“I’m sorry to just drop by your house like this. I tried to text you, but you weren’t answering,” Greta said, still coloring.
Iris blinked. “Oh, I’m sorry! I was asleep… well, obviously, right? Since Nyala had to come upstairs and… So, what’s up? Why did you text me? Although I suppose I could just go back upstairs and read the text for myself?”
“No need. I was wondering if you wanted to walk to school together. I thought we could talk about the… the…”
“Homecoming Dance! Got it!” Iris improvised, remembering the posters in the school halls.
“Who’s going to the Homecoming Dance?”
Rachelle Gooding pushed at the kitchen door with her hip as she balanced a wooden tray in her hands. On the tray were a platter of blueberry muffins, a teapot, mismatched mugs (the Muppets, D.A.R.E., Monet’s waterlilies, a sudoku puzzle), clementines, and honey. She wore her daily uniform (work and non-work) of black leggings and an oversized Café Papillon T-shirt, and her hair was scrunched back in her usual messy I-can’t-be-bothered-with-hairstyles ponytail.
“Greta, this is my mom. Mom, this is Greta,” Iris said.
“Greta and I already met. Before you came down. We had a nice chat about your new school,” Rachelle said. “I thought you both might like a little breakfast before you head off. I warmed up the muffins.”
“Thanks. Are they vegan?” Iris asked.
“Yes, in fact!” Rachelle set the tray on the coffee table and slanted a look at Ephrem, obviously signaling that she wasn’t going to bring up the subject of Penelope in front of him. “Greta told me about some of the clubs and such, and she said she’s in the choir. Maybe you’d like that, too, Iris? It sounds low-key.”
Low-key was Iris’s mom’s favorite expression when it came to suggesting activities for her. Stimulating but not too stimulating, no stressors or triggers, nothing that would require a paper bag to breathe into or a special-occasion Xanax or an emergency call to Iris’s therapist. Like that time during Mrs. Barber’s piano recital, back east. Ten-year-old Iris had performed a solo piano version of Tchaikovsky’s “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy,” from The Nutcracker. When some dumb boy in the audience had laughed at her for a slipup, she’d stopped mid-measure, taken off one of her shiny black patent leather shoes from the Shoe Barn, and thrown it at him. (In The Nutcracker, Clara had thrown her shoe at the Mouse King, so why couldn’t Iris do the same?)
“Choir. Huh. Maybe? I’ll think about it, okay?”
Two mugs of Earl Grey tea and several blueberry muffins later, Greta and Iris (who’d switched out the SpongeBob and sweats ensemble for jeans and a red-and-gray flannel shirt) headed outside with their backpacks and started up Sycamore Street. The air smelled morning-fresh, and the sky above downtown Sorrow Point was a pale gray-blue. As they passed Poe’s Market, they saw the little black cat on the bench; they stopped to sit and say hello, since there was plenty of time before homeroom.
The black cat meowed for attention, and Greta stroked its ears. It climbed onto her lap and settled there. “Calumnia. So, I wanted to tell you what Div told us last night. About what happened to her before we got there.”
So not case closed.
“Div said that before she was attacked, she was checking out this thing on the wall—she called it a ‘murder board.’ But by the time we found her, the board was gone.”
Iris sat up excitedly. “A murder board? Is that like the one in Witchworld where Level Twenty-Five and up players can keep track of the enemies they need to catch in order to level-jump?”
Greta looked confused. “I’m not sure. Div thought that maybe the Jessups, or one of the Jessups anyway, was collecting information on some witch-hunter so they could hunt him down. It doesn’t make sense, though, because witch-hunters don’t exist anymore. And even if they did, why would the Antima want to hunt a witch-hunter? They’re on the same side.”
“Witch-hunter?” Iris didn’t like the sound of those two words together.
“Callixta wrote about them in her book,” Greta went on. “They hunted and killed witches during the Great Purge. They’re really evil.”
“Were really evil, right?” Iris corrected her.
“Yes. Were. Oh, and one more thing. Div thinks that Colter’s little sister Cassie is a witch.”
“What?”
“Div said she has no idea if Cassie knows she’s a witch. In any case, it’s not good news that she lives in a house full of witch haters.”
“No, it’s not good news. It’s bad, terrible, scary news. We need to help her!”
“Definitely. We should tell Ms. O’Shea about her, too… plus everything else. Hopefully she’ll be back in school today.”
“Is she sick?”
“I’m not sure. She wasn’t there yesterday, though.”
Iris plucked at the sleeve of her flannel shirt; it felt itchy suddenly. Should she go home and change? But then she’d probably be late for school. But if she didn’t, she would itch all day and be distracted and not be able to pay attention in class. But if she did double back, she’d have to explain to Greta why, which would be embarrassing.
Greta seemed easy to talk to, though. And understanding. And wise. Which made Iris wonder… should she tell her about her morningmare? But what if it didn’t mean anything? What if it was just a psychedelic mash-up of recent events, random memories, Iris’s personal fears, and the stuff she’d gleaned from Gofflesby during their mind-melding (or whatever) session? She didn’t want to freak Greta out with scary fiction about her and her familiar.
Iris was really curious about one particular dream detail, though.
“Have you ever heard this saying, ‘Witches do not belong here’? It was in this dream I had last night or this morning or whatever.”
“It sounds a bit like our shadow messages. Hang on.” Greta did a quick search on her phone. “Here. Okay. That’s weird. So we were just talking about witch hunters, right?”
“Actually, I was trying to avoid talking about them, but technically, yeah.”
Greta scrolled down. “This article says that during the Great Purge, there was a witch hunter named Maximus Hobbes. He lived all over the West Coast. He was personally responsible for the deaths of hundreds of witches. It says that he”—she inhaled sharply—“that he put witches in cages and burned them alive.”
Iris gulped and scratched furiously at her wrists.
“The article says that Hobbes and his assistants, followers, whatever you want to call them, they used to chant that phrase when they went on their witch-hunting sprees. Witches do not belong here.”
“That’s really, really super-terrifying.”
“I know. I can’t even…” Greta stopped, shook her head, and began composing a text. “I’m sending this article to Binx. Maybe she could do more research about that phrase.”
“But it was just my dream. It’s not, you know, like a clue to Penelope’s death or anything.”
“It could be, though. In witchcraft, dreams are very powerful things. They can be messages, prophecies. Plus, you seem to be really intuitive.”
“Thanks.”
The itching had subsided somewhat. Iris took off her glasses, wiped strawberry jam off the lenses, and put them back on. Was Greta right? Could her dream be a message or a prophecy?
If so, shouldn’t she warn Greta that she might be in danger?
“Yeah, so… Gofflesby was in my dream, too,” Iris said tentatively.
The black cat stirred on Greta’s lap.
“You mean he was in the same dream where you heard that phrase about witches?” Greta asked, confused.
“Yes. And Ridley was in it, too. Gofflesby told me a bunch of stuff about a queen, except he was speaking in French. Does Gofflesby understand French? Sorry, dumb question. Anyhoo, then the queen actually showed up—this was the middle of this enchanted forest—and she was carrying you, but then you turned into Penelope, and the queen buried you, I mean Penelope, and all these flowers started to
bloom.”
Worry flashed in Greta’s eyes. “What do you mean she was carrying me? Was I… dead? Is that why I turned into Penelope?”
“I don’t know. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to freak you out.”
“It’s okay. I’m not freaked out, I’m just…” Greta stroked the black cat. “That’s a lie, I am a little freaked out. Almost everything about the past week freaks me out.”
“Me too.” Except meeting you, Iris thought. And Binx and Ridley, too.
“Hey, are you going to Penelope’s funeral later? The real one, not the one in my dream with the flowers and the queen and French Gofflesby. Obviously.”
“I’m going, are you going?”
“Yup.”
“Binx and Ridley are going, too. I’m not sure about Div and her girls.”
“I don’t like funerals.”
“I don’t like them, either. I don’t like goodbyes. But we need to honor our witch sister. Maybe we can walk over together?”
“Yes, please!”
The two girls sat in silence, petting the black cat, watching the sun trying to break through the gray morning mist. When a car backfired down the street, Greta jumped and let out a little yelp. “Sorry, sorry,” she murmured, and touched her raw amethyst pendant. Iris wished desperately that she could redo their conversation. She shouldn’t have told Greta about the dream; for that matter, she wished she could redo the last few hours so she wouldn’t have had the dream to begin with. Things were scary and awful enough with Penelope’s death, the shadow messages, the Antima, and everything else. They didn’t need the dark storm cloud of long-ago witch-hunters—executioners—hovering over them, too.
28
DRESS CODE
Magic cannot cure all Ills.
(FROM THE GOOD BOOK OF MAGIC AND MENTALISM BY CALLIXTA CROWE)
Ridley stood in front of her closet trying to figure out what to wear for Penelope’s funeral. She owned two suits—the black one she’d worn for Daniel’s funeral and the navy one that was her go-to recital/audition/competition suit. She also owned two identical white dress shirts and a black-and-blue-and-sort-of-gray paisley tie that matched both paradigms.
Of course, it didn’t ultimately matter which suit she chose, since she would be changing outfits (as well as the rest of her appearance) between here and Sorrow Point Cemetery (she’d already picked out a private spot, not in the Seabreeze development, to cast her muto spell). So what should that outfit be? A black dress? Or maybe a pair of black slacks, a blazer, and a white silk blouse?
Ridley felt a headache coming on. Massaging her temples, she stared at her reflection in the slightly warped closet mirror. After things had calmed down, she would go back to working on the vertero and dissimulatio spells. She couldn’t wait.
A knock on the door. “You in there, son?”
Her father poked his head through the door. He was dressed in his paramedic uniform, and he was carrying a steel thermos and a brown paper bag. “I’m off to the hospital for a few hours. Do you want me to give you a ride to the Hart girl’s funeral? It starts at four, right?”
“No, thanks. I thought this was your day off?”
“Rami had a family emergency, so I’m covering the rest of his shift.”
“Oh, okay. Is Harmony still over at her friend’s?”
“No, she’s downstairs. Your mom’s playing with her.”
Ridley blinked. “Say what?”
“They’re having a snack, too. Your mom made her famous grilled cheese. Make sure to say bye before you go.”
“Momma is with her,” Ridley said skeptically.
Her father’s face hardened. “I don’t want to hear any disrespect from you.”
“I’m not disrespecting her. It’s just…” Ridley took a deep breath. Was her father choosing to ignore the fact that his wife had been MIA for over a year? Guess we’re not going to discuss that particular reality. “I’m glad she’s up, and I’m glad she’s hanging out with Harmony. I’ll say hi and bye before I take off.”
“All right, then. I’ll see you at dinner. Thought I’d grill some burgers.”
“Sounds good. I might be late, depending on how long the… yeah, so I’ll let you know.”
After her father left, Ridley dressed quickly (she chose the navy suit; she didn’t want Momma seeing her in the black suit), ran a pick through her hair (again, for Momma’s benefit), grabbed her backpack, and gave Agent Smith a handful of timothy hay. She also chose her daily angel card from Daniel’s Cleveland Browns mug. The card said: Life.
Hmm. A life-themed card made zero sense, given that she was on her way to a funeral. But whatever. The angel cards must know something; they were usually smarter than she was.
Still, shouldn’t she have selected a card that said The Return of the Missing Mother or something like that?
Downstairs, Ridley found Momma and Harmony playing Barbies on the living-room floor. Barbies with a variety of hairstyles and skin colors as well as Barbie clothes, shoes, accessories, furniture, and even a car (pink, one wheel missing) were scattered all over the carpet, mixed up with random other items like Legos and broken crayons and dried-up balls of Play-Doh. Pandy was asleep on the couch, his face twitching and his tail thumping.
Momma was wearing jeans and a Browns sweatshirt. She’d put on lipstick and a little mascara. Not exactly the old Joyce Ibrahim Stone, City Hall communications director, who owned a closetful of power suits and heels… but also not the Joyce Ibrahim Stone who’d been living (or not living?) for the past year-plus in pretty much the same powder-blue robe and nightgown.
“Momma?” Ridley said.
Joyce glanced up from the Barbie pile. “Don’t you look so handsome. Why’re you all dressed up? Do you have a violin recital today?”
“No, it’s… it’s this thing for my friend.” Ridley didn’t want to say funeral. “I won’t be gone long. Unless you need me to stay?”
“Harmony and I will be fine. Are you hungry? There’s an extra grilled cheese sandwich on the stove. It might be cold, though, so you should put it in the microwave for thirty seconds, on low. Keep an eye on it so the cheese doesn’t go melting like lava all over the place.”
“Thanks, Momma, but I already ate.”
Harmony was squeezing one of the Barbies into a sequined red ballgown. She rooted through the messy pile and found a pair of gold vinyl boots. She pulled them over Barbie’s freakishly high-arched feet.
“Isn’t she beautiful? Isn’t she the most beautifulest girl you’ve ever seen?” Harmony said breathlessly.
“Absolutely,” Ridley agreed.
Harmony picked up a doll-sized rhinestone tiara, put it back down, picked up a flower-power headband, and put that down, too.
“What about this one, sweetpea?” Momma asked, offering her a beige hat with a peacock feather.
“Yes, that one! Thank you, Momma Goose!”
“You’re welcome, Baby Gosling!”
Harmony giggled. Ridley watched, mesmerized, as her little sister draped the peacock-feather hat over Barbie’s cornrows and pretend-walked her to the edge of the couch and back. This was how things used to be. Well, not exactly how things used to be, because Daniel wasn’t here. Also, back then, Ridley had been so jealous of her mother and little sister playing dolls and dress-up and all the other things she wished she could do with them. But right now, she only felt a tiny sliver of that old jealousy. Right now, what she mostly felt was wonder. And hope.
And life, like the angel card had tried to tell her.
She turned to go.
“Morgan!”
“Yup?”
Harmony thrust something at her. It was a tiny gray silk blouse with pearl buttons.
“Isn’t it the beautifulest clothes you’ve ever seen?”
“Sure.”
“I want you to wear it. Pretty please?”
“Um… okay. Yeah.”
Ridley took the Barbie blouse from her sister and tucked it into the pocket of her navy jack
et. “What do you think?”
“It’s purr-fect!” Harmony said, clapping. She’d been angling to get a kitten lately, so her vocabulary was full of cat words.
“Thanks.” Ridley hugged her little sister. “See you later, alligator.”
“In a while, cat-o-dile!” Harmony turned to their mother. “Barbie wants to have a tea party!”
“Well, then, let’s have a tea party, Baby Gosling!”
As Ridley walked out the front door, she heard them discussing teacakes versus tea biscuits and whether or not to invite Skipper and Chelsea and Ken.
Huh.
Life.
Ridley arrived at Sorrow Point Cemetery shortly before four o’clock. She was dressed in a gray silk blouse with pearl buttons (she’d managed to transform the Barbie item into a real item), black wool slacks, and ballet flats; she wished Harmony could see her outfit.
It was weird being here for an actual funeral versus taking a shortcut to the mall. Penelope’s gravesite was in a far corner of the cemetery next to an enormous weeping willow and a cluster of laurel bushes. (Willow and laurel were both good for headaches, Ridley thought, touching her temples.) It wasn’t too far from Daniel’s tree.
It wasn’t too far from those two gravestones, either, the ones she and Binx had seen last Wednesday with the words DEAD WITCH on them. Ridley could just make them out in the distance. The hideous graffiti was gone. Washed clean. She wondered who’d done that—city workers? Some anonymous Good Samaritan witches? (She and Binx had intended to return to the cemetery to check out who the gravestones belonged to, but then Penelope’s murder had happened.…)
The funeral service hadn’t started yet. A group of mourners formed a somber U shape around Penelope’s casket, which was white and covered with some sort of pretty nature design. Ridley noticed a bunch of teachers from the high school and a dozen or so students, too. She didn’t see Ms. O’Shea among them, though. Ms. O’Shea hadn’t been at school for the last couple of days; Mr. Eggars, the new substitute (was there a word for a substitute’s substitute?), said she’d been called out of town for a family emergency. Ridley wished they had her contact info; there was so much going on, and they could really use her advice and assistance. Maybe Binx should hack into wherever and find her phone number? Although maybe Ms. O’Shea was huddling in secret with her coven up north, strategizing about how to deal with the new, witch-killing witch in town?
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