud.
“What was that, dear?” Gram asked.
“Oh, nothing. A bug. Er, crawling up my leg.”
“Good grief.”
I figured I’d better get off the phone before I lied myself into the emergency room. I made my apologies to Gram and Agnes—not that any were necessary, since they hadn’t planned on inviting me in the first place—and left the house. I just couldn’t stand my own company any longer.
CHAPTER
•
THIRTEEN
All of downtown Whitfield looked like a scene cut out of paper and set against a star-filled sky. Cars were starting to fill up the parking lot in front of Hattie’s Kitchen, their owners no doubt expecting real food. Whatever she and Bryce de Crewe were concocting, it was probably going to come as an unwelcome surprise to the diners.
That was a bad move, in my opinion. Hattie’s Kitchen had a reputation, deserved or not, for giving everyone what they needed. That meant a lot of different meals and custom everything. How could you run a restaurant where you served everybody the same thing? And soup, at that?
The thing that bothered me most, though, was that she hadn’t trusted me enough to let me help her. She preferred relying on a total stranger.
Who was this Bryce guy, anyway? Some dude who blew in from nowhere, and clearly didn’t have all his marbles, either, I thought irritably as I passed the last of the restaurant’s twinkling lights. Against the dark sky my ring glowed fairy blue on my finger.
I moved on purposefully toward the lineup of Main Street stores, where the Emporium of Remarkable Goods stood out like a beacon. Even from across the street I could see the CLOSED sign on the door. Well, duh. It was nearly eight o’clock at night, and the summer tourists were long gone. What had I expected?
I was about to turn around and go back home when I saw some movement in the store. Maybe she was still there. As I crossed the street, a thought floated into my mind: What am I doing here? When Morgan had told me to come back, I doubted that she’d meant come back that night. I mean, girls who looked like her always found something to do on Saturday night, even if they were new in town.
What had I been thinking? Oh, God, I thought, I’ve got to go home before I start bibbling my lips or walking down the street doing the chicken dance.
“Katy?”
Morgan was at the door, smiling. “Couldn’t stay away, huh?”
“Oh, no,” I said airily. �
��I was just . . . ” I made a vague gesture meant to indicate that I hadn’t intended to be there at all but was only strolling past the closed storefronts on a whim.
“Looking for the library again?”
I felt myself blushing so hard, I thought I would combust.
“Come in,” she said, laughing.
“No, really—”
She grabbed my sleeve and dragged me inside.
• • •
On the coffee table was a tray of fantastic-looking frosted cookies. “Did you make these?” I asked.
“No big deal,” she said.
Unfortunately, she was right. I took one bite, and it was all I could do to choke it down. It tasted like a year-old gingersnap.
“Yuck?” Morgan asked.
I had to help my peristalsis by massaging my neck. “No, they’re great,” I lied.
She laughed that wild, hearty laugh that made me want to laugh with her again. “Actually, they’re year-old gingersnaps,” she said. “I put a glamour on them.”
“Man, I got it right on the nose,” I whispered as the platter took on its original appearance. Mold was even growing on some of them.
“I was hoping I’d be able to fool you.”
I finished choking. “Did I tell you I’m a cook?” I asked.
“Wonderful. Cook for me.”
“And deprive you of creating these?” I pushed the cookie tray her way. We both laughed.
“Seriously, I’m glad you’re here,” Morgan said. “I’ve been thinking about you.”
“Thinking what?”
“About you being the Mistress of Real Things. How about showing me what you can do?”
I felt myself blushing again. “You’re kidding,” I said.
“No, I mean it.”
“It’s not very interesting. Mostly the history of tables and chairs.”
She shrugged. “How about this?” she asked, handing me a pewter and ceramic tankard. The pewter was pitted and thin, and the ceramic was so ancient, it looked like smooth stone.
“It’s really old,” I said.
“You think?” she said sarcastically.
“How old is it?”
She shrugged. “Fourth or fifth century. British, but of Roman design. Probably from the occupation of Britannia under one of the later emperors. Valentinian the Third, maybe.”
I set it down gingerly. “Wow,” I said. “You really know your history.”
She waved the compliment away. “So, what do you see? Or do you want me to go first?”
“Huh?”
“I’ll show you what I’ve got, and then you show me.”
That took off a lot of the pressure. “Okay,” I said. “Just don’t turn into a gargoyle or anything this time.”
“Okay. Sit over there.” She pointed to a chair with carved wooden arms and a seat upholstered in mauve velvet. Next to it was a small marble-topped table on which rested a cage containing a delicately worked bird made of silver filigree.
I almost reached over to touch it, but I stopped myself. What’s with me? I wondered. Why the sudden fascination with stuff? I’d never cared at all about things like jewelry and decorative objects. I didn’t even use bubble bath. Peter was always complaining that it was hard to buy presents for me because I’d rather have a bottle of saffron than a bottle of perfume. He gave me a pen for my birthday, and even that was too frilly for my taste.
But here everything was different. Celtic harp music quietly filled the room as Morgan took the bird out of the cage. “It’s Bengali, about a century old,” she said, gently stroking the fine metal filigree of its wings.
Just then I saw what looked like a movement of the bird’s head. I blinked, and it happened again. “What—”
“Shh.”
The bird looked at me. Saw me. I could see into its eyes. It flapped its silver wings and flew around the store, fully alive now, its metallic color replaced by the gray feathers of a living sparrow.
“Omigod,” I said. “You can bring inanimate objects to life.”
She laughed. “No. Hell, no. That would be like raising the dead. No one can do that.”
Well, there was one person. Peter’s little brother, Eric, could do exactly that. Which was why no one who knew about it ever, ever talked about his talent, even to other witches. Eric was only eleven years old, and had enough problems without having the whole world beating down his door. So I didn’t see any reason to tell Morgan—or anyone else who didn’t already know—about him.
“All I can do is change something’s appearance,” she said, standing up and holding out her hand. The bird flew by. Then, with a movement too swift for me to follow, she snatched it out of the air. When she opened her hand, the bird had become a metal sculpture again. “It’s all about appearance anyway, isn’t it?”
This time I did reach out to touch it. As I did, I caught a fleeting glimpse of the bird’s eyes. They were panic-stricken.
“The bird—”
Morgan pulled it gently out of my grasp. “Convincing illusion, huh?”
“But it looked at me. It was alive.”
“Was it?” She handed the bird back to me. I looked into its eyes. There was nothing. No sign of life at all.
Everything felt very still for a moment. Finally I said, “I guess you’re right,” and gave it back to her. “I didn’t mean to . . . accuse you or anything,” I said, waffling. “It was just—”
“God, girl. Lighten up.”
“So . . . ” I swallowed. The whole episode had left a strange feeling in my belly. “You can make things look any way you want?” I asked.
She made a small gesture. “Like what?”
“Could you make the bird look like a bear?”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you could,” I answered without thinking.
“My, you’re ambitious,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s your turn,” she said.
“I can’t do anything like . . . ” I looked at the bird. It still gave me a queasy feeling. “Like you did.”
“Too bad,” she said. “A deal’s a deal. Get cracking.”
“Okay,” I conceded, picking up the tankard and focusing on it. I used to not have to focus. At one time everything about the object, including everyone who’d ever touched it, would come rushing at me as soon as I picked it up, so I’d learned to control that. Now I didn’t get anything unless I was trying. It was a lot better that way, believe me.
“I meant it when I said it was old. Its vibes are dim, as if it hasn’t been touched in a very long time. Your imprint isn’t even on here.”
“I cleaned it,” Morgan said.
I pushed a little harder. “I can hear music,” I said. “Someone’s singing. Someone who’s blind drunk, from the sound of him. He’s got brown hair and a beard, and . . . and he smells really bad.” Seriously, this dude’s body odor was nearly overpowering in the humid mist of the lake.
“The lake?” I said aloud.
“Go there,” Morgan said.
“What?”
“You can see it, right? The lake, the tankard, B. O. Plenty?”
“Uh-huh.” I was trying to keep the image in my mind while talking to her. It wasn’t easy.
“So take it one step farther. Go into it.”
“Go into what? The tankard?”
“Yes.”
“But how would I get back?”
“Don’t be stupid. You’re not really going anywhere in the first place. You’ll be here.”
“Oh.”
“So go ahead.”
“You mean now?”
“No. Next week.”
“Okay, okay.”
“On the count of three.”
“No. That’s too—”
“One.”
“Morgan, I told you—”
“Two.”
“I can’t. I need more—”
“Three. Go.”
OMG. OMG. OMG.
CHAPTER
•
FOURTEEN
At first I felt really constricted, as if I were squeezing through a vacuum cleaner hose. For a second it seemed as if I would be crushed like a nut, but then . . . foop. Suddenly I was standing in a boat, which was not my favorite place to be, since I couldn’t swim very well. The last time I’d gotten into a boat, it had crashed, and the only reason I’d made it home alive was because Peter had carried me through a mile of mud.
So there I was, trying to figure out how large I should be. Since I had no body in this place, it was hard to tell what size I was. I swung from being tiny, crawling around the wet boards, to being gigantic and hovering over the craft like a cloud.
Finally I was able to get a vague fix on things and take in the scene. It was night, a dead, starless, moonless night. I wondered what this fool was doing in a rowboat at night, but since he was so drunk, I figured he probably didn’t know himself.
He took a swig and belched loudly. God, men can be so gross, I thought. Then he laughed and started rocking the boat from side to side.
“Like that, do you?” he slurred.
“Hold still, you moron!” I yelled, but of course he couldn’t hear me. He just kept rocking until water started sloshing over the side. This really wasn’t a fantasy I wanted to live out. “I can’t swim!” I shrieked.
He responded by spitting.
Okay, I can handle this, I told myself. I was perfectly aware that this was magic I was doing, that some part of my mind had gone through the tankard to the time and place where the tankard had come from. I knew that my body was really perfectly safe inside the Emporium of Remarkable Goods, and that Morgan was . . .
“Morgan?”
She was there, in the boat with him. With me. At least it looked like Morgan, except that her clothes were completely different. She was wearing a long gown with a sash. I think it was green, but the night was so dark that it was really hard to see anything clearly. There was just something about her eyes, gleaming as if she were enjoying this macabre midnight boat ride, that made me think . . .
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