It was all supersweet, as it should be for Betty, who had been waiting for so long for the right guy to arrive. Seth Holding wasn’t just some young buck or blockhead who wanted to get into an experienced woman’s pants or avoid the “drama” women his age had a reputation for. He was a good egg. And, boy, could they both sing! Sometimes magic acted only as a catalyst, and the rest was serendipity. Still, Freya was proud of her handiwork. She looked around and saw her magic everywhere.
That couple with the now-seven-month-old—Becky and Ross Bauman, whose marriage had frighteningly and violently derailed—were in couples counseling. Freya had gleaned this from a vision of them talking in a therapist’s office (the framed print of Monet’s water lilies on the wall a dead giveaway), sharing feelings they hadn’t even known they possessed. They were currently sitting in a booth, making out like teens. Apparently all those Serenities she had served them over the last month had worked: a touch of star-of-Bethlehem, valerian root, and the tiniest bit of the night-blooming belladonna.
Then there was some brand-new witchery at the pinball machine: a girl Freya’s age leaning into the machine, a hunk behind her doing some upright spooning as they both pressed the flipper buttons and he slammed into her jeans. He had ordered the Playful, she the One-Night Stand.
Now two college boys were flanking the blond and brunette at the bar, and the girls had started a contest to show them who could remove her bra the fastest without taking off any clothes.
It dawned on Freya, who was tending bar alone tonight, that nearly everyone around her was either doing it or about to, all of them happy, sated, smug, or excited. She granted love, fertility, sexual desire. She offered Eros on a silver platter, Venus on the half shell. Cupid and his arrows were at her command. Every fiber of her being was made up of sensuality, passion, and raw emotion, yet lately she had been experiencing none of that fervor; lately, it was like she was dead down there. Or was the word deadened? That sounded a tad better.
Sex had never been an issue, certainly not for her, not even the times she had lost her virginity (in her many lives), during which she had taken to lovemaking as if she were an old hand at it, the passion and excitement of those first unions erasing any pain with a soft, shivery caress. There had been that one weird time with Bran Gardiner, but that was because she had already sensed something was off. Plus, she had been thinking of Killian.
Killian …
He was her love. Or was he? She didn’t know what to believe anymore. Ever since that night when she’d almost fallen off the bridge, things had cooled. When they’d made love that night, she had pretended to feel the same way and had gone through the usual motions and noises but her heart and her head weren’t in it. Freya had experienced enough relationships to know that power shifts were intrinsic—the roles of Lover and Beloved flip-flopping with every little change. But it had never been so with Killian; they had always each played both parts: Lover and Beloved or Beloved-Lover or Lover-Beloved.
Since that night, however, Killian had slowly pulled away as if he sensed Freya’s mistrust and resented her for it, which had thrown everything off. In a sense, Killian was pouting; he was the longing Lover wanting to be the Beloved. She felt the same. Perhaps once you got into the nitty-gritty of a relationship, this was to be expected, but Freya hated it to happen with Killian. It had all been so perfect and idyllic until Freddie came along and sowed doubt in their little garden.
Killian was not just her lover; he was her best friend, and she realized with a start that she was terribly lonely. God, no, she said to herself. Not lonely, never lonely. If ever there were a sin, it is loneliness. She panicked.
Thankfully, the solution to her funk came traipsing through the door.
Hudson Rafferty, Ingrid’s good friend from the library, walked in with an extremely good-looking man in tow. It was his boyfriend, Scott, Freya thought, suddenly cheering up. Hudson and Scott always had the best gossip.
Hadn’t Joanna always said that Freya should focus on helping others whenever she was feeling down? It wasn’t good to get too self-involved.
Freya set down two coasters and hoped she could be of help to these handsome boys.
chapter eight
Haunted while the Minutes Drag
The Edwardian blueprint from the old manor was a diazo print, a paper used beginning in the early twentieth century. It was oily to the touch, the edges crumbled and the fine lines of blue ink degraded and blurred in spots. The problem with such old blueprints was that back then they were considered dispensable, with no other use than their practical function as a guide to build a house. No effort had been made to preserve this one other than rolling it up and plopping it into the cedar escritoire, where it had fortuitously been saved from light and dust and other sources of decay. However, the quality of the paper itself was poor. Steaming had made it less brittle, but Ingrid was still careful as she now applied another treatment.
She felt brittle herself, as if exposure to the light could turn her into dust. A weekend had come and gone, and she hadn’t heard from Matt; their affair appeared to have ended without ever really beginning.
After a few sprightly knocks at her office door, Hudson burst in. “Hey, I just had a second and didn’t get a chance to tell you yet. Guess who I saw this weekend? Ew, it stinks in here. Witchy stuff?”
Ingrid laughed. “No, solvents for the blueprint.”
Hudson studied her, chewing on the nail of his index finger, then placing it along with two others in the upper pocket of his tailored jacket to give a tuck to his turquoise pocket square. “Something’s wrong. You don’t look happy, Ingrid.”
She glanced up from her glasses, pulled at the wrists of her gloves, and continued applying the chemical. She felt like a failure after her date with Matt and was too ashamed to admit to her friend that she had botched the whole thing. She hadn’t told Hudson about the date at all, neither before nor after. She felt like a traitor as a friend but her lack of experience had kept her mum, just in case something like this happened. Well, at least she’d been smart about that. “It’s just the chemicals. They make my eyes water.”
“Yeah, right, it’s just the chemicals. Uh-uh, you are no good at hiding it, my dear. But I’ll leave you in peace for now. Just know my shoulder’s here any time, okay? I’m wearing cotton so there’s no harm in crying on it.”
“Okay,” said Ingrid, smiling. So who’d you see this weekend? Did you and Scott go out on a date?”
“I saw Freya! It is really, truly remarkable, the whole vibe—to use that reappropriated hippie word—she is giving to the North Inn. Talk about bacchanalia! You two with your magic!” He gave her a wink as she peered up at him from behind her glasses. “Anyhoo, we got to discussing my little problem.”
“That Scott is angry with you because he can’t meet your parents when you’ve met his?”
“Yeah, that one.”
“Big problem!” Ingrid emphasized. As if she were one to talk.
“Well, Freya made us some of those … love potions? Phew! Let’s just say Scott and I had the most incredible, romantic, earth-shattering night! I’m still reeling from it.” He spun around.
Ingrid began putting the caps back on the bottles of the solvents. “So does this mean you’re ready to introduce Scott to your mother? Although that would mean you’d first have to come out to her.”
“No, not ready for that yet.”
“Oh, Hudson!” she said.
She left the library earlier than usual; Tabitha and Hudson would do the closing up. Caitlin no longer worked there, because she had started—of all the unexpected twists—law school in New York City. Perhaps heartbreak had changed her, made her want to prove herself in some way. Ingrid only felt empathy for the girl now and, she had to admit, a lot of admiration.
Clipping along in her work heels, Ingrid took the roundabout way, skirting the park, even though she knew it was a ridiculous waste of time. But part of her hoped that somehow, if she followed Matt’s instru
ctions and stopped using the dark-alley shortcut, it would bring him back. What am I thinking? That’s ridiculous! Ingrid was annoyed with herself; it was a longer walk and it was so unlike her to let others tell her what to do.
Not even one of her magic knots could fix this problem. She would never use magic on him anyway. She wanted him to be drawn to her on his own volition, without any external aid, like spells or charms or incantations. Besides, true love was the very essence of magic.
Even though she had been appalled by his behavior, she understood him better now that she had probed every detail of that evening with a fine-tooth comb. His anger had come out of feeling protective of her as well as out of a sense of duty. He saw the situation as a police matter, even though she knew it was beyond anything the police would understand. As for the matter of not believing in magic, well, he was a logical, practical guy, but she was certain he wasn’t closed minded. All he needed was a little time to expand his worldview.
But if he felt protective of her, why hadn’t he called her by now? She couldn’t get around that one. Enough thinking about Matt Noble, she told herself, but for the rest of the walk, she couldn’t help herself and her thoughts were consumed by him despite her attempts to chase them away.
When ingrid arrived home, she stopped before climbing the steps to the door and made an effort to wipe the disappointment off her face. She tried a smile, and though it didn’t feel right, she kept it there, placing a foot on the first step.
The door swung open and out came a squealing Gracella, Tyler following on her heels, imitating his mother, arms flailing and little hands flapping in the air. On the pathway, Gracella turned toward Ingrid, a hand on her bosom as if to steady her heart. “Miss Ingrid, this house is haunted. This is a haunted house!” she said, appearing terrified. “I am not coming back until these ghosts go away.”
Ingrid walked over, concern on her face. “What happened?”
“I don’t know! Things are moving around in that house. I put one thing in one place, then boom, gone, then boom, in another place, or I cannot find it.” Gracella spoke hurriedly, as Tyler clung to her leg. “Then strange noises upstairs. But no way am I going up there in the attic, Miss Ingrid!”
It was getting dark outside, and the lights hanging from the eaves of the house automatically lit on their own, which made Gracella jolt and start to hyperventilate.
“It’s okay, Gracella. Those lights are on a timer,” Ingrid said, attempting to reassure her. She put a hand on the woman’s shoulder, reciting a calming, protective spell in her head, and Gracella’s breath quieted.
“It’s the strange ones,” said Tyler.
Ingrid crouched to be at Tyler’s level. “What did you say?”
“The strange ones. I talk to them; they talk to me. They’re nice but very clever,” the boy said, screwing his face at her.
Ingrid laughed at the word clever coming from a child’s mouth. “You mean, like, imaginary friends, Tyler?”
He shook his head no.
“I must be going, Miss Ingrid. I must get home. Will you tell Miss Joanna what is happening in this house, that I could not finish all my work today because of these crazy ghosts. Please make them go away, so I can come back and do my work. I don’t like this. I am not coming back until you tell me they are gone.”
Ingrid promised Gracella she would tell her mother and that she would take care of the house and make it a safe place for everyone. “I’ll get to the bottom of it. You have my word, Gracella.”
She watched as Tyler and his mother peeled out of the driveway in their Subaru, the little boy looking sad as he waved to her from the back window.
Ghosts? What was going on? Joanna hadn’t mentioned anything to her, and she hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary herself. Ingrid let herself inside and checked all the bottom-floor rooms of the rambling house. Everything looked clean, neatly tucked away and properly set to rights by Gracella’s careful hand, but upon entering the living room, Ingrid heard a noise, a scraping sound followed by thumping. Those burglars, maybe? Unlike Matt, she didn’t think the burglars and pixie refugees were one and the same. Well, he didn’t know they were pixies, just a band of homeless kids, and she had definitely sent them on their away. Ugh, Matt again! He occupied her every thought. Even when she thought she had found a respite, there he was again. If this was what being in love was like, she wanted none of it.
She climbed the stairs and checked the bedrooms. All four looked fine, including the one that sat empty, sadly waiting for her brother’s return, although Ingrid knew poor Joanna might have to wait an eternity, until this house had long turned to ruin.
Now the attic. It looked as it usually did, books on a shelf, boxes piled on top of boxes, dusty discarded furniture, old daybeds, couches, lamps, desks, Joanna’s large steamer trunk, but nothing egregiously amiss, and she couldn’t imagine where the noises had come from. There was one box lying sideways on the floor, clothes spilling from it: their childhood costumes, wings, tutus, and taffeta dresses. Perhaps that box had made the noise. Maybe it had fallen from the other and squished the one beside it, gravity doing its work until it succumbed and tipped.
There was one final place to check. She returned down the flight of stairs, heading toward Freya’s bedroom. Once inside, she opened her sister’s closet, which smelled like Freya’s perfume: sweet and sultry. Ingrid waved her hands in front of her face. Did Freya spray her clothes with the stuff? Her feathers and furs and microdresses and décolleté blouses and the collection of heels dating back to a weathered pink leather pair of 1920s flapper-girl shoes? Oh, how she had worn those out!
There was a “silky corner” where Freya’s slinky lingerie hung from pink satin hangers: baby blues with beige lace, red satin, taupe silk. Ingrid felt envious of all this femininity dangling on the hangers. She was not jealous of Freya, but she felt so ignorant when it came to these sorts of things. Hudson always told Ingrid she had great style. But perhaps she needed to work on being a little more—sexy? Then maybe Matt would … ugh, thinking of Matt again. It had to stop.
Ingrid drew her wand from her shoulder bag, then pushed past Freya’s garments and the sign with the quip about Narnia and made her way down the long ebony-floored corridor until she arrived at Freya’s Manhattan apartment. Magical passageways were so much more useful than commuting, Ingrid thought.
There was the smell of charred wood in the air, as if someone had recently lit a fire. A lone pillow and crumpled blanket lay on the plush velvet couch facing the fireplace, and in the kitchen Ingrid found an unfinished cup of coffee by the sink (the milk hadn’t turned yet). She saw her sister’s telltale red lipstick on it.
Well, at least it was Freya who had been here and not someone else. Or something else. Whatever had scared off their housekeeper.
Now why had Freya been sleeping here, Ingrid wondered. She was under the assumption that Freya spent most of her nights on the Dragon. Freya hadn’t mentioned anything amiss, not even when Ingrid had told her all about the awful date with Matt. Freya thought Ingrid had overreacted and that it was far from over; she was sure Matt would call Ingrid soon.
Ingrid hoped her sister would come to her for advice if she were having relationship problems. On second thought, how could she solve Freya’s problems when she didn’t even know how to solve her own?
chapter nine
Don’t Look Back
Joanna walked outside with a basket and garden shears to gather some fresh bouquets for the house. From early spring through fall, her garden blossomed with different flower varieties, bursting in a multitude of colors along the perimeter, climbing the fence, in the beds, a fragrant onslaught to the senses. This time of year the burnt-orange roses had bloomed, as well as her coral gerberas and rich purple dahlias, pink and white winter daphnes, marigolds from vivid yellow to orange to a deep, rich red. She began cutting the tall-stalked sturdy ones before moving on to the more delicate flowers, placing them on top so they wouldn’t get crushed. She wound
through foliage and plants in her clogs, snipping here and there.
She stopped at the bed of Japanese anemones, where ferns poked through along the chocked fence—pink, violet, and snowy white flowers, dainty bright yellow pistils resembling little suns at their centers. My son inside each one of them, she thought wistfully. She reached to cut the stem of a set of white ones, when suddenly its leaves withered, petals falling to the ground.
“Huh!” Perhaps there had been a morning frost.
She reached for another, chose a perfectly healthy-looking one, and just as before when her fingers grazed it, it withered instantly, bending and falling to its death. She tried again, and this time a slew of them died, petals spilling like tears into the undergrowth.
No, it wasn’t a frost but something entirely different. She finally had to admit that she knew what was happening inside the house—with all the objects being moved and misplaced, especially now with the flowers dying in the garden. It wasn’t the first time it had happened, but the last had been such a traumatic ordeal that Joanna had pushed it out of her mind, denying that something similar could recur.
It happened in 1839, when she was visiting England for several months. Events had unfolded in the same way: the belongings in her flat moving around, roses wilting in the garden, and then the mischief had escalated with the frightened horses on the landau she rode around town. The carriage had tipped and been dragged at a gallop along the cobblestone streets of London, killing the coachman. After that, Joanna could not ignore it anymore and had been prompted into action.
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