No one knows what happened to him. Fifty years later, a relative of his showed up and revamped the businesses Henry had started, but the Shaws never regained favor with the witch community. I guess people who’ve been accused of being demons can be slow to forgive.
But I was getting too caught up in the book. Shaw was a common name, and coincidences happen.
These days, they seemed to happen all the time.
1568
Henry
So Henry Shaw, now 215 years of age, embarked on a new chapter of his life in what would come to be called Whitfield, Massachusetts, where he established one of the first import-export firms in North America.
Shaw Enterprises brought great wealth to Henry—so much that in time he nearly forgot that he had the ability to make gold. He certainly didn’t need it; he wanted for nothing. Unfortunately, his personal life was not nearly as successful as his business ventures.
Henry was lonely. Try as he might, he could not erase the memory of the beautiful young woman from the abbey from his mind. He had known from the moment she’d touched him with her long siren’s fingers that she was dangerous for him—too beautiful, too carnal, too intoxicating—and yet he had longed for her with an ache in his heart.
And then, just as he was finally able to admit to himself that he wanted this woman regardless of what damage she might inflict upon him in the future, she was gone. Just like that. What had her replacement said? Oh, yes, that she had left to find a husband and a title. A terrible woman, surely, a grasping, mercenary vixen.
And yet, his thoughts revolved constantly around her, her golden hair and sparkling, mischievous eyes, and the way her hand had touched his, as if offering a promise of things to come. . . .
But only for the right man, he knew. A duke, perhaps, or a foreign prince. A woman like that would never give herself to one such as Henry, an orphan raised as a pirate’s apprentice, a farmer with a farmer’s rude manners and callused workman’s hands.
She—whose name Henry did not even know—was the main reason he had crossed the ocean. He had meant to begin a new life in the new land, forgetting the strange, unending life associated with the Abbey of Lost Souls.
He grew older. The years Henry spent away from the abbey and its youth spell showed in his face and body. He’d lost much of his hair, and was already beginning to walk with a slight stoop. Soon my legs will become too old to move, he thought, although his body was still far from old. But he knew he could not spend the rest of his life—his short life—dreaming about a woman who would never be his.
He had to marry.
For his wife, he chose the plain-faced but efficient Zenobia Ainsworth, who had been on the ship with him. Zenobia and her twin sister, Zethinia, had been children during the sea voyage to America, but over the years they had grown into intelligent, respectable women.
Zenobia possessed more magic than her sister—so much magic, in fact, that she had dazzled even the normally unflappable Henry. Her gift was esoteric but domestic: She specialized in knot magic. Into her quilts, rugs, sweaters, and children’s clothes were woven spells of protection, of love, of creativity and contentment and passion. Pregnant women vied to possess the shawls Zenobia crafted that brought peace into their hearts. Men wore gloves that ensured their success in the hunt.
Henry wanted to tell his wife about his own gift as an alchemist, if only to assure her that she was marrying among her own kind, but he never forgot Jean-Loup’s warning to him: Even witches can go mad at the smell of gold. He knew Zenobia’s head would not be turned at the prospect of unlimited riches, but he could not be certain that she would not mention it to anyone else, particularly since she had a twin with whom she shared almost everything.
And so he said nothing about his talent. It didn’t seem to matter, anyway. Zenobia provided a good home for him even though she believed he was cowen. Perhaps she even loved him.
And in his way, he loved her, too. He locked away his memories of the beautiful abbess in the recesses of his heart, and went on with his life.
Until the witch hunters came. In Salem, these Puritans heard about the woman who infused spells into her woolens. Nearly everyone in Whitfield possessed something that Zenobia had woven or sewn, and her name had spread to outlying communities. A bunting she made for the Fowlers’ baby had cured it of whooping cough, they whispered. Her towels made the skin feel smoother. Feet never got cold in socks sewn by Zenobia.
Through his many business connections, Henry had learned that the fanatics from Salem had placed Zenobia in their crosshairs and were on their way to Whitfield, hoping for the kind of bloodbath that had shaken their own settlement to its foundations. Knowing that he would be the first to defend his wife, the witch hunters had already sent out spies to watch Zenobia’s husband.
Henry had been close to panic. Zenobia had bore him two children whom he knew might also be in danger if the witch hunters had their way.
Then something happened that was to change the course of Henry’s life. An African shaman who had settled in Whitfield provided him with a plan to save his wife and every other witch in town.
“I am Ola’ea Olokun,” she said, introducing herself. “Your mother-in-law and I would like to enlist your help.
She went on to explain that she and Serenity Ainsworth had nearly perfected a spell that would transform a tract of land known as the Meadow into a place where witches could put themselves out of the reach of the hunters. “We will transport our people to another plane of existence until the Puritans offer no more danger to them.”
“How long will that be?” Henry asked. In his experience, nothing took longer to dissipate than hatred and fear.
“A generation or two,” she answered. “Maybe three.”
“Three generations?” He swallowed. He would die in Whitfield, then, or in whatever version of Whitfield his wife would be inhabiting if the shaman’s plan came to pass. He would never return to the land of his birth or partake again of the magic that had extended his life for hundreds of years.
“Only witches would be able to enter this alternate plane,” Ola’ea pressed.
It took Henry a moment to fully understand what the woman was saying, which was that everyone in Whitfield believed Henry Shaw to be cowen. He had kept his alchemy a secret even from his wife.
“But—”
“Listen to me,” Ola’ea hissed. “The magic that will save your family is not yet ready. And even when it is perfected, the spell will be a lengthy process because only one person at a time may enter the portal we will have created. During this time—perhaps a week or two—someone must prevent the witch hunters from coming here.” She looked deeply into his eyes with her own steady gaze. “Do you understand?”
Henry was silent for a moment as the full implications of her words sank in. “What happens after the spell is complete?” he asked. “After the witches have all left this plane?”
“The Meadow will be sealed as soon as the last witch has entered,” Ola’ea said. “To the outside world, it will be as if the people who once lived here had simply disappeared.”
“And no one else will be able to enter?”
“No one,” Ola’ea said pointedly. She did not have to add, including you.
“Who else knows about your plan?”
“No one,” she repeated.
That was for the best, he understood. If a whisper of this magic were to reach the Puritans’ ears, the whole town and everyone in it would be burned to cinders.
“I understand,” he said.
• • •
The first thing he did, which shocked everyone, was to repudiate his wife and children, putting them out of their home and then announcing to the world—and to Whitfield’s tightly knit community of witches—that he had learned of the accusations against Zenobia, and would have nothing to do with anyone, even his own wife, who may have dabbled in magic.
This served two purposes. One was to throw the posse from Salem off the track by making
them believe that Henry Shaw was of a mind with the Puritans. The other was to alert the Whitfield witches to the extreme danger they faced, in case any of them might consider refusing to participate in Ola’ea’s plan. They must leave, he knew. They must do it quickly and without exception, if they were to save their own lives.
After he established himself to the Puritans as a righteous hater of witches, Henry led the Salem zealots on a merry chase through the American colonies until they gave up looking for Zenobia and consequently, with the disappearance of all the other witches in Whitfield, anyone else who might be suspected of possessing talent or knowledge beyond the ordinary.
It had been an exhilarating ride, but after it was over and Henry walked through the ghost town of what had once been magical Whitfield, he was nearly overcome with sadness.
“There is a ship leaving within the hour,” someone said behind him.
He turned around in alarm. No one had been near him a minute ago, but now Ola’ea stood before him, large as life.
“So you can leave after all?” he asked hopefully.
The shaman laughed. “I can,” she said. “No one else.”
“And I can’t get in.”
“Do you want to?” She cocked her head. “Really?”
“My wife . . . ,” he faltered. “My children . . .”
“If you care for them, you will want them to remain in the place of safety where they now live.”
“But of course. It’s just—”
“And if you were with them, would you not resent having to grow old and die, knowing that another avenue was available to you?”
Henry sucked in air. “You know about that?”
Ola’ea made a cryptic gesture. No one knew how the woman came about her knowledge, and it was useless to try to find out. “This will be but a small part of your life,” she said. “The long, rich life that is waiting for you across the sea.”
His face was pained. “But my family will forever know me as a villain.”
“I will tell Zenobia. No one else matters.”
“The townspeople—”
“Let them talk.” Ola’ea shrugged. “If they knew the truth—that you’ll still be making gold a century after they’re all dead and buried—they’d hate you twice as much.” She grinned broadly, her beautiful white teeth gleaming against her dark skin.
“You know about the gold, too?”
Ola’ea laughed at that, a deep, hearty sound that welled up from the very depths of her shaman’s heart. “I know everything,” she said.
Henry believed her. There was nothing more to say. He couldn’t explain his circumstances to his family even if he tried. “Thank you,” he said simply.
Her eyes twinkled. “I’d say you had a ship to catch, wouldn’t you?”
CHAPTER
•
THIRTY-FIVE
OMG.
It was the same Henry Shaw. The same guy who returned to Whitfield fifty years after his disappearance, claiming to be his own descendant.
What name had he used, I wondered, my eyes sliding toward the door.
I’d have to tell Peter. He needed to know that his ancestor, the founder of his family, hadn’t been nearly as awful as everyone in Whitfield believed.
I heard the big grandfather clock downstairs chime eight o’clock, so I put away the book and got dressed for Marie-Therèse’s party.
I still hadn’t come up with a plan to save her. So I guessed that unless a sudden brainstorm came my way, I’d have to depend on sheer muscle and moxie if it came down to a fight with whoever was planning to abduct the old lady.
I did a few pushups in preparation for battle and went downstairs. Fabienne was already mingling, dressed in something that looked like cotton candy.
“Are you okay?” I asked out of the side of my mouth. “With your mom, I mean.”
“Oui,” she answered in that way French women have of sucking in air while speaking.
“Um . . .” I didn’t know whether to broach the subject or not. “Have you decided what you’re going to do? About staying here?”
“I don’t know,” she answered, and I knew from her voice that it was something she’d been thinking about a lot. “Right now I am only concerned for Marie-Therèse.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Me too.” To put it mildly.
“Unfortunately, I think you and I are the only ones who are concerned.”
“I’ll bet you’re right,” I said. I looked over my shoulder to see if I could spot the thugs who would try to strong-arm Marie-Therèse into the old folks’ home. “I’m not even sure of Peter anymore.”
“Peter will always stay by your side, don’t worry,” Fabienne said. “But I do not believe it will happen the way you think.”
“Oh?”
She leaned in closer toward me. “There will not be a fight. I believe that Jeremiah Shaw will simply come and escort Marie-Therèse out.”
“Good,” I whispered. “I can take the old man down.”
• • •
I circled, keeping my eyes peeled for Jeremiah.
Who, incidentally, never showed up.
I waited, yawning and bored, until after one in the morning, but there was no sign of the old man. Marie-Therèse, on the other hand, was thrilled with all the (fake) attention she was getting, and even wanted to know where Jeremiah was! When she came out with that, I poked her in the ribs.
“No news is good news,” I muttered.
“Now, Katy,” she said good-humoredly. “You see? All our worries were for nothing.”
No, they weren’t. “Maybe my spell worked,” I offered, but Marie-Therèse only cleared her throat and moved quickly to another group.
And then he arrived.
Not Jeremiah.
Belmondo.
Oh, God, I prayed, don’t let me lose my concentration now. I could feel him, the crackling energy that exuded from him in waves. I just stood there, transfixed, as Belmondo entered the room. Women immediately gathered around him like moths around a flame. When I thought I saw him glance my way for a moment, I actually gasped before realizing that I’d forgotten to breathe.
“Marie-Therèse,” he purred, extricating himself from the gaggle of women surrounding him to approach my friend. He hugged her and kissed her on both cheeks, murmuring in rapid French. I saw a faint blush rise in the old woman’s face as she accepted his compliments with a smile.
I tried to slink away before I did something stupid—fainting came to mind—but as I was leaving, Belmondo slipped his hand into mine.
It was like falling into a dream. Belmondo’s aura surrounded me in a cloud of sandalwood and dark roses. It wasn’t scent, exactly, but more like pheromones or something—an inexplicable force that drew me toward him with a longing I couldn’t explain.
“Are you being good, Katarine?” he asked.
“Er . . . yes, fine,” I said. Oh, clever, Katy. The queen of the witty riposte.
“It’s late for you.”
“I was keeping Marie-Therèse company.”
He took my elbow. “Marie-Therèse doesn’t have school in the morning,” he said. “Besides, the party’s in her honor. She won’t be left to languish like a wallflower without you.” He winked at the old woman. “Am I right?”
“Absolutely,” Marie-Therèse said, her eyes twinkling. She turned toward me. “He’s right, dear. You really ought to be in bed.”
What? They were both talking to me—about me—as if I were a child.
“Now don’t be grumpy,” Belmondo said with an indulgent smile. “Think of it as beauty sleep.”
Bristling, I stepped away from him, but he pulled me near to him. “Whatever you’re worrying about, stop,” he whispered in my ear. “Everything is all right. I promise.”
I trembled. How did he know?
“You will be fine tomorrow.”
“What?”
“At school,” he said. “It must be difficult to study in a house like this, with so much noise.”
>
Study? “Oh . . . oh, yes. I mean no.” I swallowed. “That is, I’m great.” My cheeks felt like they were on fire. He was talking about cooking school.
Just then, Joelle snaked between us and hooked her arm around Belmondo’s. She whispered in his ear and then giggled. He whispered back, and she gave me a sideways look that said, He’s mine now, turkey.
Then Belmondo looked up, laughing, his white teeth gleaming, and kissed Joelle on her neck. It was a small kiss, barely a peck, but it was the most sensual thing I’d ever seen. Or imagined. With that one kiss, my heart broke into a thousand pieces.
“We should be going,” he said. Joelle squeezed his arm and breathed in sharply, her nostrils flaring as she threw me another “poor you” look.
Do you know how old she is? I wanted to shout. But it wasn’t my place to ruin their evening, just because they’d ruined mine.
I pretended to wave at someone across the room. “I’ve got to go too,” I said, my heart feeling as if a dagger were sticking out of it.
“To bed,” Belmondo reminded me. “Marie-Therèse, darling—”
“I’ll see to it that Katy gets her rest,” she said.
I watched him walk to the door with Joelle simpering beside him, showing him off like a trophy as the other women watched her the same way I did, with jealous, angry eyes. Then the two of them went outside into the night, and all the air in the room seemed to go with them.
“You know you’re making a fool out of yourself,” Peter said behind me. I jumped when I recognized his voice. Was it so obvious?
I turned around. “When did you get here?”
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