Girl's Guide To Witchcraft

by Mindy L. Klasky

  Earlier in the evening, I'd started to force my newly trimmed hair into some sort of updo for the grand event, but Neko had talked me out of that. Just as he'd convinced me that I couldn't wear my classic little black dress, as I'd long intended.

  Well, if I hadn't wanted his advice, I probably shouldn't have told him that the event was black tie. He had imme­diately decided that I simply must wear autumn colors. I'd assured him that there was not a single shade of orange or yellow that would complement my coloring, and he'd re­luctantly agreed. But then, he'd dragged me into some little boutique, a tiny hole in the wall that he'd apparently dis­covered during his daily neighborhood rambles.

  I had to admit that the dark green shantung sheath he picked out was stunning. It was shot through with a hint of gold, just enough to make the eye take notice. I'd never had the courage to wear a strapless gown before. (I won't even bother explaining the lingerie lessons I was given by my familiar. Suffice to say that Victoria's Secret can accomplish miracles. Even on short notice.) Fortunately, Gran had already agreed to foot the bill for my finery.

  "Now, don't forget to place my bids at the silent auction," Gran reminded me for the 432nd time. "And try to mingle with the new people. Make them feel at home."

  "And don't forget to be home by midnight, or your coach will turn into a pumpkin," Clara added in a grave tone.

  Gran frowned at her, momentarily distracted from her list of dos and don'ts. "Do you need money for a cab, dear?"

  "I'm fine," I said, brandishing the little gold handbag that Neko had insisted I buy to complete my outfit. "But I really should be going."

  I still needed another fifteen minutes of grandmaternal advice, including instructions on the frequent reapplication of lipstick and a reminder to keep my hair brushed. By the time I finally escaped, I wondered if I should just give up and head home. After all, it was the getting-dressed-up part that had been fun. The event itself was bound to be a dis­appointment, as I tried to remain vivacious and witty with the over-seventy crowd.

  But I knew that Uncle George would report back to Gran. And I had promised to place her silent auction bids. Not to mention the fact that I felt pretty wonderful wearing my ball gown.

  Ball gown. Who would have ever thought that Jane Madison, Librarian, would own a ball gown? Whether I was lucky or the green sheath did its job, I had no trouble hailing a cab right outside of Gran's apartment building.

  The Gala was being held in the St. Regis Hotel, just a couple of blocks from the White House. As the taxi pulled into the small circular driveway, a shiver tiptoed down my spine. I paid the driver while the uniformed doorman waited to assist me out of the cab. Fairy lights reflected off the lobby's turquoise and gold coffered ceiling, and I blinked, trying to figure out where I was supposed to go. Another uniformed attendant glided to my side. "May I help you, madam?"

  Madam? Me?

  I couldn't help but answer with a British accent—it just seemed like the appropriate thing to do. "Yes, please. The Concert Opera Harvest Gala?"

  "Of course, madam," he murmured. "Right this way."

  Rather than point to the door on the far side of the lobby, he walked me across the inlaid floor. I murmured my thanks as he left me framed in the ballroom's ornately carved double doorway.

  The Gala seemed to be in full swing, or at least as full a swing as the evening was likely to achieve. A surprisingly good jazz band filled the stage at the end of the room, en­ergetically playing something that was actually danceable. At least a dozen couples were taking advantage of the parquet floor.

  Rectangular tables had been set up around the edges of the room, pushing up against heavy gold-brocade curtains. Each table had a green-shaded accountant's lamp, directing light onto a beautifully printed silent auction form. As I sidled along the wall, I could see that several bids had already been entered for many of the prizes. Deciding that I should keep my promise to Gran early, I wrote in her bids on the appropriate sheets, taking especial care with her first pick, a landscape painting by local Impressionist artist, Bill Schmidt.

  The bar was set up against the near wall of the room, and a few people were waiting for drinks. Next to the bar was a towering display of desserts; even from my vantage point, I could make out perfect mini-eclairs, a glistening croquembouche and wave after wave of individual fruit tarts.

  Feeling strangely anonymous without my glasses, in my grown-up dress with my grown-up hair and my grown-up clasp handbag, I secured a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. Alas, once I had my drink in hand, I slipped back into the trauma of every party I had ever attended anywhere in my life. I didn't know anyone. I was terrible at making small talk. No one was ever going to ask me to dance. I'd never even heard of most of the operas that were the bread and butter of this crowd.

  I made another circuit of the room, upping one of Gran's auction bids that had already been countered, and then I retreated to the corner farthest from the band. I wished that I could lock myself into a stall in the ladies' room until the evening was over.

  I considered it a success that I made my champagne last for an entire jazz number. When a too-attentive waiter took my glass away on his silver tray, I practically sprinted to the bar to secure another flute. After all, it wouldn't do to have my hands empty. People might think that I wasn't enjoying myself.

  That second drink, however, only made things compli­cated. Just as I was feeling the first heady tickle of the champagne, a flock of waiters descended on the room, passing enormous trays of sinfully tempting appetizers.

  The first that came my way was a deconstructed Peking duck—slivers of duck served with shreds of crisp pancake and a drizzle of hoisin sauce, all presented on porcelain Chinese soup spoons. The food was delicious, and I managed to eat it without leaving behind unsightly streaks of Pick-Me-Up Pink. But then, I was left holding a spoon in one hand and a champagne glass in another.

  And I realized I was really hungry.

  Other waiters sailed by. There was a tantalizing tray of miniature frenched lamb chops, their curved bones serving as the perfect handhold. Another tray of grilled pear slices with blue cheese melting on top. A third of roast beef ten­derloin, sliced paper thin and presented on caraway flat-bread.

  But not a single server was collecting used soup spoons. If I had planned better, I would have eaten the other treats first, then gone for the Peking duck. Having gone out of order, I was stuck without fingers for the finger food. (In theory, I could have put down my champagne glass, but I never actually considered that as an option.)

  Just as my stomach actually gurgled a protest, I heard someone say, "May I help you with that spoon?"

  I turned around, relieved that one of the tuxedoed staff had finally noticed my predicament. I found myself face-to-face with Samuel Potter, the owner of the shih tzu named Beijing. "Mr. Potter!" I said, surprised to find a person instead of a waiter. No, I knew that waiters were people, too. But you know what I meant.

  Much to my embarrassment, he took my spoon, and my now-empty glass. Within seconds, a waiter materialized to relieve Mr. Potter of the burden. I started to make a snappy complaint, but I decided that the Harvest Gala was neither the time nor the place.

  Mr. Potter kissed my cheek gallantly. "You look ravish­ing, dear."

  I flushed, even as I wondered at the strength of my grimoire's love spell. How many weeks had passed since I had first worked it? How long could my witchcraft hold? And why had I repeatedly forgotten to ask David about the spell? I'm sure I would have remembered at some point in the past week, if he hadn't been plying me with tray after tray of dusty rocks.

  I remembered that I needed to reply. "It's certainly kind of you to say so, Mr. Potter."

  "And are you enjoying yourself?"

  "Absolutely. The Peking, er, Beijing duck was excel­lent."

  Mr. Potter's laugh boomed across the room. "My Lucinda used to do that all the time. One of our neighbors owned a yappy little Beijingese, if you listened to my wife—you know,
those lapdogs with the dark little faces and fluffy bodies."

  "I've always thought they looked like mops," I said.

  "Precisely!" Mr. Potter laughed again. "Lucinda also ir­ritated the smile off my cousin, an anthropologist, by always referring to Beijing Man, no matter how many times he ex­plained that the evolutionary find was made well before we became politically correct in our pronunciation."

  "And how is Beijing the shih tzu tonight?"

  "Home alone, and probably howling at the window. He hates to be abandoned." For just an instant, a frown crossed Mr. Potter's face, and I regretted having reminded him of his loss. Before I could think of something to say, though, the jazz band began an energetic swing number. Mr. Potter's face cleared, and he said, "May I have this dance?"

  He sounded so formal that I almost wondered if I was supposed to have a dance card. I wouldn't put it past those opera people to perpetuate the tradition. Ordinarily, I'm afraid of embarrassing myself on a dance floor, but the poor man looked so smitten. And I was wearing my new green silk dress. And I did have the perfect haircut. And new contact lenses. "I would love to, Mr. Potter."

  I felt like a child, being led out to the middle of the parquet surface. I wondered if Mr. Potter would let me put my feet on top of his, matching him step for step, as if I were a little girl. Instead, he clasped one hand firmly to my waist and offered me his palm. We shuffled awkwardly for a moment, trying to find the beat of the music. As he stumbled left and I leaned right, I wondered if I had a dance spell hiding in my basement, a few magical words that would lend us even a faint semblance of grace and beauty.

  We staggered around the floor, Mr. Potter muttering the count beneath his breath. We never quite found the rhythm projected by the band, and we certainly didn't mesh with each other.

  But none of that really mattered. The entire time that we were demonstrating how not to dance, Mr. Potter was beaming. He looked from me to his fellow opera fans, then back to me. He maneuvered us so that we were standing directly in front of the band. He was proud of me. And proud of himself for being with me. And I was pleased that I could make him happy.

  I wished that my grandfather had lived longer.

  As if summoned by that thought, Uncle George was waiting for us at the edge of the dance floor when the band finished its number. His applause was partially for the mu­sicians, but he tilted his head toward me in an amused ac­knowledgment of my supposed dancing skills. Or, at least, my social skills. I laughed and kissed him on the cheek.

  "Jane," he said. "You look stunning." He clapped his hand on Mr. Potter's shoulder. "Sam, you old dog. You were quite a sight out there." Uncle George winked at me, and I grinned in response.

  Mr. Potter said, "Jane, your grandmother must be so proud of you. Not only are you accomplished in a noble profession, but you're willing to fritter away a weekend night with us old farts, in support of a good cause. What a pity that Sarah couldn't be here tonight."

  Sarah. I never thought of my grandmother as "Sarah." I never thought of her having any life separate from being my grandmother.

  Mr. Potter turned to Uncle George. "Have you heard about the holdings in the Peabridge Library, George? They have original manuscripts dating back to the seventeenth century."

  I smiled at Mr. Potter's enthusiasm. He had the vigor of the newly converted whenever he mentioned libraries. I said self-deprecatingly, "Not that we could find anything if we needed to."

  Uncle George shook his head and waved one hand about vaguely. "Surely you've got them all arranged by Dewey Decimal number, or something like that? I remember learning those numbers when I was just a boy. Always liked the 920s. Biography."

  "I was an 800 girl, myself. Literature." And a touch of 133, I added silently. Witchcraft. Before I could say some­thing aloud that I might regret, I surged ahead in the con­versation. "But we don't use the Dewey Decimal system in our library. If we did, all of our holdings would be under the same few numbers, for American Colonial History."

  "Ah!" Uncle George said, as if I had explained some secret of the universe. I saw that his attention was being drawn across the room. Anything, I supposed, to escape a discussion of the joys and beauties of library science. Either that, or he was actually taking seriously his role as "host" at this soiree. He made polite excuses and crossed the room to talk to a potential donor.

  "So," Mr. Potter said. "No Dewey Decimal. What do you use instead?" He seemed so interested that he ignored the three waiters who converged upon us with silver trays of appetizers. I snagged a lamb chop and a napkin, operating on the assumption that I needed to make up for time lost to both the Peking duck spoon and the dance floor.

  I managed one quick bite of the most succulent meat I had ever tasted before I said, "We've pretty much invented our own system."

  Mr. Potter breathed in, as awed as if I had told him we were constructing an atom bomb in the basement. "Just like that? Without guidance from anyone? You must be so proud of yourself!" I could hear echoes of his love and respect for his lost librarian wife in the question.

  I smiled gently. "I wish. I've never been fully trained as a cataloger."

  "Like my Lucinda was," he said, and sighed.

  "If we had the money, we would hire someone like her tomorrow. Good catalogers are worth their weight in gold."

  Mr. Potter looked out over the dance floor, his face gone soft and vague. I wanted to know what he was remember­ing, what private jokes, what secret love. A pang daggered just beneath my heart, and I wondered if anyone would ever miss me as much as he missed Lucinda.

  I took another bite of lamb, trying to fill the silence with some sort of normal life activity.

  "Jane Madison. I didn't know you were an opera fan."

  I knew the voice before I turned around. Before I finished chewing. Before I swallowed. Before I thought about the animalistic awkwardness of clutching a lamb bone in my supposedly delicate well-manicured hand.

  "Jason," I choked out after I had gulped down the par­tially chewed bite in my mouth.

  He was stunning. He wore a tuxedo that had clearly been tailored specifically for him. His glistening linen shirt shone against a scarlet cummerbund. As my eyes lingered, I realized that the red was shot through with gold—a perfect complement to my own silk dress. The satin stripe on his pants accentuated the long line of his legs, and I felt myself melting right there.

  Mr. Potter cleared his throat.

  "Oh! Jason Templeton, this is Samuel Potter, one of the board members of the concert opera guild. Mr. Potter, Jason is—" I started to say "my Boyfriend," but I couldn't bring myself to say the words. Not in public. Not in front of another man I had snared with my love spell. "Jason is a professor at Mid-Atlantic. He uses our collection regularly."

  "The best in the city," Jason said. "For my purposes, the best on the entire eastern seaboard. And the reference li­brarian is the finest in the profession."

  I blushed.

  The band struck up a spirited waltz. "I'm sorry, Mr. Potter," Jason said. "May I steal Jane away for this dance?"

  The older man looked disappointed, but only for a moment. "Of course. I should mingle with the crowd, anyway. The role of a board member, you know." He turned to me, though, before he walked off. "Thank you, Jane. This has been a most memorable evening."

  "Thank you," I said, hoping that Gran would be proud of me. I glanced around, desperately hoping that I could find a waiter to take my nasty lamb bone, now wrapped in a napkin.

  "Here," Mr. Potter said, just before stepping away. "Let me take that for you."

  "I couldn't—"

  "Now, don't keep your young man waiting." He took the napkin and waved me toward the dance floor. Once again, I felt like a child, spitting out my gum into an adult's hand before a meal. But Mr. Potter smiled, and I turned away. To dance with "my young man."

  Jason guided me toward the floor with a hand on my waist. My heart was beating so hard that I could scarcely breathe. If Neko had found me a dress one bit tig
hter, anyone could have seen the pounding inside my chest.

  And Jason proved to be everything in a dancer that Mr. Potter wasn't. His arms around me were strong, confident. He guided me about the dance floor, not in any showy way, but in a manner that convinced me—and apparently everyone around us—that he knew what he was doing.

  Where had a man his age learned to dance? My peers had mostly managed to shuffle back and forth at the occa­sional bar mitzvah, or we had jumped up and down at school dances in high school. I would never have learned ballroom dancing myself if it weren't for Uncle George and some misguided Arthur Murray lessons that Gran had insisted on giving me for my Sweet Sixteen.

  But who was I to question my Boyfriend waltzing me around the dance floor of the Harvest Gala?

  I finally recovered enough presence of mind to say, "What are you doing here?"

  "The opera folks contacted the university about this fund-raiser. They said they wanted to build town-gown re­lationships. The head of the history department is a big opera fan, so he bought tickets for everyone—to help us bond as a department, he said." Jason nodded toward a cluster of people in the far corner of the room. I darted a glance and saw that Ekaterina was anchored in the middle of the circle. Well, any department head that brought me my Boyfriend could bring the Ice Ballerina, as well, I supposed. Jason asked, "But what are you doing here?"

  "My grandmother is on the board. Sarah Smythe. She's the one who thought it would be a good idea to build up the guild's relationships with universities."

  He smiled, and I suddenly felt faint. "I suppose I should meet her and thank her for getting me here. For letting me see you. I should have phoned you this past week, but things have been insane. I have an article due on the fifteenth. You know—publish or perish."

  I took a breath, the first time I'd filled my lungs since turning around to see Jason. So that was why he hadn't phoned. He'd been busy with work. Nothing more ominous than that. Everyone got busy. I did, myself.