Jancie shrugged. “How will I know who’s the story teller?”
“I reckon the witch will be wearing the moonstone locket.”
“Have you seen it?”
“Can’t say I have, but these old legs haven’t been up to walking for hours through a carnival for years.” She chuckled and displayed a calf encased in a support stocking, showing the lines of varicose veins through the elastic material. “But if I was young with my life ahead like you, I’d give it a go.”
Jancie finished her cornbread. “Thanks for the advice, Aunt Starla. I’m going to head home and read some of this tonight.” She tapped a finger on the diary’s cover.
“Let me get another piece of cornbread for you to take.” Starla moved to the counter, cut a huge wedge, and wrapped it in plastic film.
***
Sunshine streaming into her bedroom window awoke Jancie. She’d fallen asleep early while reading the old diary. Up at six, she took time for a long run, then showered and slipped into one of the boring polyester wrap dresses she wore to work. After applying a scant bit of make-up and enjoying Starla’s cornbread with milk and juice for breakfast, she tidied up the kitchen and bedroom.
She gently folded the crazy quilt Mom had made for her before the cancer hit. When Jancie touched the diary sitting on the oak nightstand, a passage she’d read crossed her mind—several days after Maggie’s encounter with the story teller, she wrote an entry wondering why the man seemed so burdened. Her description of the sorrow she’d seen in his eyes haunted Jancie while she drove to work.
Luckily, the mental image left her during the busy morning with a couple of farmers who wanted to reorganize loans. It made her feel good to help them get their finances in order so they could afford what they needed to stay in business. Times like these made her job seem worthwhile.
After getting lunch at the café on Main Street, Jancie stopped at the corner florist two doors down and bought a bouquet for the grave, hoping that would give her the sign from her mother she’d been wanting the past six months. She picked out a sunny arrangement of red and pink zinnias and yellow mums. Mom always planted zinnias, and when she couldn’t, Jancie had grown them to please her. But not this year. It hurt too much.
She laid the flowers at the gravesite and sat on a bench nearby, watching for anything that might be a sign. After a few minutes, mosquitoes roused by yesterday’s rain forced her to leave earlier than usual.
With time to spare before returning to work, she walked down the hill, past her usual turn onto Main Street. The breeze tossed her hair in the warm sunshine. Halfway down, she made out distinct shapes of men and women moving through the carnival’s entrance. Her pulse quickened. Why am I heading toward the carnival? I don’t know if I believe in that crazy moonstone tale. She swallowed hard, remembering her father’s strong opposition to anything to do with these people. Still, she kept walking closer. The idea of being able to say goodbye to her mother was too tempting, too important.
She stopped across the road from the entrance. Above the head-high wooden fence with peeling layers of black and barn-red paint, the rusty Ferris wheel creaked back and forth as if someone coaxed it to life. Through the planked gates which stood open, tents of every color lined the central path, some only puddles of fabric on the ground waiting to splash up. Women in shirtwaist dresses moved about draping gold cording around tent support angles. The ladies’ bias-cut skirts rippled around their hips and legs with the slightest breeze like the flags atop the tent poles. Men in wide-legged trousers unloaded crates off the back of a vintage 1930 model Ford pickup’s wood-paneled bed. With long sleeves rolled above elbows, streaks of sweat lined the backs of their white dress shirts. Foregoing style for practicality, wide-brimmed fedoras were pushed back on their heads.
From time to time, small groups of coven members visited Bentbone for groceries or other supplies in their long sedans with stretched hoods and seductive fenders that reminded Jancie of a woman’s rounded hips. But to see so many of their folk together, dressed as they always did in styles from eighty years ago, made Jancie feel like she stood out.
She’d never watched them set up the carnival. The process—an orchestration of both ordinary manual labor and magic—left her entranced. While boys and young men grunted to tote crates, adult men and women levitated tents into position. Jancie wanted to tour the grounds to witness the transformation of the abandoned and dilapidated park. Lured by the magical sights, she crossed the road.
“You lookin’ for someone?” the voice of a teenage boy by the pickup startled Jancie.
She whirled sideways as if caught doing something wrong. “Um. I’m needing the teller of the moonstone tale.” Her voice cracked proclaiming her reason to be there while still trying to convince herself.
“That’d be Rowe.” The youth spit into the gravel at the side of the road. “He’ll be here straight away. We’re delivering things he needs. Just wait by that gate, miss.” He tipped his cap and took a crate off the truck bed.
Jancie stepped closer to the gate. She peeked around the corner and walked into the wide chest of a man wearing a freshly pressed shirt with cuff links at his wrists. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she blurted and took a step back.
“No, excuse me. I should have taken more care.” The man, who appeared to be in his late twenties, touched her elbow. “Are you all right?” From under a straw fedora angled low over one brow, brown hair grazed his broad shoulders. Unshaven whiskers shadowed his jaw.
“Yes, I’m fine.” Jancie uttered, unable to look away from his eyes—brown with glints of gold that seemed to convey sincerity. Or witchcraft? She managed to pull her gaze free. Or not?
“What can I help you with?” His calm voice contrasted with the chaos around them.
A loud bang sounded from behind. His hand at Jancie’s elbow grabbed her forearm and pulled her closer to the gate’s frame in time to miss collision with two men carrying a crate.
Jancie stared at the wooden box, which jostled from side to side as if something inside moved on its own.
“Dangerous spot.” The man released her.
“I guess.” From where she hugged the edge of the entry, Jancie uncoiled toward him, and her gaze rested on a thick opalescent pendant hanging against his chest where his shirt hung open. She stared at it in surprise.
He saw her expression and her gaze, fixed on his necklace. “Is something wrong?”
“It’s just that…Are you the moonstone story teller? I came to find you.”
“Yes, I am. My name is Rowe McCoy. Come outside the gate area where it’s quieter…or at least safer.” With a chuckle, he led her beside the old pickup and turned to face her, his gaze more serious and intent on hers. “Why are you looking for the moonstone story teller?”
“I’ve lost someone…”
“I’m very sorry for your loss. Who was that person?”
“My mother, Faye. I’m Jancie Sadler. I cared for her through a long bout with cancer but missed the moment when she passed. It hurts that I didn’t get to say goodbye. I need to do that.”
He nodded. “I know that feeling well.” He removed the moonstone locket from his neck and held it between them. Rose gold filigree secured a gem the size of a half dollar coin and milky white. “Hold out your palm.” He placed the locket into her hand and cradled hers with his own. “This locket was made in 1850 by a warlock, Jude Oatley who lost his wife, Charlotte, to tuberculosis. He set the magic of the gem, and it’s his tale I tell. Be warned, if the locket opens, you will pay a price for the gift you seek. You understand, the locket does not open on command—in fact, it has not opened in many years. But the magic dictates it may happen if—”
“Look!” Jancie exclaimed as the moonstone flashed a brilliant blue.
Rowe flinched, a look of surprise on his features, and clasped her hand tighter, steadying it with his other hand. “The story begins with the tale of their tremendous love.” His voice cracked, and he took a breath before continuing. “Jude pl
aced the essence of that love inside this gem and—”
“Rowe, there you are,” a woman’s husky voice called. “I’m needing your help, darlin’, with manners of the carousel horses. No one else can seem to make them change gaits.” A woman slithered over to them, dressed in a fine silk flowered dress that draped around her voluptuous curves. She glanced at the locket in their joined hands and scoffed. “I’m sorry if I interrupted anything important. The moonstone locket. Are you telling this girl the tale? She’s too young to have a broken heart, other than from puppy love.” Her painted red lips drew into a smirk across her pale face.
“Jancie, this is Adara, our coven leader. Adara, this is Jancie.” Rowe collected the locket, his face now drawn and solemn as he looked at Jancie. “I apologize. We have a lot to do before the carnival opens Friday night. It is important for me to tell you the tale. Promise me you’ll come by during the carnival. I’ll make sure to have time to talk without interruptions.”
Adara’s sharp laughter trailed off in the blare of a horn from a new off-road Chevy pickup that whipped past kicking up dust and gravel.
Jancie sucked in deep breath. She’d been discovered talking with witches by her resentful ex-boyfriend, Harley Hincks. Her dad would know before sundown.
The wind that blasted them after the truck passed lifted the waterfall of Adara’s black wavy hair styled to hang over one eye. A long, jagged scar across the high cheekbone marred her otherwise beautiful face.
The woman’s odd reaction and appearance made a chill pass along Jancie’s spine. She glanced into Rowe’s eyes, wanting to promise she’d return. Instead, she scurried across the road toward the safety of the Federal Bank.
Chapter Two: Blue Vervain
Adara smoothed her black shoulder-length hair forward from her side part to cover the exposed scar on her cheek. No matter the girl had seen it. The disfiguring gash proved useful when she wished to look like a wicked witch and frighten troublesome townies away.
Rowe replaced the moonstone locket around his neck, and his gaze followed Jancie ascending the long hill toward Bentbone.
Adara eyed him. “A townie? Really? That twit isn’t your type. You need a woman.”
“It’s none of your business.” He arched a thick brow at her.
Making use of his attention, she turned and added a bit of a wiggle into her walk back inside the carnival. She was certain he couldn’t resist the swish of silk around her gams. Footsteps behind her confirmed her expectation and brought a grin to her lips. Winding her way through coven folk, she doled out directions and wondered about what she’d seen between Rowe and that girl. The moonstone had given a brilliant flash. With only that much information, there was no way to know whether the locket would open for that townie, but Adara intended to prevent Rowe from finding out.
She stopped at the carousel and turned to face him. “The pink fillies only trot, while the red steeds just gallop. Everything else canters. This ride was your creation, so make it work.”
“Not a problem.” He waved to a mature male witch working on the ride. “Albert, snazzy paint job.” Rowe circled through each row of fearsome wooden animals. Some growled or whimpered through clenched teeth. Others puffed wisps of smoke from reddened nostrils. He stroked the head and neck of each, sometimes stopping long enough to whisper into the perked ear of a horse, or rub a tiger’s ears to soothe its irritable pawing, or guide the long neck of a camel closer to receive his communication. After he visited each, he bounded off the lowest level and moved closer to Albert at the control panel. “Give it a go now and work through all the gears. They should behave better now.”
Albert muscled his weight against the stiff lever and gave a groan. “First gear, Rowe.”
Adara crossed her arms under her full bosom and strolled to where Rowe observed the circling ride.
“Looks a-okay.” Rowe lifted his hat and smoothed his hair. “All are at their trot now. Power up.”
Albert braced his bum leg against the gear column and pushed his weight into the shifter. “Canter speed.”
Rowe gave a thumbs-up and stepped to the control box. He passed a palm over the stiff shift lever and pushed it to the highest notch. Horses, elephants, tigers, sharks, camels, and bears alike stretched their torsos and lengthened their legs or fins into long, elegant strides with a uniform rhythm.
Adara clapped her hands. Few witches achieved that level of animation. She’d admired his intelligence and witchcraft talents for years. Now that he was a widower, she intended to learn whether his other skills would be equally outstanding.
Rowe yanked the lever back through the slower gears to halt the carousel. “The animals are all performing proper gaits, but this shifter is needing more than magic.” He faced Albert. “See if Trenton can oil the mechanism.”
The older male witch nodded and pushed his sleeves above his skinny arms. “Will do. Should be easy for him. He’s been a real carny before. You did the hard part. Thanks, Rowe.”
“Not at all.” Rowe tipped his fedora.
Adara snaked her arm through Rowe’s crooked elbow. “You always impress me,” she remarked, beaming into his face. “No one else in the coven can animate like that. I’ve been thinking. Maybe the time is right for you to become part of my council.”
He shook his head and opened his mouth to speak.
“Don’t say no yet.” She gave a hasty reply and squeezed his firm bicep with her free hand. “I know you’ve been through rough times losing both your father and your wife. Maybe working for the greater good of the coven will give you the purpose and direction you’ve been missing. Think about it.”
“Do I have a choice?” He glanced at her with a smirk.
“Well, I’d love to have your help with coven leadership. You’d be perfect. We’d make an exceptional team.”
Albert returned with Trenton, who carried a tool kit. He tipped his ball cap to Adara and got to work.
Adara pulled on Rowe’s arm. “Come walk with me while I check progress on other attractions, and we can discuss our plans for the coven’s future.”
“I want to stay until Trenton is done, to make sure my adjustments are still in line.” Rowe walked with her around the perimeter of the carousel.
Trenton opened the panel and tightened bolts and oiled gears, while Albert served as his assistant.
As Adara and Rowe strolled, she smiled to everyone who passed, hopeful they noticed she and Rowe were a couple.
Several women smiled back at her. The jealously she read in their eyes made her pulse quicken. She needed the other females to know he belonged to her now.
As Rowe and Adara returned to the control panel, Trenton replaced the cover, and Albert pulled the lever. “Should be smooth as silk,” the carny said.
Rowe shook off Adara’s arm and braced himself against a fence support while eyeing the animals trotting past. “Up one level.”
“Shifts like butter and that’s as pretty a canter as I’ve ever seen,” Albert sang and turned on the ride’s music system.
“That is keen, Rowe!” a girlish voice called from behind. “They all look like rockin’ horses. What kid wouldn’t want to ride this carousel for hours? I would.”
“Lenore!” Rowe turned and took the lissome young woman’s hand. “In that case, why don’t you and I test the animals’ temperaments while carrying riders? I could use some help.”
“I’d love to. I’m so glad I was nearby and heard the carousel’s calliope music. I was hoping I could help you.”
Adara bristled at Lenore’s easy, likeable manner. Although in her twenties, the young woman bordered on plain with a freckled complexion and dishwater blond hair past her waist. Her hair-do, if it could be called that, was old-fashioned, hanging in pigtails tied with light blue ribbons that matched her flowered feedsack dress. What did Rowe see in Lenore when he could have herself, an exotic beauty with eyes and hair as black as jet set off by milky skin, high cheekbones, and red lips? Not only that, she filled out a dress i
n ways that simpleton’s flat-as-a-board figure could never do. She seethed as he placed his hands on Lenore’s waist, boosted her onto the back of a baby elephant, and took a position next to her on a growling tiger.
Rowe signaled Albert, and the ride started with the animals walking faster with each revolution until they reached a trot.
When they sped to a canter, Lenore’s fluty laughter carrying over the top of whimsical calliope notes sent Adara into hiding, taking refuge in the doorway of a nearby tent. She didn’t dare let coven members see her while Rowe entertained that girl, not after she’d been so obvious about her intentions for him. How could he take her affections so lightly? Her brow pulled together while considering his resistance to her plans.
“Adara, is there something I can help you with?” the voice of a woman asked from inside the tent. “Something’s troublin’ you, my dear. I’ll be glad to read the future for you again, if you wish.” She stepped forward and squinted the already small eyes of her ferret-like face. Her gaze followed in the direction of Adara’s stare. “Ah, knowin’ the future is not what you want. Be careful or you’ll turn green, my friend. Don’t you trust the cards I dealt you at Beltane?” The middle-aged witch maneuvered her plump body around a maze of crates toward the tent’s door, her peppered hair falling from her bun to the Peter Pan collar of her shirtwaist dress,
Adara glanced at her closest friend. “Sibeal, I know better than to doubt the word of the coven’s eldest psychic, and I know you have my best interest at heart. Your reading said that the man I chose wouldn’t fall for Lenore’s winsome charms.” Adara curled her pointed, red nails into a fist. “But that’s only because I’ll see to it that their friendship ends.”
“Adara.” Sibeal placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “You mustn’t meddle with fate. The Goddess will play hard against you.”
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