“Wow.” Nessa’s eyes rolled as she took in the entryway’s elaborate swags and festoons of heavy, carved wood. “Nice crib.”
“I beg your pardon? And who are you?”
“You remember my niece,” Aubrey said. “Ness—”
“I’m Vanessa,” she said. “And your house is beautiful.”
“Thank you—”
“In a mausoleum sort of way,” Nessa said.
“Yes, well,” Ruth said. “Come sit down.”
Aubrey followed Ruth into a large overstuffed living room, which probably had some kind of fancy moniker like sitting room, or entertaining room, or front parlor. Certainly it was not a rec room or a den. She sat stiffly on a couch that felt like a hardened dish sponge. Any anxiety she’d felt about returning Ruth’s pin had vanished when she’d seen the war between expectation and exhaustion in Ruth’s eyes. “Are you feeling okay?” she asked.
“Do I look okay?” Ruth said, laughing indignantly. “Of course I don’t. I have cancer.”
“Oh,” Aubrey said. “I’m so sorry.”
Ruth shrugged. “Might as well put my kids out of their misery. They’ve been waiting for years to divide up my estate.”
“I’m sure they’re not doing that,” Aubrey said, but in truth, she knew they probably were. “I have something for you. I hope it will—I don’t know—help.” She reached into her large bag and rummaged until she found Ruth’s pin. Then she held it faceup in the middle of her palm, her hand extended. Its liquid silver grin was all mischief and menace, and it seemed out of place among the softly blooming flowers of a Hudson spring.
“What’s this about?” Ruth said.
“We’re returning all the sacrifices,” Nessa said brightly. “We don’t need them anymore. Apparently returning them has no effect at all.”
Aubrey watched the older woman, looking for Ruth’s agitation, her disapproval and annoyance. Instead, Ruth sat perfectly still.
“It’s okay,” Aubrey said. “You can take it.”
“No,” Ruth said, the word a croak more than a whisper. “No, I can’t.”
Aubrey drew her arm back—it was getting tired—but she did not close her fist around the pin. “We’re planning to return the money, too, as soon as we can. But it might be a while.”
Ruth looked on the pin with a mix of longing and sorrow.
“I’m afraid it doesn’t matter much now.” She got to her feet. She walked around the chair, her back turned. Her normally square shoulders had stooped in a shaft of dusty sunlight. “I’ve made a provision in my will,” Ruth said. “I have a building on Broadway. There’s a tobacco shop in it, owned by a man I never liked. It’s zoned for commercial business. When I pass away, that building will go to you to do with as you please. But my hope is that you and your family will reopen the Stitchery.”
Aubrey could not quite process what Ruth had said—not for a long moment.
“Did you hear me, or do you have yarn stuffed in your ears?”
“I heard you,” Aubrey said cautiously. “I just don’t know what to say.”
“Thank you is normally the accepted response for a gift of this magnitude.” Ruth shook her head. “You Van Rippers have the manners of wildebeests.”
“And you’re one to talk,” Nessa said.
Aubrey shushed her. She turned to Ruth. “What’s the catch?”
“Catch?”
“What do I have to promise to do in exchange for your building?”
Ruth turned to face her, her whole face frowning. “Do what you always do for Tarrytown. Knit spells.”
Aubrey sat motionless, but her heart in her chest was wild. Over the last few months, she’d grown very comfortable with, even grateful for, the idea that her future was no longer manacled to the Stitchery, that she was free to choose, to have the life she wanted, to perhaps be a normal—or at least semi-normal—member of her community. But here was Ruth, making her an incredible and unexpected offer, and Aubrey felt as if the Stitchery were drawing her to it again, sucking her back into the circle of its power.
Ruth seemed to sense her discomfort. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Aubrey said nothing; she had no idea where to begin.
“You might as well tell me,” Ruth said.
Aubrey took in a breath. “The magic … on Devil’s Night, it failed. How can the Stitchery save anyone if it can’t save itself?”
“Is that what you think?” Ruth laughed. “That’s only because you didn’t know I would be offering you a new Stitchery. But here I am, dying, practically on my last breath, and giving you the chance to start over—so it seems to me the Stitchery came through for itself in the end.”
Aubrey rubbed her eyes and wondered. She looked to the large French doors that led to a stone patio behind Ruth’s house. “I’m sorry. I—I’m just going to get some air.”
Outside, the afternoon smelled of springtime—fresh and fragrant with sweet earth and flowers. Aubrey leaned her hip on the black iron railing and looked out at the river. It appeared calm and steady. She—on the other hand—didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
The Stitchery, back again.
Life was so unfair. Now that she’d finally gotten her feet under her—she knew who she was (more than just a guardian), and what she wanted from life (to spend it making memories with her sisters, her future family, and Vic)—all of a sudden she was supposed to return to her old way of life. She wondered, not for the first time, if the Van Rippers had not been gifted so much as cursed.
She wrapped her fingers around the cold black rail. Her knuckles turned white.
No. She would not revive the Stitchery. She felt as certain and sure of that as of her next breath. The old days were done.
“I’m sorry,” she told Ruth as she walked back into the sitting room. “I can’t do it.”
“Why on earth not?” Ruth said. “You don’t believe in magic anymore?”
“Of course I do!” Aubrey said, nearly yelling. And the moment she said the words she knew they were true. She did believe in magic, she always would—if only because she wanted to believe, and if only because—in the end—she’d come to accept that her belief in magic, the very heart of it, was and would always be a belief in questions. She would never know what Mariah had been trying to tell her on the day she died, but maybe that, too, was part of the Stitchery’s message. Her shoulders slumped; she looked up at Ruth through the wisps of her bangs. “If I do this, if I do, I do it on my terms. The best way that I know how.”
Ruth laughed. “As if that was ever in question.”
Aubrey’s chest rose and fell. “Okay.”
“Yes?”
She closed her eyes. “Yes,” she said.
“Woo-hoo!” Nessa, who had been sitting quietly, tackled Aubrey in a hug. “Hell, yeah!”
Aubrey laughed and tried to detangle herself. Nessa did not let her go. Even Ruth’s face had softened.
“Does this mean I get to cast my own spells now, like a guardian?” Nessa asked.
Aubrey managed to get her arms out of Nessa’s vise grip, only to wrap them around her niece again. “That’s one you’ll have to take up with your mother,” she said.
Just before the Van Rippers moved into their new brick home on Broadway, in the heart of Tarrytown, it was said that the mice in the basement and the bats under the eaves abandoned their nests and roosts even before the exterminator arrived—because they heard the Van Rippers were on the way.
It was Nessa who came up with the proper name for the new yarn shop, which occupied the first floor of a narrow brick walk-up not far from Jeanette’s. In an evening of Merlotinfused bawdiness, she’d listened to her mother and aunts bandy about potential names, from the nostalgic (Whatever Wool Be) to the dyspeptic (Ewe Beginnings); from the reverent (Thy Wool Be Done) to the irreverent (The Wool Monty). But it was Nessa, stone-cold sober at thirteen, trying to hide her pinkening hair by tucking it under endless woolen hats, who suggested the winning name. And so when the
yarn shop opened its doors in September, four months after Ruth Ten Eckye passed away, it was called, very simply, Honest Yarns.
To Aubrey’s mind, the space was everything a yarn shop should be: cozy and warm, colorful and cheery. It smelled like clean wool and linen—and sometimes like cheap old-lady perfume that reeked of artificial rose. Some women who were new to Tarrytown or who were passing through on their visits to old houses like Kykuit or Sunnyside were drawn to the yarn shop strictly by its physical wares. Gorgeous fibers in every hue lined the walls—mohair, cashmere, self-striping, roving, cotton, bamboo, merino, angora, alpaca, thick–thin, hand-painted, hand-spun, and blends of flax, hemp, and even a few acrylics (because they served a purpose, Aubrey said, for baby clothes). But other women, Tarrytown natives, came for other reasons, more secret reasons. And it wasn’t long before the women of Tarrytown had divided themselves into two factions: those women who attended the Thursday-night knitting circles at the Van Ripper yarn shop—women who sometimes smiled to themselves in the crush of grocery stores and day care centers, as if they had a secret on their minds—and those who did not attend.
As for Horseman Woods Commons, it was a success from the first brick to the last. Consumers came, and tourists came, and retirees came and set up their yoga classes and wine tastings and espresso machines on its upper floors. But it wasn’t long after the bulbs began to need replacing and the sidewalks were covered with gum that Steve Halpern suffered the upset of his life: Dan Hatters—whom nobody outside of the Tappan Watch had even heard of before—rallied with the support of his former neighbors and took Steve Halpern’s chair. Tappan Square had vanished, but the Tappan Watch had swelled. And the Van Ripper yarn shop came to be looked at as a place of foment, because women sitting in close circles with their knitting and crocheting, talking and drinking wine, were capable of big, dangerous things.
For as long as they lived—and for a long time after—it was said the Van Ripper sisters brought strange things into fruition wherever they went. The pink cherry tree in front of their yarn shop was always the first to bloom in the spring. Children swore that pennies chucked at the sisters always landed heads up, and they tested the theory regularly because once in a while it turned out to be wrong. And one cool day in October, on the day that would have been Mariah Van Ripper’s hundredth birthday, when the skies were clear as blue crystal and the river was calm as glass, lightning struck the Tarrytown lighthouse out of nowhere and fried its circuits. Only the Van Ripper girls seemed not to be surprised.
Author’s Note and Acknowledgments
When it comes to the Stitchery it’s hard to know what to believe. You might say the same thing about Hudson Valley legends.
The Tarrytown in this book offers familiar landmarks, but its politics are imagined. One example: The real Tarrytown has a board of trustees as opposed to a town council. Also, Tarrytown is part of the township of Greenburg, a fact I’ve dispensed with in this story. There is no neighborhood within Tarrytown called Tappan Square, nor is there a specific neighborhood that served as a model. I’ve taken minor liberties with real Tarrytown settings.
The story of Mad Anthony’s charge on Stony Point appears as I’ve read it in various sources, but minor bits had to be tweaked to accommodate the book’s fictions (my apologies to the Lt. Col. François de Fleury, who actually won the top prize).
Regarding Bitty’s claim about the real Headless Hessian’s grave: Despite the “folklore” surrounding a gravestone at the Old Dutch Church that inspired Irving’s tale, no record of such a thing exists. Bitty unwittingly participates in local myth-building. Of course, she isn’t alone.
Theories about the evolution of left- to right-handed knitting can be traced to Richard Rutt’s A History of Hand Knitting, but it must be said that one knitting historian I met said she thought this might have been more folktale than fact. Either way, I loved the story for the Van Ripper’s family tome.
Some of the hand-knits in this book were inspired by great crafts I saw on the Web, many of which have free patterns. So enormous thanks must go to all fiber artists who so generously share their work online. Links to this book’s knitting inspirations are on my site (sorry, magic spells not included).
There are so many people vital (vital!) to this book. Great heaping thanks to my very gifted and inspirational editor Kara Cesare and the ever-diligent and insightful Hannah Elnan. Also thanks to Jane Von Mehren, Jennifer Hershey, and everyone at Random House who so ardently championed my writing. Thanks to Andrea Cirillo and Christina Hogrebe, who have never ceased to dazzle me with their warmth and sagacity, and to the entire team at the Jane Rotrosen Agency. And thanks to Sara Mascia of the the Historical Society of Tarrytown and Sleepy Hollow for helping me research one very obscure fact (that didn’t even make the final cut of the book!).
Thanks also to Tia, for making me learn to knit even when I insisted nothing could be more boring. To my husband, for first bringing me to Tarrytown because he knew it would set me off. To my siblings and all the friends from my childhood who ran amok in Mom’s backyard (and to Mom, for letting us do it). To members of my church for your support, particularly the ladies of the book club. And finally, to all people who love, read, buy, and talk about books. I mean this: You brighten my world.
A Conversation with Sarah Addison Allen and Lisa Van Allen
SARAH ADDISON ALLEN is the New York Times bestselling author of Garden Spells, The Sugar Queen, The Girl Who Chased the Moon, The Peach Keeper, and the upcoming Lost Lake. She was born and raised in Asheville, North Carolina.
Sarah Addison Allen: The Wishing Thread is a delightful novel about the bonds of sisterhood, the transformational power of love, and the pleasures and perils of knitting. What sparked your idea for this novel?
Lisa Van Allen: It started with the knitting. When I knit a gift for someone, I always say a few prayers for the recipient. It’s about sending deliberate thoughts of love and kindness, along with offering a gift. So it wasn’t a far jump from there to “Wouldn’t it be cool if somebody could knit a magic spell into the fabric of a hat or a scarf so that it rubs off on the wearer?”
Of course, in The Wishing Thread, the people who go to the Stitchery looking for magic never know what they’ll get. Sometimes the spells don’t work as expected. Sometimes they don’t work at all.
Many people in the town think that the Van Ripper sisters are swindlers, preying on people who are desperate enough to turn to “magic” to fix their problems. But others think the sisters are the real deal and will defend the Stitchery’s magic, tooth and nail. Each sister in the story approaches the idea of magic in her own way.
SAA: The novel is set in Tarrytown, New York, the home of so much rich history as well as the legend of Sleepy Hollow. Is the Tarrytown of the novel the same as the real Tarrytown?
LVA: My husband gets full credit for the story’s location. One day, he took me to Tarrytown and Sleepy Hollow, and he said “You’re gonna like this.”
So I rolled up my sleeves and dug into the local lore, including Washington Irving’s charming legend of Ichabod Crane and the Headless Horseman. The book features many recognizable Tarrytown landmarks, and I hope I captured the town’s busy suburban vibe.
But what I love about Hudson Valley folklore is that it’s a living thing, always shifting and changing. Each storyteller brings her own spin. So yes, it’s the real Tarrytown. But it’s also quite stylized to suit my fancy.
SAA: Did you do any other research when writing the novel?
LVA: Oh, yes. I did a great deal of research on the haunts of old Tarrytown and Sleepy Hollow; the Headless Horseman is the tip of the iceberg. And I also did quite a bit of research about the history of knitting, which also has its share of rumor, myth, and legend.
SAA: The way you write about magic is so unique. What are your favorite books with magic in them that have influenced you?
LVA: I’ve always loved books that offer fun, imaginative plots along with a certain “makes you think” elem
ent—going all the way back. As a kid I adored The Little Prince for its enigmatic characters, magical surprises, and emotionality. Recently I fell hard for Erin Morgenstern’s The Night Circus. And, Sarah, your latest, The Peach Keeper, was one of those reads that had me sitting down thinking “just for a few minutes” and then realizing hours had gone by. This is always the sign of a great read.
SAA: Thank you! I’m glad to be in such great company! Magic is so wonderful to write but also so tricky. I think every writer approaches writing in a different way. What are your writing habits? How do you write best?
LVA: More and more, I find myself collecting things. I make a regular practice of writing lists with titles like “things you find that could change everything” and “reasons you might become stuck in a tree.” Sei Shōnagon inspired this habit for me when I read her eleventh-century collection of writings called The Pillow Book. She makes beautiful, breathtaking lists.
I also keep random boxes in my office of things that seem to go together somehow: pictures, objects, bits of fabric or color, anecdotes, books and pamphlets, scribbles, etc. Each box has its own kind of ordered chaos. I like the idea of all these elements marinating for a while until all the flavors marry and become a cohesive story. I have Twyla Tharp’s book The Creative Habit to thank for this.
SAA: I hear you have a hedgehog as a pet—is anything else in the book based on real life?
LVA: Ha, ha. Yes! My hedgie has quite a following. I guess you could say she was instrumental in developing the character of Icky Van Ripper, the main character’s pet hedgehog in The Wishing Thread. I’m hoping my little beastie won’t sue me for using her likeness or something like that. I’ll have to pay her off with mealworms.
But seriously, I never have models for my (human) characters. That method just doesn’t work for me. I do, however, expand on my own emotional experiences, like every writer.
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