Legacy (10 page)

Blushing a little, I tried to forget my embarrassment and concentrate on moving the wainscoting.
Up
, I thought, and there it was, easy as pie. Then I pushed it toward Jonathan. It wobbled a little at first, dipping and veering off course once when I looked over at Agnes.

“Hold on to it, Katy,” Jonathan whispered. That brought my attention back to the piece of wood. “Right, girl. Put it in this slot here.” The wood moved into place with a satisfying
snick
. “There you go,” he said, nailing it in. “You’d make a fine carpenter, I’d wager.”

I was so pleased with myself that I focused back on the lumber and lifted the whole pile into the air, organizing it into a solid wall before sending it flying over to Jonathan. He laughed out loud and applauded.

“That will do, Katy,” Agnes said. “There is no need to show off.”

The wood clattered to the floor. “I’m sorry,” I said.

“You shouldn’t have spoken, Agnes,” Jonathan said with quiet authority. He was methodically putting the planks back in place against the wall. “The girl’s got a gift.”

Two red spots appeared on her cheeks. “Yes,” she said. “More than one. Come along, Katy.”

Jonathan’s hands were full, so he didn’t tip his hat, but he acknowledged her leaving with a nod. It was clear to me that they were in love with each other.

I was flushed and thirsty from my unexpected triumph with the wainscoting. Agnes gave me a glass of lemonade and a piece of cheese. “It’s important to eat something after doing magic,” she said. “Food brings you back.”

I knew what she was talking about. While I was pushing, I felt light. Light, and growing lighter by the second. It was almost as if I were disappearing, little by little.

“You are, first and foremost, a human animal,” she said. “Not a witch, not a mind, but a physical being. Don’t forget that,” she said.

“I won’t.” It seemed to be the perfect introduction to what I wanted to talk about, so I jumped right in. “Actually, that’s why I’m here,” I said, trying to hide my extreme discomfort. “Because I’m an animal. Er . . .”

She cocked her head.

“That is . . .”

She looked at me as if I were speaking Chinese. I supposed it hadn’t been a very good segue, after all.

“Is this about a boy?” she inquired.

Was I so obvious? “No,” I lied. “Of course not.”

“Who is he?”

“Peter Shaw.” So much for my expertise as a dissembler. “Do you think he’s gay?”

“Excuse me?”

I considered running, but I knew it wouldn’t do any good. One word from Agnes, and Jonathan would trip me up with a floating two-by-four. “Never mind,” I mumbled.

“Are you considering him as a love partner?” she asked.

I wished I’d never been born. A
love partner
. Old maid aunts actually thought in terms like that. This was all becoming a horrible dream.

“He’s cowen,” she said finally.

“No, he’s not. He was serving at the Halloween party, same as me. Isn’t that the litmus test—getting through the fog in the Meadow?”

“He gets in because of Hattie,” she said. “Peter is her ward. Once he’s of age, I doubt that he’ll ever find his way back.”

“But the Shaws are one of the twenty-seven families.”

Agnes stiffened. “Not that they’d ever admit it.”

“Does that matter? They’re the oldest family in Whitfield.”

“Not the oldest,” Agnes said archly. “Only the richest.”

“Does that matter?” I asked, wondering if there was some kind of reverse ratio between wealth and witchcraft.

“Of course not,” Gram said, shuffling excitedly into the room. She must have been listening at the door. “There’s no need to be bitter, Agnes.”

Agnes sniffed. “The Shaws have been denying their magical heritage for more than three hundred years,” she said.

“Nevertheless, they are still one of the families.”

“Only because their name is in the record,” Agnes insisted. “They have no magic.”

“But of course they do!” Gram said. “Serenity Ainsworth’s own daughter married a Shaw!”

“A Shaw who never changed his name,” Agnes muttered.

Gram waved her handkerchief weakly. “Yes. What a pity.” She turned to me. “That was Zenobia,” she explained. “She was one of twins, also. Zenobia and Zethinia. Our family often produces twins.”

“Zethinia fared better, I daresay,” Agnes said.

Gram shook her head. “Alas, the Ainsworth women always marry for love.”

“Why didn’t Mr. Shaw change his name?” I asked.

“Because they have never held to our ways,” Aunt Agnes bristled. “They
want
to be cowen.”

Gram uttered a little cry at that, as if Agnes had uttered a blasphemy. “Tragic,” she whispered.

“From all accounts, Zenobia Ainsworth was an exceptionally talented witch,” Agnes said. “I imagine she hoped that, by infusing her magical blood into the Shaw line, she and her husband might produce children with at least a portion of her ability.”

“It was she who embroidered the piece above the mantel in this house,” Gram said. “It is infused with knot magic.”

“Unfortunately, the Shaws did not appreciate the treasure that was Zenobia Ainsworth. In the end, the cowen drove her away.”

“Horrid people,” Gram agreed.

“Some of the Shaws inherited Zenobia’s talent with knots. They became clothing designers, fabric manufacturers, artists who work with string and cloth. Some of them are quite famous today. But none of them live in Whitfield.”

“So Peter does have magical blood,” I insisted.
And he’s also my relative
, I thought, if having a mutual ancestor 350 years ago counts. I decided it didn’t.

Agnes sighed. “Actually, Peter is a special case,” she said. “His father, Prescott Shaw, left him and his brother Eric in Hattie’s care before his death. The Shaw family was shocked by Prescott’s decision. They tried all sorts of ploys to get Peter away from Hattie, but Prescott’s will was airtight.”

“So they disinherited poor Peter,” Gram said. “He has no family except Hattie Scott now. And because he’s a male . . .” She shook her head.

“What’s wrong with him being male?” I asked.

“Well, the Shaw men have never exhibited much magical talent. They’re bankers, lawyers, financiers, that sort of thing.”

“Also big game hunters, soldiers, aviators and, allegedly, clandestine arms dealers.”

“Grandmother, we don’t know that.”

“Über-cowen,” I ventured. Gram nodded.

“So the possibility of Peter’s being magical is very remote,” Agnes continued, ignoring us. “Although not impossible. He
may develop some skills in the next year or so. Hattie’s been tutoring him, and she’s the best there is.”

“The strongest witch in Whitfield,” Gram said proudly.

“And she can give him magic?” I asked.

“Goodness, no. No one becomes a witch just because they want to. Some of us, like you, child, are born witches, with talents and abilities that manifest early. Others, with lesser gifts, learn to develop them through teaching and encouragement. But a person with no magical ability is destined to be cowen, even if he comes from one of the twenty-seven magical families.”

“So what happens then? To Peter?”

“I’m sure Hattie will succeed,” my great-grandmother said encouragingly.

“But what if she doesn’t?”

Agnes looked uncomfortable. She cleared her throat. “In that case, Peter will have to accept the life of cowen.”

I blinked. “You mean he’ll be sent away?”

“Cowen cannot be part of our lives,” Agnes said, gently but firmly. “We are too different from them. Those differences may not matter so much in youth, but later, they are nearly irreconcilable.”

“But my mother did it,” I said. “She married a . . . my dad.”

The two women gazed at me balefully. “And look what happened,” Gram said. “Zenobia also ended up with an unhappy life. Rather than infusing the Shaw line with magic, the opposite happened. The Shaws treated Zenobia like a pariah. She became known as a witch—the worst thing that can happen to us in cowen society. Her husband grew ashamed of her abilities, and left her. In time, her neighbors turned her in to the authorities. She would surely have been harmed, and
maybe even burned at the stake, if she hadn’t sought shelter in the Meadow.”

“The Meadow?”

“The fog,” she explained. “It’s a sanctuary. Cowen cannot penetrate it. When witches are inside the fog, we are on another plane. We are invisible to outsiders. That is why the fog appears on each of the eight Wiccan holidays. While we celebrate, we cannot be seen by the mass of men.”

“Does Peter know all this?” I asked.

“Of course. Hattie would be quite remiss if she did not prepare him for what may happen. What probably will happen.”

“He’ll be all alone,” I said, mostly to myself.

Gram patted my hand and said, “Try to understand, dear. It wouldn’t be good for anyone if you fell in love with Peter Shaw.”

“Hattie’s seen what’s been developing between you, and she’s spoken with Peter.”

“What?” My hands curled into fists. “I can’t believe this!”

“Peter knows he can never have you,” she said. “And he’s sensible enough not to try.” Deliberately, she put her hands over mine and brought them to my sides. “Even if you’re not.”

I cried so hard that night that the next day I looked barely human. All day long people asked me if I was sick, so I said I was. I showed up for Existentialism in Fiction wearing sunglasses. Mr. Zeller didn’t say anything. Maybe he thought I was just getting into the existentialist zone or something.

Peter didn’t sit near me. And he didn’t walk me to work afterward. Just like the beginning of school.

When I arrived for work, he was leaning against the counter, studying a notebook. It was the same one I’d found under the table the first time I’d come to Hattie’s.

“Hi, Peter,” I said, hanging up my coat. He may have agreed not to have anything to do with me, but I hadn’t.

“Aren’t you ever going to take off those shades?” he asked.

I didn’t want him to see how terrible I looked. “Light sensitivity,” I said glibly. “Doctor’s orders.”

“Okay.” I doubt if he believed me. “Katy . . .”

“Mmm?” I picked up a rag and pretended to wipe off the spotlessly clean counter.

“I wanted to walk you to work today.”

“It’s okay,” I whispered. Some things are just too complicated to discuss. “Let it be.” I reached for the notebook, which he’d laid on the counter. “Whatcha reading?”

He made a move to hide it from me but, realizing I’d already seen it, made do with an embarrassed shrug. “Binding spells,” he said. “Hattie’s been trying to teach me. I’m not very good, though.”

“It takes practice,” I said. Like I’m the big expert giving advice. I wanted to kick myself.

“
You
don’t have to practice,” he said.

“I don’t know any binding spells. I just cook, remember?”

“I think you could do anything.”

My heart must have stopped. It was hard for me to carry on any sort of conversation with him while I was looking at him, with his wheat-colored hair falling into his eyes and his lips parting over his perfect white teeth.

I realized that I’d been staring. My neck was getting tired from looking up at him, so I shifted my gaze onto the countertop. It didn’t make any difference. He even smelled wonderful.

“Hey,” he said softly, touching my chin. I had to look up into his eyes again. It was like falling into a pool of honey. He smiled, an easy, slow grin. “I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable,” he said.

“No, I . . .” I had to run a finger along the collar of my sweater. “I just . . .”

“Do you even know how good you are?”

I cleared my throat. Four or five times. I didn’t want to be
good
. I didn’t want to have powers if that meant I couldn’t be with him. “Um, why do you want to learn binding spells?” I asked, trying to talk about something besides my alleged talent at witchcraft.

He spread his hands, palms up. “Because they’re easy. At least that’s what Hattie says. Here, let me try one on you.”

“Bind away.” I held out my arms, wrists overlapping.

“Take these off first.” Before I could object, he removed my sunglasses. Terrific, I thought. Red eyes and no makeup. With my green irises and pallid, northeastern skin, I probably looked like the flag of Italy.

Now he was staring at me. “Witch eyes,” he whispered, still smiling. I tried to turn away, but with the gentlest pressure, he stopped me. “Beautiful and strange. One of a kind.”

I was trying hard to keep breathing.
Inhale, exhale . . .

“I can try the spell now,” he said.

“The . . .” But my throat had closed in a glottal stop, as if I were speaking some African language. So I just nodded.

He held out my arms, which had taken on the consistency of cooked spaghetti, then took a couple of steps backward and made a face.

“Are you all right?” I finally managed. He’d turned red and was panting.

“I’m concentrating,” he said.

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Do you feel it?”

“Feel what? Oh, the binding. Yes, I think so.” But that was only to be polite. Actually, all I felt was my arms getting tired. “Yes. Definitely.” My eyes were closed. I was trying to will myself to feel bound.

When I opened them, though, Peter was standing in front of me with his lips pursed and his hands on his hips. “You’re a terrible liar,” he said.

I felt crestfallen for him. “I just wanted it to work,” I said.

“Yeah, me too. I wish there was an incantation or something, like in books. Just concentrating is . . .”

“Vague, I know.”

“You either have it or you don’t. And I don’t.”

“That’s not true,” I said. “You can develop those abilities. Hattie’s a great teacher. She’s the strongest witch in Whitfield, and you’re practically her son.”

He looked at me from under his eyebrows. “You know about me, don’t you,” he said.

“No! Honestly . . .” But he knew I was lying again. “Okay, yes,” I admitted. “Some.”

“You know I’m cowen. By next year I’ll be thrown out of Old Town.”