Joy of Witchcraft (7 page)

“And have you chosen a place, dear?” Gran asked around a mouthful of bacon.

I had. But I needed to get her permission. And I was surprised by how nervous the thought made me. “The Farm,” I said.

“That makes sense,” Clara chimed in readily. “It’s always easiest to plan something where you’re already living.”

I shook my head. “Not that farm. Gran’s property. Up in Connecticut.”

Clara’s lips pursed into a surprised O. The Farm had been in Gran’s family for centuries. I’d visited for family gatherings throughout my childhood. Clara, of course, had missed decades of trips to the Farm, when she’d been living her own life, far from responsibility and tradition.

But I hadn’t chosen the Farm because I wanted to rub Clara’s nose in her absence. I’d chosen it because I’d always loved the place. Now that I understood my magical heritage, I knew I’d been primed for witchcraft on the Connecticut property. I’d learned to pour power into the marble stone on the ancient farmhouse’s threshold, reciting a “tradition” (not a spell, never a spell) that Gran had taught me when I was just a little girl. I’d absorbed the placement of the woods, the planting of protective herbs and flowers—all the details that made the Farm a perfect refuge for witches, even when I hadn’t known I was one.

“But, dear, you haven’t been up there since…” Gran trailed off, apparently deciding it might not be a good idea to remind me about one of my famously disastrous romantic relationships. But I was prepared for that argument.

“That’s exactly why I
do
want to go back. I’ve loved the Farm since I was a little girl. I want to build new memories there, good ones. And I want David to understand more about our family.”

Gran rushed to reassure me. “That’s sounds perfect, dear. How many people are you thinking of inviting? We can host a lot at the house, and there are always bed and breakfasts nearby for overflow.”

“I haven’t added up the list yet. Between family, and people from the Peabridge, and now the magicarium…”

“Just make sure it’s a prime number,” Clara asserted, reaching across to spear one of Gran’s sausage patties.

“A prime?” Even as I asked the question, I knew I’d regret the answer.

“Absolutely. Everyone knows that a prime number of guests reflects the unique nature of your relationship. If you get married with a prime, then you’ll never get divorced.”

I wanted to know how many guests had attended Clara’s wedding to my long-fled father, but I knew that would only open an entire cargo ship of worms. Nevertheless, I couldn’t keep from asking a single honeyed question. “Is it the number of people you invite that matters? Or the number of people who actually show up?”

I must have hit the perfect pitch of curiosity and respect, because neither my mother nor my grandmother bristled. Instead, Clara said with absolute certainty, “The number of people who show up, of course. What matters is who witnesses the actual union.”

Great. According to Clara’s batty concept of magic, I should keep a cadre of second-tier guests in reserve, in case I needed people to round out the ranks to a sacred prime number at the last moment. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said again. The words came more easily the second time.

David’s paternoster continued to work its magic, because Clara didn’t miss a beat when she asked, “Have you decided on the wedding party?”

“Melissa will be my matron of honor, of course.”

“Of course,” Gran and Clara agreed at the same time. My grandmother subdued another strawberry before she asked, “Where
is
Melissa? I thought she was joining us for brunch today.”

“She was. But Rob’s been tied up on a huge litigation matter ever since they got married. This is the first weekend day he’s had off in a month, so she texted me this morning and begged off.” And I understood that. Really, I did. But a part of me had wanted to type back that
I
hadn’t seen
her
in every bit as long.

Married life had done strange things to my relationship with my best friend. I was happy for her; of course I was. But we had yet to celebrate Melissa’s wedding—no Mojito Therapy in the six weeks since she and Rob had run off and tied the knot. Not that a marriage should require
therapy
. What I really meant was that I longed to toast Melissa’s marriage—just like we’d toasted a million things in the past. Strong drinks, good food, and talking until we’d both gone hoarse. Was that too much to ask of a best friend?

It wasn’t Melissa’s fault, not at all. And it certainly wasn’t Rob’s. I’d been every bit as busy as they had been. But there was something wrong when I’d been wearing an engagement ring for six weeks, and my best friend still hadn’t seen the diamond.

Gran must have sensed my disturbance, because she offered up the best salve around—a slice of bacon from her plate. It was salty and thick and chewy and smoky all at the same time, a bite of meaty heaven. Gran nodded in complete understanding of my groaned bliss before she asked, “And David’s best man?”

“I don’t know,” I said, struck by the oddness of that statement. “He’s got two younger brothers, but I haven’t actually met them. There are the other warders at the Academy, but they’re more co-workers than friends. I don’t know,” I said again, and I shoved down a queasy roll of my belly.

No, that wasn’t a warning sign that anything was wrong between David and me. It was simply a statement that orange juice and Dutch Apple Baby and bacon were a little too much to eat for breakfast. Really. That was the only problem.

Gran breezed past my uncertainty. “Well, let me know when he’s made up his mind. I have a little something I’d like to do for the wedding.”

My grandmother had been my support system for years; she’d nurtured me through my tortured teens, through all those college years when I couldn’t decide what I wanted to be when I grew up. Gran had the proverbial determination of a bulldog and the legendary patience of a saint.

But she made some terrible choices when it came to wedding festivities. Witness the orange and silver bridesmaid dress I’d worn to her own wedding, the one with a gigantic lamé bow across my butt, with dyed-to-match Gatorade-colored shoes. And
that
crime against the senses had been accomplished with Neko at her side, offering the best of his fashion guidance. I trembled to think of what Gran might come up with on her own. Offering a sickly smile, I said, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Keep what in mind?” Clara asked. “You don’t even know what your grandmother is planning.”

So much for David’s panacea.

I shook my head, as if I’d just been momentarily distracted. Bride’s prerogative and all that. “I’m sorry, Gran. What ‘little something’ were you talking about?”

She wiped her fingers off on her napkin and reached for her handbag. “Just a little something I came across in a knitting magazine.”

“I didn’t know you knit!”

“I haven’t done it in years,” Gran said, producing a sheaf of papers. “But Uncle George’s hair is awfully thin on top… I couldn’t bear the idea of him shivering through another winter so I knitted him a hat. And I had yarn left over, so I made him a matching scarf, even though I needed to buy more yarn to finish it. And then I started in on gloves to use up the extra, but I miscalculated and only had enough for one. So I bought more yarn and made mittens too. And, well, I’ve been having so much fun!” I wondered how much money she’d spent on yarn. She unfolded the magazine pages and passed them across the table with a proud smile.

A hat, scarf, gloves, mittens—we probably wouldn’t need any of that stuff in September. Gran could choose whatever colors she wanted, and I could pretend to be thrilled. I’d never have to wear the resulting horror.

But Gran was proudly passing me a pattern for a… Well, a… For something that… “I’m sorry, Gran. What
is
that?”

“Why it’s a cummerbund, dear. See? There are little knotted buttons at the back; they slip into the holes just so. I found the perfect yarn—it has an amazing sheen. When it knits up, it practically
sparkles
. You’ll have to let me know, as soon as you settle on colors for the wedding.” As a terrifying afterthought, she added, “I think I’ll stick with clear crystals on the edges. Anything else might look a little tacky.”

Tacky. That was one word for it. My mind immediately supplied a few others: Horrific, godawful, atrocious.

I was still floundering for an appropriate response when Clara said, “How wonderful! What a shame, though, that Jane and Melissa won’t have anything to match. But there are only so many things one woman can knit!”

“Nonsense!” Gran said. “There’s plenty of time between now and Mabon.”

“I don’t want you working too hard, Gran,” I rushed to assure her. “The last thing you need is for your arthritis to flare up.”

“My doctor says knitting is
good
for my bones! Keeps ’em moving, anyway. And counting the pattern keeps my mind sharp.” She stared over my shoulder, as if she were studying the knitting library of the gods. “I do believe I’ve seen patterns for some knitted jewelry that could be stupendous. A choker for each of you girls. And matching bracelets. No rings of course, that wouldn’t work. Not for a
wedding
.”

“No,” I sad weakly. “Not for a wedding.”

Gran clapped her hands together. “This will be perfect! I can’t wait!”

The waitress chose that moment to return, and I could have kissed her for sparing me the need to summon a more credible level of enthusiasm. “Can I box that up for you?” she asked, looking at our half-empty plates.

“Oh no!” Gran exclaimed. “We’re still eating!”

At least,
she
was. I couldn’t imagine touching food again for a week. That was fine, because Gran kept me busy, peppering me with more questions about the wedding.

No, I hadn’t looked at bridesmaid dresses yet. I’d only seen Melissa
in
a dress a handful of times in all the years I’d known her. She was much more of an overalls sort of girl. At least I knew I wouldn’t curse her with a bow on her behind. (No. I didn’t say that last bit to Gran. But I thought it very loudly.)

I hadn’t looked at invitations either. I knew I should send out save-the-date cards, because autumn was a busy time for most people, with kids starting school and adults getting back to work after summer vacations. But designing invitations raised a whole raft of difficult questions. Would I include Uncle George’s name along with Gran’s? Clara’s? (No. I didn’t say that last bit to anyone. I was only brave enough to think it to myself, to ask the questions about who I was, who was family, what it meant to be abandoned by my mother for decades.)

I was up in the air about colors, too. Traditional Mabon hues reflected the harvest—red and orange and yellow, the colors of changing leaves. But my favorite color was purple; I’d loved it since I was a little girl. Every time I thought of combining purple with the standard Mabon shades, I had twitchy flashbacks to my days as a bridesmaid for Gran. Orange and purple might be worse than orange and silver. (What sort of idiot do you think I am? Of course, I didn’t say that.)

Ring-bearer, flower girls, ushers, readers… I hadn’t focused on any of those.

Gran leaned across the table, pushing aside her ravaged plate, with its lone surviving strawberry weeping in a pool of blueberry syrup. “Jane, dear, you know you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I know Melissa’s family put ridiculous pressure on her for
her
wedding. We certainly don’t mean to do the same thing to you. Even if it means forgetting about knitting the cummerbunds, I’ll do whatever you want me to do.”

Ah, the temptation…

But I told Gran the truth. Almost all of it, anyway. “I’m not Melissa. And you’re not insane like her family, like Rob’s. I
want
a traditional wedding. I’m having fun thinking about all of this. But it all seems so far away. And with the new semester officially starting last Friday… All my energy has been devoted to that. Now that classes are under way, I’ll have a little more time. I learned a lot about how to teach with Emma and Raven.”

Clara swelled with pride. She was the one who had sent my first students to me, even though I hadn’t expected them, even though I hadn’t been prepared. “How
are
those two?”

“Fine,” I said. “Better than fine, actually. Emma’s still dating Rick Hanson, that firefighter she met over the summer. And Raven…” I trailed off, trying to come up with something positive about the flashy witch.

“I just
knew
they were what you needed! I follow your horoscope every day, you know. And when I read, ‘Now is the time to try something new. You’re stronger than you think you are,’ I knew it was a sign to send you students.”

It couldn’t have been a sign to start a weight-lifting class at the local gym? Before I could patch together an appropriately snark-free response, my phone rang with the special tone I’d set for Neko. I scrambled for it, relieved to escape the current conversation. “Hey,” I said. “What’s up?”

“You need to come home,” Neko said.

My throat turned into a desert. “Is the satyr back?” I didn’t care if any mundanes heard me. They’d never believe I was talking about a real satyr.

“No,” Neko said hurriedly. “It’s David.”

“What about him?”

“He’s moving things. Into the vault. Into his old office.”

I heard Neko’s warning, loud and clear in what he didn’t say. David had used that office when we were first under attack by Pitt. At the time, I hadn’t understood the depth of hatred between the men. I hadn’t seen the warning signs that David was obsessed with his old enemy, spending hour after hour in his office, tracking transactions and plotting out data. I’d almost been too late at discovering David’s compulsions. He’d almost gone mad.

“What things, Neko?” My voice was tight.

“The entire Osgood collection. And he won’t let anyone help.”

I winced, picturing the deep purple bruises on his torso. He shouldn’t be moving books. He shouldn’t be out of bed. “Tell him to wait until I get there. Make him stop, Neko.”

“I’ll do my best. Just hurry.”

Gran and Clara were already waving me toward the restaurant’s door by the time I hung up the phone. It was my turn to pay for brunch, but that didn’t matter. They were witches. They understood that our warder needed me. And I might already be too late.