Gone With the Witch (3 page)

She'd put a lot of thought into this, and I hated hearing the ache tainting her words. I agreed with some of what she'd said but not all of it. Those who'd dealt with a painful experience in their life carried its memory within them. It changed you. Sometimes for the better. Sometimes for the worse.

“Maybe not so much a shadow as a lesson,” I said softly. “You learn from the past so you can change the future. You might not have all the control, but you have some. Use it.”

“I am,” she said, looking thoughtful. “Or, at least, I'm trying. Thanks. Could you let Ve know I'm here?”

She didn't seem to want to talk anymore, but now I was worried.

I was a worrier by nature.

Also, a fixer. It was the mama hen in me, clucking about. I didn't like uneasiness in my coop.

“Give me a sec and I'll grab her,” I said, wishing I could do more to help Vivienne. Relationship troubles were never easy to deal with. But she hadn't asked for my help. I had to keep that in mind.

“Thanks, Darcy, and thanks for listening to me yammer on.”

“Anytime. If you need an ear, I'm here,” I said, hoping she'd take me up on it so I had her permission to stick my nose into her business. “I'm an expert at listening to yammering. I live with Ve, after all.”

Vivienne cracked a smile. “I appreciate that, but I'm fine. Everything's fine. Really.”

Dismissed. I sighed. “I'll be right back.”

When I hit the lower landing of the staircase, I glanced through the large oval window overlooking the side yard, hoping to see the mourning dove that had been a constant visitor at As You Wish during the time I lived here.

Well, until recently, that was.

The bird had been oddly elusive since I'd taken its photo a few weeks ago.

Or, rather, I had
tried
to take its picture.

All that had shown up on my camera's display was a white starburst, a telltale sign that I'd photographed a Wishcrafter. Bright starbursts were how we appeared on film.

I'd done my best to convince myself that I'd accidentally had a finger in front of the lens when I snapped the shot and
hadn't
photographed a familiar. In this case, a Wishcrafter familiar, as the spirits of of Crafters retained their magical traits.

If I'd had my finger over the lens, it would absolutely distort the photo.

It made sense.

It absolutely made sense. I'd done it before.

Yet . . .

There was something deep down inside me that felt otherwise—that I had in fact captured a Wishcrafter familiar in action, but the only way to prove that theory was to take another photo of the bird.

It seemed an easy enough plan, except for one small snafu.

The bird was now MIA.

Which made me even more suspicious that it wasn't your everyday average mourning dove I'd encountered.

Shoving those thoughts aside for now, I pushed on up the stairs, the runner on the wooden steps absorbing the sound of my footfalls.

At the top of the steps, I followed the wide hallway toward Ve's bedroom at the far end, near the back staircase. Her door was ajar, and I was surprised to hear voices from within the room.

“Time is running out,” a woman said, a sharp whine in her voice. “Frankly, I am astonished I personally haven't run into this conundrum before now.”

I'd heard the voice before, mostly after first moving here, but rarely since. It wasn't the Elder's voice, which had become quite familiar over the past year.

The woman went on. “I don't need to remind you what's at risk here if—”

“No,” Ve said, cutting her off with a long sigh. “You don't need to remind me. I know. We
all
know the risks.”

“I can certainly attest to them,” another woman said dryly.

That
was the Elder.

I knew her voice, but I didn't know who she was. There was a rule in place that the earliest a Crafter could
learn of the Elder's identity was only when he or she had lived in the village for a full year.

Next week marked the anniversary of the date that Harper, Missy, and I had pulled up to the curb in front of As You Wish, our car and a small trailer packed to the gills with the odds and ends we had brought with us from our former life in Ohio.

It had been only after our father's funeral that Aunt Ve had told us that we were Wishcrafters. . . . He, a mortal, hadn't wanted us to know while he was still alive, and Aunt Ve had honored his wishes. She'd asked us to move in with her, here in the Enchanted Village, and desperately wanting change . . . and a connection to family . . . we readily accepted.

It felt like a lifetime ago.

Harper and I had arrived, wide-eyed and eager to learn about a heritage that had been kept secret from us all our lives.

Well, I'd been wide-eyed and eager.

Harper had been wide-eyed and skeptical.

Almost a year later, she still wasn't ready to embrace her witchy birthright.

The anniversary of our moving here didn't guarantee I'd be told who the Elder was, but I was optimistic.

After all, the Elder had appointed me as an official Craft investigator a while back, to review criminal cases within the village when witchcraft was involved. With that position, I'd been able to help solve a few murder cases that had occurred over the past year. I hoped the Elder knew she could trust me, because I was dying of curiosity about who she might be.

“Have mercy,” Ve mumbled. “I'm getting a headache.”

I wanted to eavesdrop all day, but Vivienne was waiting downstairs. I gently tapped on the door. “Ve?”

There was a flurry of activity inside the room before
Ve wedged herself in the slight opening of the doorway, holding the door close to her body. In a high-pitched unnatural voice, she said, “Darcy? I didn't hear you coming. Is something wrong?”

Raising an eyebrow, I said, “Not at all. Vivienne Lucas is downstairs. She said she has an appointment with you.”

“Oh! Yes! Thank you.” Thin eyebrows were nearly touching her hairline, and her golden blue eyes held my gaze without blinking. Her coppery hair was pulled back in its usual twist, which was threaded with silvery strands. She'd been so busy lately, she hadn't had time to visit the Magic Wand Salon for a touch-up dye job.

“Why's she here? Is it for As You Wish? If so, maybe I can help. . . .”

“No, no. I asked her over. Nothing you can do to help at all.” She pasted on a faux smile. “I'll be right down.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Why what?”

“Why did you ask her over?” I pressed. Ve was behaving so bizarrely that I was truly curious.

“Oh, you know,” she said lightly. “I was in the market for a spell, and she's the best Spellcrafter around, you know.”

That was a fact. “What kind of spell?”

Laughing hollowly, she said, “Well, aren't you full of questions? You'll see soon enough.” She pressed the door tighter against her. “Please let Vivienne know I'll be right down.”

“Is everything all right up here?” I asked as I tried to peer around her.

“What? Yes! Peachy. Why do you ask?”

“I thought I heard voices. . . .”

She pulled the door even tighter, squishing her left breast atop her right, creating one giant vertical mono-boob. It bumped against her chin.

With a nervous laugh, she exclaimed, “Nope! Just me up here talking to . . . myself. I'm quite the conversationalist, you know. Even with myself. Ha-ha-ha.”

“Ha-ha,” I echoed drolly, not buying it for a minute.

“Please tell Vivienne I'll be right down,” she said again in a rush. “Right down. I just need a sec to . . .”

“Finish your conversation?” I suggested.

“That's right.” Nodding, she slammed the door in my face.

I knew one of the voices had been the Elder's. But who was the other woman?

A familiar?

Was it Missy? I still wasn't sure where she'd gotten off to.

Or Tilda, Ve's crabby Himalayan?

More than once I'd suspected that one or both of them might be a familiar. . . . I didn't know for certain, but if either was, they weren't willing to reveal themselves to me for whatever reason.

As I headed back downstairs, I could only hope that soon I wouldn't just learn the secret regarding the Elder's identity . . . but
all
of the village's secrets as well.

P
izzazz hadn't been easy to come by.

Tipping my head to the side, I squinted with one eye closed as I studied my booth early the next morning at the Will-o'-the-Wisp.

The previous afternoon, after my meeting with Ivy, I'd gone from shop to shop in hopes of finding something fitting for Missy's and my booth at the Extravaganza, but it turned out that every last sequin, sparkle, and dog-themed ribbon in the village had already been snapped up.

So I'd improvised.

“It'll have to do,” I finally said to Harper. She'd finagled the booth next to mine, and her orange tabby cat, Pumpkin Pie, was lolling inside a big cage, apparently already bored with the festivities.

It was too bad there wasn't a Lazy Bones category at
the Extravaganza or Pie would win it, hands, uh, paws down.

He was in for a long day.

“Have to do?” Harper's eyes flashed with exasperation as she fastened a garland made of silky autumn leaves to a burnt-umber tablecloth. She'd opted for a Thanksgiving theme (cleverly, to go with Pumpkin Pie) for her booth. “For the love, Darcy . . .”

“What?”

Walking over to stand by my side, she said, “Are you kidding? It's the best display here.”

If someone were to glance our way, I wasn't sure they'd immediately peg us as sisters. I was nearly six inches taller than she was. I worked hard at staying trim, but she was naturally thin and waiflike. My long hair was a dark brown, almost black, while Harper's short and spiky cut was a sandy brown. My eyes were golden blue, average in size, and hers were big and golden brown, intense and expressive. Also, she had the longest darkest natural lashes I'd ever seen.

Except for the eyes, she favored our mother more than our father, while I was the opposite.

Yet . . . if you looked closely, you'd spot the family resemblance. It was there in the curve of our high cheekbones, the sharp angles of our jawlines, our heart-shaped faces. We walked alike, laughed alike, but . . . didn't often think alike.

I was cautious; she was a risk-taker.

I was a pacifist; she was a fighter.

I was a mama hen; she was my wayward chick.

I'd taken her under my wing the day she was born by emergency C-section, which also happened to be the day our mother had died. Because my father had fallen apart in the aftermath of the tragic car accident that had killed my mother, he hadn't been that great at caring for
a newborn. In one fell swoop, I'd become sister, protector, caregiver, friend, mother.

I'd been seven years old.

Twenty-four years later, I loved Harper more than myself.

“No, it's not the best display,” I said, looking around. I'd never seen so much animal print and taffeta in my whole life.

The showroom was packed as people readied their pets and displays. Throughout the day, I was bound to run into familiar faces. Aside from Harper entering Pie in the Charmed, I'm Sure category (best personality), Mimi Sawyer had entered her Saint Bernard, Higgins, in Pooch Smooch (best doggy kiss), and my best friend, Starla Sullivan, had put her bichon frise, Twink, in the Fancy Pants (best outfit) group. My recluse neighbor Terry Goodwin was entering the loquacious Archie in Let's Hear It (best voice), and Harmony Atchison, a friend and owner of the Pixie Cottage, along with her life partner, Angela Curtis, had entered their new dwarf goat, Cookie, in the same category. Many villagers were involved with the event, either with pets as contestants or behind the scenes. It was bound to be an entertaining day.

The room was nearly full, and energetic chatter and barking reverberated off the high ceilings. I hadn't seen Nick and Mimi yet, but the next aisle over, Terry Goodwin was at his booth, chatting with Aunt Ve, who was here spreading village goodwill in her role as village council chairwoman. Surprisingly, she and Terry were still on speaking terms after their somewhat-contentious breakup a couple of weeks ago. Terry, an Elvis lookalike, had donned a disguise for today's event. The wig of long white hair and fake beard made him look a little like one of the wizards from the
Lord of the Rings
.

The man knew how to do disguises right.

Aunt Ve and Terry had probably remained friends,
because they had both moved on from each other fairly quickly. Terry with Cherise Goodwin and Ve with Andreus Woodshall, who was often out of town. Thank goodness. I didn't quite know what to think of him, whether he was good or bad, because he was often both. For now, he made Ve happy and that was enough.

“All these other displays are so bright and colorful,” I said, my gaze skipping around the room. “Mine sticks out like a sore thumb.”

To the left of Harper's table, Baz and Vivienne Lucas stood in front of their booth, which was decorated to the nines with its
Breakfast at Tiffany's
theme. They'd designed the booth to make it appear as though it was
in
the famous window, on display. Delicate glass platters were loaded with pastries, Tiffany-blue disposable coffee cups were stacked next to several coffee carafes, and there was so much sparkle that it was nearly blinding. In front of the booth, Audrey rested on a blue dog bed, a jeweled tiara somehow fastened to the top of her head instead of her usual bow.

Next to them, with a less elaborate motorcycle-themed booth, my best friends, Starla Sullivan and her twin brother, Evan, who had Twink dressed in a sequined Evel Knievel–style jumpsuit, were putting the final touches on their display.

Starla and Evan were both Cross-Crafters, or Crossers as we called them around here. Half Wishcrafter, half Bakecrafter. With Crossers, one craft was usually predominant over the other. In the twins' case, Evan was a master baker but had issues granting wishes. Starla was the opposite.

It was Evan who was in charge of the booth all day, as Starla, a photographer who owned Hocus Pocus Photography, was freelancing for the
Toil and Trouble
newspaper today, taking photos of the show for next week's edition. Everyone was busy trying to get everything
just
right
before the doors opened to the public in little less than half an hour, and the judges started making rounds.

I glanced over my shoulder at the booth across from mine. A long table had been draped in several ruby-colored cloths that had coinlike tassels dangling from the edging, so Natasha Norcliffe had been here at some point. But she and the lovely Titania were currently nowhere to be seen, and I had to admit to being relieved. It was a welcome reprieve.

“That's why your booth works,” Harper said, twining a piece of orange ribbon around her long fingers. “It's unusual. Unique. Like you.”

I slid her a sideways glance. “Uh, thanks?”

Happiness glinted in her eyes as she laughed. “Unique is good. These are amazing paintings.”

It did my heart good to see her so content. A year ago, she'd been rather lost. We both had been. This village had anchored us, giving us roots to grow.

Although Harper still wasn't all that keen on using her Craft abilities, she'd embraced this village wholeheartedly. She'd bought Spellbound almost immediately after we moved here, and the bookshop was now thriving under her care. She had also fallen in love, not that she'd say so. Her stubbornness was legendary, and she'd probably rather suffer a vicious stomach bug than admit she might have been wrong about love and marriage.

Harper hated being wrong about
anything
.

Most of her life, she'd disavowed traditional relationship parameters. She ridiculed the idea of marriage. Called it imprisonment. But now that Lawcrafter Marcus Debrowski was in her life, Harper had begun to have an attitude adjustment.

If she still believed marriage was imprisonment, then she was well on her way to inviting Marcus to share her one-bedroom, one-bath cell, with cat hair included in the deal.

It was Marcus who was manning her bookshop today, as she was here at the Extravaganza and so were her usual part-time employees, Mimi Sawyer and Angela Curtis. I was surprised Harper hadn't yet called him eight times to check on the shop.

She was a bit of a micromanager.

The fact that she hadn't called just proved to me how much she trusted him, and I hoped he never took that for granted. Harper didn't trust easily.

My sister's praise of my artwork made me smile with pride. I had to admit, I was pleased with the way my display had turned out, but if you asked me, around here at the Extravaganza
unique
was not the preferred method of decor, and I rather wished I had been able to round up a bottle of glitter glue or
something
to make my display pop just a little bit more.

Critically, I once again studied my artwork, wondering if I could add something from Harper's table to the vignette. Some garland. Ribbon. Anything. Why hadn't I barged into Bewitching Boutique yesterday to beg Godfrey and Pepe for satin and sequins?

Because Godfrey was one of the judges for this contest, that's why. I hadn't wanted any link between my booth and his shop, so no one could accuse him of playing favorites. He knew I was working undercover, but we needed to keep up pretenses that I was just another contestant.

I'd been up most of the night hand-painting quotes about eyes onto eight canvases of varying sizes. I'd taken all of them over to Nick's wood workshop earlier this morning for his help in bracketing the canvases together to form one big collage that he'd mounted on a wooden stand. It was a freestanding piece, about six feet tall and four feet across.

Among many other quotes, I had used Henry David Thoreau's “It's not what you look at that matters, it's
what you see,” Roald Dahl's “Above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you,” Gandhi's “An eye for an eye only makes the whole world blind,” and “Eyes that do not cry, do not see,” which was a Swedish proverb.

Each saying was written on a canvas painted with an animal's face shown in profile with the focus being on its eye. I'd used the animals in my life as inspiration. Missy, Tilda, Higgins, Pie, Archie, Pepe, Mrs. P, and Twink.

“Darcy, how lovely!” a woman's voice said from behind me. “Your paintings are darling. These should be in a gallery, or at the very least, allow me to sell them on your behalf at the shop.”

I turned and found one of the Extravaganza's judges, Reggie Beeson, studying my display.

In her mid-seventies, Reggie had fair skin, blue eyes, henna-colored hair, apple cheeks, a narrow chin, and a beautiful smile, which had lost none of its luster, even though the right side of it drooped slightly, a result of the stroke she'd suffered last winter.

Although she was doing quite well with her recovery, her health was one of the reasons why she had recently decided to close up the Furry Toadstool to move to Florida to live with an elderly friend of her family who was in need of a companion. She was due to leave in a little over a week, and the village was going to sorely miss her—and also the pet shop as well. It was practically a landmark in the village, one of the oldest businesses in the square. There was a big block party happening the following weekend, a kickoff to summer planned by the village council, and it was the perfect time for all Reggie's friends to have the chance to say good-bye. I had the feeling it was going to be a bittersweet affair.

She stepped closer to my paintings, seemingly studying my brushstrokes. “Absolutely beautiful.”

“Thanks,” I said, unable to stop my grin.

“Told you,” Harper said as she wandered back to her table.

“Would you consider selling?” Reggie asked as she balanced her weight on a pink cane decorated in zebra stripes. Wrinkles pulled at the corners of her eyes. “My customers would love them.”

“Aren't you closing up shop soon?” I asked.

“One week,” she said on a bit of a wistful sigh as she bent to pat Missy. “But these drawings will sell quickly, long before the doors close for good.”

Reggie had kept the Furry Toadstool open longer than anyone had ever anticipated—she should have retired long ago. Aunt Ve suspected Reggie had kept the shop running as a tribute to her late husband, Samuel. Reggie had been a self-proclaimed spinster when she met Zoacrafter Samuel Beeson and fell in love at first sight. When he'd died more than a decade ago, Reggie inherited the shop. She had stepped in to fill his role, and had quickly become the heart of the store.

Missy, I noticed, perked up at Reggie's attention. The little dog wagged her stubby tail and drank in the affection that flowed naturally from Reggie—not because she was a Zoacrafter, a witch who had a magical way with animals like Samuel, but simply because she adored animals. Reggie had been a mortal when she married Samuel, but when he told her of his Craft, she'd become a Halfcrafter.

Missy's ebullience at seeing the woman might also be because Reggie always carried dog treats with her. Reggie didn't disappoint—she slipped her hand into her pocket and pulled out a treat. Missy lapped it up.

Reggie faced me. “What do you say, Darcy? Will you let me sell them? My commission will be minimal, I promise.”

I looked at the paintings. “Maybe. Let me think about it.”

“Just don't think too long.” With a smile, Reggie glanced at her watch. “I need to check in at the judges' booth, but you know where to find me, Darcy.”

Reggie limped away, and I smiled as I heard a dog bark upstairs at the front entry of the Wisp. It was a loud baritone woof that carried through the whole building.

Higgins.

I'd recognize that voice anywhere.

If the big Saint Bernard was here, that meant Mimi and Nick had finally arrived, too.

I'd bet they had glitter. . . . Mimi had gone all out for her display. In fact, she might be the one who'd depleted the village of all its sparkly notions.

“They are good enough to sell,” Harper said, returning to my side. “I'll buy the one of Pie.”