I gave the front door a hard knock to let her know I was there, just like I always did, then pulled an old wrought-iron key from my pocket. I unlocked the door then leaned hard against the old wooden beast to push it open. The door, decorated with swirling Celtic knots, was heavy enough to ward off a battalion. It had grown sticky with disuse, the hinges squeaking when I pushed them open. There was no way Madame Knightly would ever be able to open it alone, which worried me, because as far as I knew, it was the only door in and out of the house.
“Madame Knightly?” I called, setting the key down on the center drum table. The early evening sunlight shone through the large window above the front door and onto the crystal chandelier overhead. It cast blobs of multi-colored light all around the walls, floor, and ceiling of the circular entryway. The glimmering light sparkled on the mosaic of a massive old oak tree with long, deep roots on the floor.
“Amelia?” Madame Knightly’s thin voice called from the direction of the library.
“It’s me! TGIF,” I called in reply.
I could hear Madame Knightly’s laugh. I set my pack down at the foot of the stairs then headed toward the library. As I moved through the west wing of the house, passing through what Madame Knightly always called the ladies’ parlor—the gentlemens’ parlor was located in the east wing—I noticed that Madame Knightly had pulled out a lot of books from the library. They were stacked everywhere, heaped on the floor, lying open on tables, pages marked with dried flowers, handkerchiefs, and old photos. It looked like she’d moved an entire section of the library into the common living quarters. And more than that, Madame Knightly’s journal was sitting on her favorite chair. I never pried, but I often saw her taking notes in the old, leather-bound book. From the looks of the words scrawled all over the pages, she’d been taking a lot of notes lately. Under all those books, I saw I had a lot of dusting to do. It was going to be a busy weekend.
I passed through the parlor, then the family room, then turned and followed the hallway down to the massive old library that took up the rest of the west wing. There, I found Madame Knightly standing in front of an old wooden table thumbing through a book. She looked more frail than usual. Her tiny frame, which must have carried less than a hundred pounds, looked lithe. She was, as always, nicely dressed. She wore a lacey green blouse with a high neck and a long spring-green-colored skirt with hand-embroidered pink roses. Her white hair was pulled up into a loose bun, ringlets of curls peeking out here and there. She’d stuck a pencil in the bun for safe-keeping. She was tapping her finger on one of the pages in the book when I entered. Apparently, she’d found what she was looking for.
“Happy weekend,” I called cheerfully.
“Amelia, dear,” she said, smiling softly as she held out a piece of paper to me. “Would you be so kind as to retrieve this book for me? It’s on the balcony, and I didn’t want to risk it.”
I glanced down at the paper to see a call number scrawled thereon. “Of course,” I said, eyeing the narrow balcony overhead. In the back of the library was a spiral staircase that led to the loft above the first floor. There you could find another massive section of books and other curiosities. Small, locked metal cases, figurines, wooden boxes, tinkered contraptions—whose purpose I still didn’t know—and other oddities lined the shelves in addition to the old books. I took the paper from Madame Knightly’s hand and headed toward the stairs.
“How was school, Amelia?”
I thought back to my exchange with Logan. It had been a pretty great day actually. As long as they didn’t close school next week, I might even have a chance talk to him—away from Nate. The idea sent butterflies whomping through my stomach.
“Good,” I said as I gripped the wrought iron handrail and started up the spiral staircase. “Mrs. Delaney said to wish you well.”
“Oh? How is she?”
How was she? I wasn’t sure, really. “She wasn’t feeling great. She and her husband are going to the reservation this weekend. He’s Seneca, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” Madame Knightly answered absently.
“They closed Laughlin High. I guess the flu is really bad over there. Half my class was out sick. Mom said the hospital is packed. She’s going back tonight. She was bugging me about the flu shot. You get one?” My finger brushed along the spines of the old leather-bound books until I found the book she was looking for. The title was written in Latin.
When Madame Knightly didn’t answer, I turned and looked down at her. “Madame Knightly?”
“Sorry, dear. You asked something?” When Madame Knightly looked up at me, she had a strange expression on her usually placid face. And I couldn’t help but notice that the soft silver shimmer that always surrounded her looked darker, stormier.
“I’d asked if you’d gotten a flu shot. Madame Knightly, is everything okay?” I asked.
She forced a smile. “Of course, dear. And heavens no, I did not. You didn’t, did you?”
“No. I know how to take care of my body.” I turned back to the shelf, pulling out the book she’d asked for. “I found the book you wanted,” I said, trying to sound chipper, but her fake smile had unnerved me. I’d never seen Madame Knightly perturbed by anything. I headed back down the steps and handed the old book to her.
With a smile, she took the book from my hand and set it aside. On her table, I saw she’d been reading a passage on the bubonic plague. She linked her arm in mine, and turning us, she led us out of the library and back toward the front of the mansion.
“How are your friends, Amelia? Anyone sick? Your mother?”
“Zoey is okay. My mom is working herself to death, but otherwise fine.”
Madame Knightly smiled, nodded, and patted my hand.
“What would you like me to work on first? Dusting? Laundry?”
Madame Knightly smiled. “I want you to walk the fence. See if there are any loose rocks that need mended. When I was a girl, we used to plant pumpkins down in the south field. This time of year one or two pumpkins always turns up. Would you see if you can find one for me?”
“Check the fence and look for a…pumpkin?”
“Yes. Thank you, dear. Did you bring a coat? It’s getting cold outside.”
A pumpkin? “I did,” I said, opening up my backpack. I pulled out my coat and my witch’s bag. “Oh, speaking of which, would you like me to call Mr. Sanders to have firewood delivered?”
Madame Knightly shook her head. “No need. I had the propane tanks filled.”
I was puzzled. Madame Knightly never bothered to get that much fuel. Usually one fireplace was all the two of us needed. The tanks could heat the whole house. I raised an eyebrow at her.
“Off you go…before it gets dark,” she said, helping me into my coat. She smiled as she buttoned it up. I strapped my bag bandolier style across my body. “Be careful. And mind you, stay out of the maze.”
“Of course,” I said, smiling knowingly at her.
Puzzled, I headed outside. I had more than an hour to check the fence and hunt wild pumpkins. More than enough time to finish the job and be back in time for Matlock.
Chapter 4
The fall air felt crisp. I headed behind the manor, following the pebble-lined path past the broken-down greenhouse, unused tennis courts, overgrown gazing pools whose water had congealed with thick algae, and the wild tangle that the rose garden had become. Part of me suspected Madame Knightly just wanted some privacy to look through the book I’d retrieved. The other part of me wondered if maybe she was just getting nostalgic. I certainly didn’t remember seeing any wild pumpkins growing on the property before. Across from the rose garden was the hedge maze. I could just make out the top of an elaborate structure somewhere at its center.
I paused and looked into the maze. It felt…stranger…than usual. Just like the fence, the maze had taken on an odd vibration. A strong wind blew from within, carrying with it the pungent scent of a dead animal. It nearly gagged me.
I covered my hand with my nose then jumped
when Madame Knightly’s cat, Bastet, appeared at the maze entrance. The black cat, who had glowing, emerald-colored eyes, meowed at me.
“What did you do? Kill a rat in there?”
The cat trotted to my side, rubbed her head on my shin, and then followed behind me as I set off to check the fence. The task was, no doubt, a fool’s errand. But I went just in case. Made of stone and wrought iron, and taller than my head, the fence looked as sturdy as ever. Not one chink in the old lady’s armor was undone.
I headed up the slope to the south field. The sun was beginning to drop low in the sky. I hoped I would have enough time to find what Madame Knightly had asked for.
Bastet ran ahead of me to the pinnacle of the hill.
When I reached the top, I was surprised. The vista below me was alive with the color orange. Pumpkins were growing everywhere. I took a few steps down the slope toward the field, startling a flock of crows that had been picking the shafts of wheat growing among the gourds. The birds cawed in protest and lifted off the ground. Given I was higher than they were, I had to duck when they suddenly came winging toward me. I could hear the thunder of their dark feathers. They complained loudly as they flew overhead.
Bastet hissed and ducked low to the ground.
As they passed over, I was momentarily overcome with dizziness. The cawing voices seemed to call my name as their black shadows passed over me. For a moment, I had a strange vision, seeing myself standing above a group of people who were calling to me, their voices as loud and desperate as the crows’ caws. And amongst them, I saw a flash of red—blood.
Bastet meowed loudly once more and wound her way through my legs, causing my eyes to pop open.
I righted myself and looked back. The crows had flown off into the night sky. The fading sunlight was a lovely combination of flaming red, indigo, and magenta colors. The birds appeared like black specks on the watercolor horizon.
“Well, that was weird,” I whispered to Bastet who only meowed in reply.
I went to the edge of the pumpkin patch and bent low to grab one of the smaller pumpkins. From my witch’s bag, I pulled out my makeup case. Inside was my boline, a small, sickle-shaped knife which I used during magical ceremonies and to cut herbs. Witch Wood had loads of magical herbs growing all over the property. And today, I was harvesting.
Kneeling on the ground, I held the knife in one hand while I took the vine in the other. The chartreuse-colored vine was covered with a fuzz that felt a little sharp. I closed my eyes, still trying to shake away the weird vision the crows had brought, and concentrated.
“May Mother Earth bless my hands.
May the Green Man bless my deed.
Sweet pumpkin spirit, thank you for your gift.
Round and pregnant as the moon, I honor you.
May your flesh nourish.
May your seeds bring new life.
Thank you for your bounty.
In praise, I thank thee,” I prayed then snipped the vine.
The little pumpkin’s skin was a rich, dark orange color. I remembered then how my mom would always buy pie pumpkins at the grocery store around Thanksgiving. They were denser and darker than jack-o-lantern pumpkins. Halloween pumpkins were bright and light in comparison.
The thought of Halloween distracted me, calling Logan to mind. Since we started school in August, he always seemed nearby, close to me, but never close enough to have a proper conversation. I hoped Zoey was right, that he did like me, but if so, why was he keeping his distance? Maybe Nate had convinced him I was too weird. Maybe I was. The last thing I needed was a guy who didn’t understand me.
I inhaled deeply, taking in the rich autumn scent and the smell of the gourds. I noticed that the old grape vines growing nearby were loaded this year. The pungent scent of grapes filled the air. The vines trailed down the mainly-broken trellis and across the ground to the south wall. The wall was covered with plum-colored grapes. Beyond the wall and the sloping hill, across a wide corn field, I spotted the Sanders’ barn. Their corn field, the shafts having turned a soft gold color, looked ready to be cut. I noticed then that they’d erected a scarecrow at the edge of the field. Its size and placement, however, looked odd. It wasn’t tall enough or in the right place. But it must have worked. The crows were on my side of the fence, not theirs.
I stuck my knife back in my case, sliding it in where my blush brush should have gone.
“Only you would carry witch stuff rather than makeup,” Mom had said the first time she’d seen it. “Can’t you cast a spell so I can win the lottery or something?”
“How about I cast a spell that Larry moves out?”
“Amelia!”
“Well.”
“Yeah. I know. But still, not even one tube of lipstick?”
“Hum. I have bee balm. Does that count?”
“I guess that’s close enough,” my mom had said then wandered off, shaking her head.
I smiled and stuck the makeup kit into my backpack then rose.
“Come on, bad girl,” I told Bastet as I turned and headed back toward the house, pumpkin in hand.
When I got to the top of the rise, I paused and looked back toward the Sanders’. The scarecrow, I realized then, was gone. It hadn’t been a straw man after all. Must have been Mister Sanders. What in the world had he been doing, checking the crop? I didn’t know, but something felt wrong. Ugh. My energy was going haywire. I needed to get back to the house and drink some chamomile tea and dab myself with a couple of drops of lavender oil. Shaking off the odd feeling, I headed back to the house, black cat and pumpkin in tow.
Chapter 5
Bastet and I slipped back into the house just before the final breath of sunlight disappeared below the horizon. I slipped off my jacket and boots—Bastet disappearing on some new adventure—then headed toward the kitchen. The fastest way was through the narrow servant’s corridor behind the grand staircase. On the east side of the house was the formal dining room. It was a massive space, large enough for thirty people to fit at the old oak table. The walls were covered in navy blue brocade wallpaper. The silver platters on the walls twinkled like stars when the lights were dim. The formal dining room was gorgeous, but a pain in the ass to clean. Last summer I had to take down all the platters and polish them. My back had ached for a week. Madame Knightly said her whole family used to dine there, but we never used the space. Instead, we always just kicked back in the ladies’ parlor with a TV tray…just like Mom and I used to do at home before Larry—who always demanded a hot meal at the table—had messed up everything.
Madame Knightly was already waiting for me in the kitchen. She had a large pot of something bubbling on the stove.
“Ah! Will you look at that,” she exclaimed happily, clasping her thin hands together when she saw the pumpkin.
“The field is covered with them.”
“Really?” she asked in surprise. “Oh, I wish I could get out there to see it.”
I smiled nicely at her, but the disturbing image the crows had evoked flashed through my mind. I shuddered. Hoping to exorcise the vision, I carried the pumpkin to the sink. I let the cold water wash over my hands, splashing some on my face. Then I started cleaning the pumpkin. “What’s cooking?” I asked.
“I made the stock for a pumpkin soup. We’ll roast what you have then add it in. I could barely remember the recipe. I hope it turns out right. My mother would make it every year when the pumpkins were ready.”
Water flowed over the bumpy skin of the orange pumpkin, clearing away the grime from the field. I breathed deeply, inhaling the sharp scent of earth coming from the gourd, then set it aside.
Sticking my nose in Madame Knightly’s pot, I smelled butter, milk, and a rich bouquet of herbs.
“Bring it here, Amelia,” Madame Knightly said, motioning me toward the butcher table where a large knife was set out. It was a strange knife, not one of the regular kitchen utensils. I’d never seen it before, but right away I noticed its bone handle. The handle had been carved w
ith unusual markings. I didn’t recognize them.
“That’s unusual,” I said. Madame Knightly was, once more, either playing it coy or simply didn’t know…that knife was a witch’s tool.
“It’s the pumpkin knife,” she said with a laugh. “Mother kept it in the curio.” She handed the knife to me. “Now, what did Mother always say?” Madame Knightly mused as she appeared to dig into the recesses of her memory. “Oh, yes, something like. ‘Little pumpkin, count the days. Show me when the first frost’s a’ways!’ Now, cut it open.”
I took the bone-handled knife from her. At once, I felt a jolt. The knife seemed to speak to me. It was pulsing with energy…not life, but magical energy. It was enchanted. I could hear its song, almost see its own memories. A voice—the knife’s—filled my mind.
“How long?”
I slid the knife into the orange flesh, trimming out the stem.
“How long?”
How long for what? The frost? That didn’t seem like the right question.
I set the cap aside, pulling out the long, sticky tendrils of the pumpkin’s seedy innards. The sharp scent of the gourd filled the kitchen.
“There, now that smells like autumn,” Madame Knightly said as she started picking the seeds off the cap’s silky webbing. “Slice chunks to bake and put them in there,” she directed me, pointing to a baking pan. “And put the seeds in there,” she added, pointing to a cast iron frying pan sitting on the stove. “But not the nine of you,” she said then, taking the small handful of seeds she’d collected.
I watched while Madame Knightly set the nine pumpkin seeds on the window sill.
Setting the enchanted knife down, I joined her.
“If the first frost will come within the next nine days, now we’ll know it,” she said, nodding at the seeds. “In the morning, the seeds will show us how many days are left.”
Witch Wood: The Harvesting Series Book 4 Page 3