by Mindy Klasky
“You memorized them weeks ago.”
“Practice casting a circle, for protection?”
“You can do that in your sleep. Have done, since the jasper necklace. Right?”
I nodded, crossing my fingers to exclude the evenings I’d spent with Graeme. I wasn’t going to cast any circle that would keep him away from me.
David went on, obviously unaware of that little duplicity. “Besides, I’ll be there. Me, and all the other warders. You don’t need to worry about protection.”
I couldn’t believe what he was saying. I was ready. Me. To face the Coven and join with my sisters once and for all.
When I was in elementary school, I had dreamed of this moment. Not of joining a group of witches—I hadn’t even known witches existed then, for real. But of joining the in group. The popular girls. The ones who were chosen first for the softball team, for homecoming court, for the dance team and all the other measures of popularity that we ate, drank and breathed every day of our fraught existence.
I had never been one of the popular girls. Sure, I had friends. I’d spent enough hours on the telephone to drive Gran to distraction. I’d gone to my share of slumber parties, and I could always find someone to hang out with at the mall.
But I’d never been part of the inner circle. The special core. The girls who set the trends and led the way and made all of the rest of us jealous, no matter how much we’d protested to the contrary.
Now I was a little more than twenty-four hours away from my first real chance to join that clique. Tomorrow night, I would set the centerstone. Tomorrow night, I would join the Coven that would support me and comfort me for all the rest of my witchy life. If I succeeded, of course.
Without conscious thought, my fingers fiddled with David’s Hecate’s Torch, which was hanging freely outside my colonial shift. I’d grown accustomed to the soothing feel of its sleek lines, its simple, swooping design. Soon, I’d have my own.
When I did, I could use it to nudge the Coven in directions I thought worthwhile. Once I’d settled in, I could question Gran’s status, and Clara’s. I could explore giving them back their own Torches, working with them to build their skills. It only seemed fair that they should have some place in the Coven, even if it was around the edges. Not everyone could be in the absolute center of the Popular Snobs.
I rubbed the Torch again and realized that I was putting the magical cart before the enchanted horse.
I needed to set the centerstone before I started changing the slightest direction of Teresa Alison Sidney’s Coven. David’s eyes tracked my hand, and then he shook his head. “I have to admit it,” he said. “I didn’t think you could make these lunchtime meetings work. But you were right.”
“And?” I prompted, matching his slow smile with one of my own.
“And?” he asked, seeming confused.
“I was right, and…? You?”
He actually laughed. Out loud. Like an ordinary man, instead of a grouchy, hypersensitive warder. He truly must be pleased with my accomplishments. “I was wrong. You’ve been better prepared for our sessions than I could have dreamed. I can only imagine how hard you’ve been studying each night.”
I cast a quick glance toward Neko, who could blow my cover with a single misplaced word. He tilted his head to one side, and his eyebrows raised in that way he had, just before he asked the most annoying questions in the world. The last thing I needed to hear now was some wry speculation about “Nate Poindexter.”
I rushed out an explanation. “I told you before. This is important to me. The most important thing I’ve ever done. If I have to spend my nights preparing for our lunchtime sessions…”
David nodded, accepting my words at face value, but Neko piped up, “I can’t believe you didn’t need to spend every evening here, though. Studying the books in the basement.”
I refused to glare at him—showing my anger would only tip my hand. Instead, I flashed a smile that was only a single shade too tight to be sweet. “I’m a librarian. I study best in a library. It’s habit, I guess. It’s much quieter, and there are far fewer distractions.”
I gave a pointed glance to Neko’s throat, and the gold links of the necklace that Jacques had given him only the night before. He had the good grace to blush and look away.
Distractions. If only they knew.
I shivered as I thought about how I had seen Graeme almost every evening since he’d returned from London. Some nights, he arrived at my doorstep holding a paper sack from Dean & Deluca; others, he treated me to one of my favorite Georgetown hot spots. Three different nights, he’d taken me out to his place in Virginia, where he’d wined me and dined me and had his wicked way with me.
Or I, with him. Whatever.
I much preferred the nights that he didn’t actually appear on my doorstep. I was still perpetuating the Nate Poindexter charade—pure luck had intervened to keep Neko from meeting Graeme so far. Luck, and Jacques, who knew of more parties in the Washington, D.C., metro area than any other ten people I could name.
Not that I was ashamed of Graeme, of course.
It’s just that I still felt obligated to Melissa, bound by her stupid Friendship Test. Old loyalties died hard. I’d kept my promise despite the fact that I hadn’t spoken to her in over three weeks—the longest time we’d gone without communicating in all the years that we’d known each other.
I’d started to pick up the phone dozens of times, to just call her and make everything right. Every time I started to dial, though, I remembered the way she had dismissed my concerns. I thought about how she had paid attention to everyone in her bakery, reaching out to them, helping them, before she even considered reaching out to me.
I thought about her having a phone, too. She could have called me any time in the past almost-a-month. Told me about more of her disastrous dates. Asked for commiseration, for an alliance against the men who broke her heart.
Demanded it, even, with a Friendship Test.
(Okay. When I was honest with myself, I silently thanked her for helping me keep my love life secret. I could only imagine what my overprotective familiar and warder would say when they learned about the new man in my life. There’d be time enough to deal with that disaster after Samhain.)
Before I could dwell more on my distractions, the phone rang. Neko perked up and said, “Jane Madison’s grandmother.”
I gave him a dirty look. Yes, Gran had been calling a lot, and she always left the same message. She’d never trusted answering machines, and I’d always cooperated by calling her back promptly. I just hadn’t had time in the past three weeks to listen to more demands, to make more promises.
As the phone made another insistent ring, David waved me toward the handset. I guess we really were through with my training. The notion still sat oddly in my mind, as I answered a cautious “Hello?”
“Jane!”
“Oh. Hello, Gran.” I looked at Neko, wondering if he had truly known she was on the other end of the line. I didn’t think that familiars could do that, but who could really say? He smiled innocently and resettled on the couch, folding his legs beside him like a proper Victorian lady at a picnic. He and David started talking in quiet tones, and I took advantage of their conversation to concentrate on my grandmother.
“Jane, I am so glad that I caught you on your lunch break! It has been ages since we’ve talked. Didn’t you get my messages?”
“Yes, Gran.” I sighed. “I’ve been busy.”
“Too busy to return a phone call?” she asked tartly.
I made a face, feeling like I was about five years old. “David and I have been working together. A lot.”
Gran liked David. Invoking his name was usually enough to make her forget extracting another dozen promises from me. True to form, her voice softened, and she said, “Well, dear, I was only calling because I found a great recipe for you.”
“Recipe?”
“Weren’t you going to start baking for the library?” All of my grandm
other’s hurt feelings rushed back into her voice. So much for the magic elixir of David Montrose. “I could have sworn that you said you were going to start serving baked goods on the first of November. I wrote it down on my calendar. In peacock-blue.”
Peacock-blue. Gran always marked special events in the bright shade—my birthday, hers, the opening night of the school play. How could a shade of ink make me feel like a kid caught writing on the walls? With crayon. After several warnings.
“Yes, Gran, you’re right,” I hastened to respond, even though I had completely forgotten about the bottomless pit that threatened to become the Peabridge Restaurant, with a mere side room of dingy books for the occasional well-fed researcher.
“Then don’t you think you should practice? Bake one or two things now, so that you know what will work best? It’s practically November, you know.”
Damn. I was running out of time to launch my Freedom From Cappuccino campaign on the first. Well, I’d just have to get some baking done tonight. It would be soothing. Keep me from worrying about the Coven too much. What could be easier than whipping up a batch or two of brownies?
I took a deep breath. “So, Gran, what’s the recipe that you have for me?”
“It’s called Homemade Turkish Baklava with Rose Water and Pistachio Cream.”
I felt ill just hearing the name. “Baklava?”
“Homemade!” Gran enthused. “It takes forty sheets of filo dough, can you believe that? And a cup of butter. And a cup and a half of walnuts. Lucky for you, there are plenty of nuts in the store now that it’s autumn. It shouldn’t take too long to shell them. You’ll be able to save money that way. Help out the Peabridge’s bottom line.”
Yeah, there were plenty of nuts in the store, and another one on the other end of the phone. Did Gran really think I was going to turn my kitchen into a baklava factory? She had raised me—didn’t she realize the disaster she was proposing? Me? Cook anything more complicated than hard-boiled eggs? “Um, Gran,” I said, trying to break the news to her gently. “I was thinking of starting off with something easy. Like brownies, the way we talked about at brunch.”
“But Clara was over here when I found the recipe! She agreed that it sounds wonderful. She even cast her runes when she got home, and they came up Jera, Perthro and Sowilo. It’s destiny!”
I cast an exasperated look over at David and Neko, but they were carrying on a perfectly friendly conversation without me. There’d be no escape from that quarter. I scowled and said, “I’m afraid I’m not quite up on my rune interpretations just now, Gran.”
She clicked her tongue at my smart tone. “Jera is based on the harvest, Clara says. And Perthro is a sign of the feminine. Sowilo is the sun.” She waited for me to say something, then continued with a touch of exasperation, “You should use harvested grains to pursue the feminine tradition of baking. In a hot oven.” When I remained silent, Gran said, “Sowilo?”
“Sun. Oven. I get it,” I said. “Look, Gran. Pastry chefs spend years learning how to make things like baklava. I don’t think that Melissa has even tried it.”
Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Sure enough, Gran swooped in for the kill. “Speaking of Melissa, have you phoned her yet?”
“I’ve been busy,” I said through set teeth, and then I regrouped. “Gran, if I’ve been too busy to return your calls, then you know I’ve been too busy to talk to Melissa.”
“It’s just that you promised, Jane.” She sounded utterly disappointed.
“Have I ever broken one of my promises?”
I could almost see her shaking her head. “No, dear.”
“And I’m not going to start now.” I glanced at my watch. Two o’clock. I was due back at the library an hour ago. “I’ve got to run, Gran.”
“Shall I send you my baklava recipe by e-mail?”
Cruelly, I pictured her typing in the entire thing, hunting and pecking for each honey-soaked letter. “Why don’t I stop by and pick it up? Some time in the next few days?”
“But what will you do for November first?”
“Brownies, Gran. I’m going to bake brownies. According to all the etiquette books, baklava is the traditional pastry for the second week of a bakery’s existence.”
She actually laughed and hung up, without wringing out any more precious drops of guilt. When I turned around, Neko was staring at me with horror. “You’re going to make baklava?”
My smile was sweeter than the most honey-drenched Turkish confection. With rose water. And pistachio cream. “Only if you and David are standing by to put out the fire and stop the floods and settle the earthquakes and handle every other natural disaster from the end of the world as we’ve known it.”
I left the men to their own devices and headed back to the library. Evelyn was standing by my desk, tapping her shoe and staring at the clock on my computer. I followed her gaze and winced involuntarily. Two-fifteen. Whoops.
“Jane, could you come into my office?”
Good things never happened inside Evelyn’s office. Well, except for when she offered me the cottage as a place to live. But I hadn’t realized that was a good thing at the time. “Could I make you a latte first? We have a fresh bottle of cinnamon syrup.”
“No.”
One-word answer. That wasn’t good. Not good at all.
She barely waited for me to sit down in the chair opposite her cluttered desk. “Jane, I can’t help but notice that you’ve been taking very long lunch breaks.”
“I can explain—”
“The Peabridge is an excellent institution of higher learning. Our patrons depend on us to be here when they have questions.”
When they want coffee, I thought, but I knew better than to say that out loud. I took a deep breath. “Evelyn, I’ve been working on our new patron program.”
“Patron program?” The fact that I had an explanation—any explanation—stopped her cold in her tracks. “What patron program?”
“The new baked goods. Remember? We’re going to start serving them on November first?”
“Well, I knew that we were going to launch something, but I wasn’t certain that we’d settled on the date.”
“We have. Just today, I was speaking with a consultant about baklava. Homemade Turkish baklava with rose water and pistachio cream.” I actually floated my hand in the air, adding a fillip to the pastry’s name, elegant and yet familiar, as if I made it every day.
“Homemade—” Evelyn shook her head, like a terrier trying to fling dirt from its ears. “But wouldn’t that be terribly sticky? We don’t want to do anything that might endanger our collection.”
What? Protect the books in our library? What a fantastic idea! I resisted the urge to look at the paper coffee cup in Evelyn’s trash can, at the film of foamed milk that could just as easily have spilled over our holdings. I feigned concern. “Well, if you think that baklava might be too much…”
“I’m sorry, Jane. I realize that you’re putting a lot of hard work into this project. But I think we’d do better to stick with something simpler. Maybe brownies.”
Ha! I shook my head mournfully. “I suppose I can find another use for all those pistachios.”
“There!” she beamed. “You’ll see. We both want what’s best for the Peabridge.”
And the funny thing was, she was right.
I tried not to let her see my relief as I walked back to my desk. Truth be told, I’d been afraid that she’d put me on probation—or worse. Now, all I had to do was make the revamped coffee bar a success.
No problem.
No problem at all, for a witch like me.
Twenty-four hours till Samhain, and I was pacing my kitchen like a madwoman.
I had pulled a dozen recipes for brownies off the Internet, and they all called for the same basic ingredients—butter, flour, eggs, sugar, chocolate.
I had scorched the butter for the first batch, melting it before I added anything else.
I had carefully measured the fl
our for the second batch, but neglected to remember that I was doubling the recipe until after the glop was baking in the oven.
I had broken eggshells into the third batch.
I had spilled way too much sugar into the fourth batch, foolishly believing I could target a measuring cup held over a boiling saucepan of almost-batter.
I had turned the melted chocolate of the fifth batch into an acrid pool of charcoal-tinged glue.
And I had burned the sixth batch, leaving the perfect batter in my oven too long, forgetting that the damned thing always ran hot. Very hot. Inferno hot.
As the clock chimed midnight, I sent Neko and Jacques to the all-night grocery store for more ingredients, and I collapsed at the kitchen table to drown my sorrows in the last remnant of a bar of Ghirardelli. Who knew how long it would take for the boys to get back? And who knew how many more ways I could ruin a perfectly simple batch of brownies?
I wanted to call Graeme. But I was the one who had told him I needed the evening off. He had wheedled in that unbelievably seductive way of his, but I had held fast. I didn’t want to chance staying up too late. Being too exhausted tomorrow. It really was for the best, I reminded myself for the thousandth time.
The knock, when it came, seemed to make the entire cottage shudder. After my heart had slithered down out of my throat, I darted to the front door, taking care to stay away from the windows.
Was this my jasper stalker? Had she realized I was alone and vulnerable, my trusty familiar scouting out grocery store aisles, with a robust, full-bodied distraction keeping him from hearing any frantic summons?
I closed my hand over David’s Torch and looked out the peephole.
“Haylee!” I exclaimed, tugging open the door. “You scared me half to death!”
Her spiky hair was perfect—as ever—as she waltzed into my living room. She had draped a large cashmere scarf around her neck, flinging it over one shoulder with a perfect casual air. She sniffed as the door closed behind her, peering curiously at the disaster area in the kitchen.
I took advantage of her distraction to tuck David’s Torch inside my blouse. No need for her to see his gift. No need for the Coven to question my right to wear the symbol.