Sebastian snorted at that, looking affronted. But Francis didn’t seem to notice, just continued his story.
“My wife died in childbirth, along with the baby. I died several years later, alone and in my sleep, of too much drink and a broken heart. They found me, cold and stiff, the next morning. I am not rightly sure how, but part of me stayed behind. I suppose guilt prompted my spirit to remain, held back by unrighted wrongs. I watched from the shadows as my parents died and the house was sold off to cover their debts. The next family fared no better, strife and disaster tearing them apart. The next as well, and so it went over the years. I had no notion of how to prevent these misfortunes from befalling, so I did the only thing I could think of: caused enough mischief to drive the poor fools from the house.
“So here I am today, keeping watch over an empty, cursed abode. My one achievement, not even in life but in death, has been to convince the owners their house is haunted, so no one has lived here for years. I even frighten off the occasional foolhardy boy bent on vandalism. The owners are desperate to sell, but no one will buy. Which is why, of course, they hired young Sebastian to ‘cast me out.’ But once I explained the situation, he quite agreed my absence would not solve the problem. He was confident, however, that you would know how to proceed, and how to lift this dreadful curse.”
Francis fell silent, staring intently at her, a flicker of hope on his sad, gray face.
Lily thought for a moment, considering the situation. She felt much pity, both for the mournful Francis, punished a hundredfold for his foolishness, and for the fiery Annabelle, a young girl with a broken heart.
“Annabelle sounds like she was…um…quite a woman,” Lily said, trying to offer some sort of comfort to the gloomy ghost.
“Yes,” he agreed, sighing, “indeed she was. And yet, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”
“Tell me about it,” Sebastian muttered. “She obviously didn’t get the meaning of overkill. That kind of overreaction reminds me of dear Aunt Barrington’s choice words when she disowned me for being a witch. Though at least the old biddy didn’t curse me. Anyway, can you help, Lil?”
Lily turned her head sharply, giving him a pointed glare.
He rolled his eyes, not at all contrite, but giving in for the sake of her cooperation. “Alright, fine. Can you help, Lily?”
She pursed her lips, maintaining a severe expression. But Sebastian was unmoved, and she eventually relented, curious about the spell but not wanting to admit it. Apart from Madam Barrington, she’d never gotten to examine another wizard’s spells before. She didn’t even know any wizards besides her mentor. Focusing on her magic studies had kept her busy since graduation, but this could be the perfect reason to finally start the research she’d always longed to do: searching for her family.
During Lily’s childhood, her mother never breathed a word about their family or past, and she got upset whenever Lily tried to ask, something Lily resented. All she knew was that her mother had remarried when Lily was nine. As a child, Lily had always felt different from her stepsiblings but never understood why. The moment she’d turned eighteen, she’d left, sick of the backwater farm life of her childhood, and moved to Atlanta to go to college. It wasn’t until she’d been taken in by Madam Barrington that she’d finally found a name to put to her sense of difference: wizard.
Yet even Madam Barrington was tight-lipped on the subject of wizard families, always advising Lily to keep to herself. According to her, no good would come from Lily seeking out her own kind. She claimed it was because wizards were less likely to clash and cause trouble among themselves, and others, if they lived alone, or at most, with a mentor or student. “As troublesome as a house full of wizards” was a common phrase of hers. But to Lily, her past was everything. She wanted to know where she came from, wanted to know her heritage. She felt like her mother had stolen it from her, and she wanted it back. Maybe if she recovered her past, she could figure out what kind of person she was supposed to be. Archive books and Madam Barrington’s clinical lessons on magical theory had given her a knowledge only of wizardry, not of wizards themselves. If Annabelle had been a wizard, it was a place to start, a family tree to research.
Lily nodded to Francis, giving him a reassuring smile. “I can take a look to see what kind of spell was cast. Depending on what it is, I may be able to dispel it. But I’m not making any promises. Spells can be as unique as those who cast them, and you often need insight into the caster to undo their work,” she said, quoting her mentor. “Counter-spells are much easier; they only need to react to the target spell’s effect. Reversing a spell, on the other hand, requires knowledge of how, and why, it was cast.”
“Well, that’s enough mumbo jumbo to last me a month,” Sebastian said, jumping to his feet. “But I assume it all means you have a plan. Where do we start?”
Lily sent Sebastian to the car to fetch her carpetbag in which she carried her supplies. Meanwhile, she talked to Francis, asking questions about the night of his breakup with Annabelle.
When Sebastian returned with her things, Francis floated behind her into the great hall so they could keep talking while she made preparations. First, she laid out a miniature brazier filled with sage and lit it. The herb itself had no magical qualities, but the smell was pleasant and calming. It helped her focus, which was essential for the kind of magic she was about to do. She laid a small cushion on the bare wood floor to sit on, then had Sebastian stand right behind it, warning him sharply to be still and quiet. For once, he didn’t joke around. He knew well the dangers of wizardry and wasn’t foolish enough to treat it lightly.
Lastly, she took a stick of charcoal and drew a circle around them both. Again, the charcoal was not magical, it merely served as a physical marker to aid her concentration. She could cast a shield circle without it but saw no point in taking risks simply to impress an audience. Risks were for desperate situations. This, in contrast, was research.
Settling down on her cushion, she withdrew a small clay tablet from her bag and laid it on the floor in front of her. It was imbued with runes of power and would serve as an anchor for the shield spell, enabling her to form the magic into a set shape and affix it to something, after which she could release it to do its job while she cast other spells.
Lily took several slow, deep breaths, inhaling the sage. Her fingers curled tightly around the amulet that normally dangled from her wrist. It, also, was marked with runes of power, serving as a focus and amplifier to help her cast more precise and powerful magic. She cleared her mind, then reached inside herself and tapped the Source, the place from which all magic came. Being a wizard meant being born with an innate connection to this power, and the ability to draw on it at will—after much training, of course. For the Source was not sentient, only raw power. And raw power directed without skill or discipline could cause more damage than good. Having power and knowing how to use it were not the same thing, after all.
Magical power drawn from the Source had to be shaped and directed by the caster’s will, with the aid of words of power—an ancient language called Enkinim, derived from, or perhaps parent to, Sumerian. Passed down over the centuries, the words helped shape a wizard’s spells, both activating and limiting their effects. Though many set spells existed, the power of the Source was, in theory, limited only by the willpower and knowledge of the caster. The stronger a wizard’s will, the more adroit his mind, and the better his understanding of Enkinim, the more he could do with magic. A wizard could also use dimmu, the written form of Enkinim, to make runes, imbuing objects with magic.
Now fully connected—in communion, as it were—with the Source, Lily spoke words of power, visualizing a shield which would block the effects of any spell she might trigger as she probed the curse cast by Annabelle. Magic flowed out of her, following the blueprint in her mind as her will shaped it to form an invisible bubble. This she anchored to the clay tablet, commanding the permanent parameters of the spell as she broke it off from the Source’s f
low and let it sink into the runes on the tablet. Now the tablet held the shield, and she could turn her mind to other things.
She took several more deep breaths of sage before expanding her awareness over the whole house, searching for signs of magic. She didn’t have to look far: it was everywhere. She hadn’t noticed it when she’d first entered the house because of how subtle it was, sunk into every board, nail, and stone around her. This was no flashy, instant-effect spell. Its aura was so imperceptible, you’d never notice it unless you knew what to look for. Its effect did not take place in days, or even weeks, but was a slow-moving poison that took months to seep in. The spell appeared in her mind as a dark, viscous mist seeping out of every pore of the house’s ancient frame. It was the work of a hundred-year-old curse, oozing sadness, depression, spite, jealousy, despair, madness, and every imaginable thing opposite to happiness and peace.
Lily was awed. What power, force of will, and intuitive creativity Annabelle must have had to create such a long-lasting and complex spell. It had to have an anchor somewhere, a physical object she’d attached the spell to. Unfortunately, the anchor could be anything; runes could be made on the fly and concealed from the human eye. Though an individual could be protected from the curse’s influence by magical shielding, the only way to get rid of it for good would be to destroy the anchor. Even then, such an act would only eliminate the source of this viscous mist. For all she knew, once the anchor was gone, the mist would take years, perhaps decades, to fade. Maybe it never would. She had to find a way to unmake the curse. It needed to be reversed, not just broken.
Lily drew back into herself, having found what she was looking for. She spent a few moments just breathing, relaxing her will, resting her mind. Controlling magic took effort and could be fatiguing, depending on the complexity, duration, and power of the spell. Then there was the giddy high that came with using magic. It was a heady feeling, and it took skill to manage it without becoming distracted or filled with foolish, overconfident thoughts. She’d read about wizards who’d stayed in constant contact with the Source. Eventually, it drove them mad, or else some botched spell ended them forever. Only a few exceedingly powerful wizards from ancient legend, figures such as Belshazzar, Jannes, or Nimrod himself, would have been able to bear permanent communion with the Source. Wizards of that caliber hadn’t existed for thousands of years. The Source was a power to be tapped in need. Like any stimulant, too much could be a bad thing.
Finally, she stood up, unfolding herself from her position on the pillow. Sebastian looked at her quizzically and Francis hovered, hopeful.
“Find anything?” they asked in unison.
“More than I expected,” she replied, bending to extinguish the sage and pack up her brazier. At the same time, she scooped up the clay tablet and pressed it into Sebastian’s hand.
“Keep this on you,” she said. “It has a five foot radius and will shield you from any harmful effects of the curse while you’re in the house. The enchantment will only last a few weeks before it starts to fade, but we should have things well in hand by then.”
“Will do,” he said, examining the tablet curiously. “What about you, though?”
Lily gave him a mysterious smile. “Really, Sebastian? I’m a wizard. I have my ways.”
Sebastian shrugged and put the tablet into his pocket. “So, kemosabe, what’s our next move?” he asked.
Her smile turned distinctly mischievous as she replied. “We, Mr. Professional Witch, are going to pay a visit to Madam Barrington.”
Sebastian groaned.
3
Virtuous Thieves
It was nearing nine when they returned from the Jackson mansion, so they decided to wait until Monday evening after Lily got off work to go see Madam Barrington.
As they pulled into her driveway and Lily got out, she took a moment to enjoy the sight of her mentor’s house in the late afternoon light. It was a beautiful, historic home in the Queen Anne style of architecture, once belonging to a politician of note. Lily had never gotten a firm answer on how, exactly, Madam Barrington had acquired it. She suspected it was part of a trade in favors. Its asymmetrical three-story facade was adorned with beautifully carved wooden eaves and trim. The Dutch gables, wrap-around porch, and square tower on one side all had slate roofs, the gray stone mottled with age.
They climbed the porch steps and Lily rang the doorbell. After a minute with no answer, she rang again, listening carefully as she kept half a mind on her firm grip on Sebastian’s upper arm. She probably didn’t need it at this point; once she’d dragged him from the car, he’d come along quietly. But she thought he might make a break for it when Madam Barrington answered the door, so she held on, just in case.
“Well, looks like nobody’s home,” Sebastian said brightly after another minute. “Let’s be going, shall we?” He turned to make a hasty retreat, but was pulled up short by Lily’s iron grip.
“Oh, stop being such a baby,” she said, exasperated. “You’re a grown man, for goodness sake. She’s your aunt, not an ax murderer.”
“I’d rather face an ax murderer,” Sebastian muttered, attempting to extricate his arm from Lily’s grasp. When she didn’t loosen her grip in the slightest, he changed tactics. “Look, Lily, she hates me, and I hate her. We get along best when not in each other’s presence. Let’s let sleeping dogs lie, please?”
“First of all, she does not hate you, and I’m sure you don’t hate her, either. She is disappointed in your choices, that’s all, and you’re probably hurt by her rejection. But regardless of your relationship with her, this is your adventure I’m helping with, and you will man up to it. It will do her good to see you helping people with your skills. Now hush and be patient. It’s a big house. She was probably in the garden and it takes time to get to the door.”
Indeed, after a few more moments, there came the sound of footsteps, then the clatter of a bolt being drawn back. The door opened to reveal an older woman. She looked every inch the austere matron. Her silver-grey hair was pulled back in a tight bun and she wore a vintage blouse tucked into a long, fitted black skirt. On the whole, she looked distinctly un-wizard-like, except for an exotic antique brooch at her throat, pinned to the high, ruffled collar of her blouse. It was large, oval, and a deep shade of amethyst. It would look normal enough to mundanes—that is, people without magic—but Lily could see the blaze of magic on it and the lines of intricate, powerful dimmu runes around its edge.
Aside from the brooch, Madam Barrington appeared to be a normal woman in her sixties, with high cheekbones and a sharp nose that complemented her well-preserved face and gave her a stately look. Of course, Lily knew she was much older than sixty. How much older, she had no idea, but enough that her mentor’s youthful appearance would not have been considered “normal” by mundanes. Something about the use of magic had a rejuvenating effect, which was why wizards aged so well. They still got old and died, but long after their mundane peers.
Upon opening the door, Madam Barrington’s blue-grey eyes warmed in welcome for Lily. But then, the door swung fully ajar and she caught sight of Sebastian. Her expression immediately turned sour, eyes cooling to arctic temperatures. Thin lips pursed in a stern expression, she did not move to invite them into the house.
“Ms. B., I apologize for calling so unexpectedly, but Sebastian came to me for consultation on a problem he’s helping a friend with,” Lily said hastily, putting emphasis on the word helping. Madam Barrington’s expression did not soften, but neither did she close the door, so Lily continued. “It involves a malignant spell, and I needed a bit of advice on the best way to undo it. I wondered if we might discuss it over tea?”
For a moment, Lily wasn’t sure which way it would go. But finally, Madam Barrington gave a tiny sigh and stepped back, motioning them to enter. “Of course, Miss Singer. Do come in,” she said stiffly.
She led them down a long hallway to a sunroom at the back of the house. It was tastefully decorated with antique furniture and p
otted plants. The glass walls and slanted glass ceiling let in the light of the setting sun and overlooked a verdant flower garden. Lily and Sebastian took seats in cushioned chairs as Madam Barrington disappeared through another doorway, coming back several minutes later with a tea tray. Sebastian eyed the tasty spread but didn’t move to touch it, which made Lily smile to herself.
She and Madam Barrington engaged in pleasant small talk—a bit stiff on the Madam’s part, but still warm. Lily hadn’t gotten to visit much during spring semester because of work at the library, so it was good to catch up. Despite her mentor’s formal and stiff manner, they had worked closely together for almost seven years now and had developed a comfortable understanding.
After a short while, they heard the whistle of the teapot, and Madam Barrington excused herself to prepare the tea.
“You know,” Lily said, regarding Sebastian, “the food is for eating, not decoration.” She matched words with action and began to daintily sample the tasty morsels.
“And get another hex? I’ll pass, thanks,” Sebastian said, sitting on his hands.
“Don’t be silly. Ms. B. wouldn’t hex food offered to a guest. It just isn’t done. Wait, another hex?” Lily asked, amused and curious.
“Forget I mentioned it,” mumbled Sebastian. He was saved from further questioning when Madam Barrington returned, carrying a large silver teapot.
She and Lily enjoyed their cups of tea in leisurely silence, Madam Barrington pointedly ignoring her great-nephew’s presence. Sebastian neither asked for, nor was offered, any tea.
Once their first cup was done, Madam Barrington broke the silence.
“Now, Miss Singer, what is this matter of a malignant spell you mentioned?”
Lily launched into her story, explaining about the ghost of Francis Jackson, his jilted fiancée, Annabelle Witherspoon, and the curse cast upon the house. She left out the details of exactly why Sebastian had begun investigating in the first place, simply implying he was helping a friend. She described, in detail, her examination of the spell, and they discussed it in magical terms, ignoring the glazed look that came over Sebastian’s face as things got technical. Lily was surprised by his unusual lack of interruptions and snide comments. It seemed he’d settled on being very still, and very quiet, as the most reliable survival technique to get him out of his aunt’s house unscathed.
Love, Lies, and Hocus Pocus Beginnings Page 3