Sorcery and the Single Girl (5 page)

But I wasn’t an orderly witch. I wasn’t even and heavy, passive and calm.

By nature, I was a wilder person, a more tumultuous worker of magic. By comparison, I was a comfortable hometown bookstore more than an academic library. I was a series of rooms holding hidden treasures, nooks and crannies, where someone was likely to find an overpadded reading chair and a dozing marmalade cat. I was carefully controlled chaos, not perfect organization.

I laughed out loud as I shaped the citrine. I spread its force over the book like a bibliophile unpacking a treasure trove of boxes. I had
fun
at the edges, stacking new thoughts, new powers, new books into complex designs. I complemented the brass hinges, mirrored the metal lock. I thought of every bookstore I’d ever visited in my life, every sudden discovery of a literary treasure, every serendipitous find in a lifetime of browsing.

The citrine responded well to my lighthearted approach. It captured my sense of goodwill, my hope, my optimism, and let itself be shaped. I could not say how long I worked with the stone, how many times I checked my design, modified my wrapping.

But I knew when I was done. I knew when the package said exactly what I wanted it to say. I knew when the
Illustrated History of Witches
had been transformed into something that was my unique offering, my special gift.

I opened my eyes at last. I saw Neko step away from me, watched him shrug his shoulders, regain his own balance and sense of self. I looked down at my gift, at what seemed to be an ordinary green-bound book, with an ordinary yellow stone sitting on its cover.

And then I looked at David.

He was staring at me. His lips were frozen in a bemused smile; his eyes were locked on mine. He scarcely seemed to acknowledge the book between us.

“What?” I said, and my voice was too loud for the room.

“Nothing,” he said, but he didn’t stop looking.

“Why are you staring at me that way?”

“You never fail to surprise me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s just say that I don’t think anyone has ever presented Teresa Alison Sidney with a gift precisely like this one.”

“What do you mean?” Suddenly, the goodwill from the citrine dissipated, became a melody that I could remember humming but couldn’t sing out loud for the life of me. I clutched the edges of the book, recognizing what I had created but suddenly doubting what I had done. “I should have gone with the library, right? I should have made it perfect.”

“You did make it perfect,” David said. “Perfect for you.”

I didn’t believe him, though. “It’s not right, is it? I should do something else. Use my powers another way.”

“I wouldn’t let you, even if you tried.”

“You’re my warder! You’d have to!” Self-doubt sharpened my voice.

David only smiled. “Trust me. I know what’s best for you here. What’s best for your safety. What’s best for your life as a witch.”

“And this is best?” I felt like a child, like a little girl, suddenly unsure of herself in patent-leather Mary Janes and corded tights.

“This is best,” David said. “The best that I can imagine you ever doing.”

I tried to believe him, but I wished that I was meeting with Teresa Alison Sidney then. That very afternoon. I wasn’t sure that I could stand to wait six long days.

Neko stepped forward, planting his hands on the book stand. “Well,
I
can’t imagine going one more minute without something to eat. Preferably shrimp. With a side of crab salad.”

I laughed unsteadily and let my familiar lead the way upstairs to the kitchen. I resisted the urge to look over my shoulder at the citrine-wrapped
Illustrated History of Witches.

I
stared balefully at the pile of clothes on my bed. I had come home from work at six o’clock and immediately discarded my layers of colonial clothing: hoops, jacket, petticoat, neck kerchief, sleeve ruffles. All were lying on top of my comforter, competing with each other to develop the deepest, most hard-to-press wrinkles.

On top of my costume lay dozens of other outfits—skirts, blouses, T-shirts, slacks—all in black. After all, black was basic. Black was dramatic. Black was sexy.

And I had enough to choose from. I had clingy black and sloppy black, goth black and elegant black, temptress black and too-fat black. I’d spent the evening combining separates that had no business being in the same closet together, much less on the same body. I’d dug out clothes that I hadn’t worn since I’d last tried to drag Melissa to clubs, over a decade ago. I even tried the outfit that used to be my favorite one for work, before I was forced into the finest that Martha Washington had to offer.

Nothing was right for my date with Graeme Henderson. Nothing conveyed the energy that I wanted, the carefree, devil-may-care insouciance of a girl meeting a guy for late-night coffee.

(Who drank coffee at night, anyway? What sort of strange relationship disaster was I setting myself up for?)

Frustrated, I collapsed on my bed and stared at my nearly empty closet. If I were going to a formal dinner party, I was all set—I still had the emerald sheath dress that Neko had chosen for me last year, the one that was shot through with golden threads, the one that had made me feel like a princess at the Concert Opera Guild Harvest Gala. Somehow, though, I thought that was a bit much for a Wednesday-night get-together.

Green, though. A shot of color. Maybe that’s where I was going wrong. Maybe I should look at the five percent of my wardrobe that
wasn’t
black.

I tugged open my dresser drawers and dug to the bottom of a pile of T-shirts. (Yes, I needed four black ones. What girl didn’t?) The tourmaline blue had been a gift from Melissa; I’d teased her at the time that she’d chosen it because it would look great on her. She hadn’t appreciated my sense of humor.

I pulled the seamless garment over my head and checked in the mirror. It was streamlined, sleek. It looked as cool as the water in a swimming pool, promising a refreshing splash on a sweltering summer night.

And there. In my closet. A sapphire skirt. Now that I thought about it, the skirt had also been a present from Melissa. Maybe she was sending me a message. Maybe she thought that I needed to change up my wardrobe a bit.

In this instance, though, I couldn’t argue. The T and the skirt worked perfectly together. They combined to look cool and breezy, fresh. It seemed, in fact, that I’d simply reached for two garments readily at hand, tossing on any old thing, because what girl has time to fuss with getting dressed? No one would be able to tell that I had decimated my wardrobe to get to this point.

Next up: hair. I could take a quick shower and blow-dry my unruly auburn mop. Years of experience, though, told me that I’d be fighting fate. The dryer would take nearly half an hour, and my hair would frizz in the late-August heat within seconds of my stepping outside. I decided not to fight reality. A simple barrette would keep my mane off my neck.

I ducked into the bathroom and washed my face. Continuing my theme of summer simplicity I decided to do without a full makeup session. A bit of blush, a hint of indigo eye liner, a dash of lipstick.

Enough. This was a date. Not a marriage proposal. The paparazzi weren’t going to be anywhere in sight.

I grabbed my clutch purse from my dresser and slipped into comfortable, flat sandals. Graeme Henderson might have been the most interesting man I’d met in months, but I wasn’t going to waste the pain of high heels on him. Especially not when I was walking to the restaurant, walking over the scenic cobblestones that still lined many of Georgetown’s streets.

I got to the front door before my plan fell apart.

“Sneaking out?” Neko chuckled from one of the hunter-green couches. I’d been so intent on leaving that I hadn’t noticed him. Him, or Jacques.

“Not sneaking at all!” I said defensively, looking furtively at the door.

Neko had been resting his head in Jacques’s lap, but now he scrambled upright. “Where are you going?”

“Out.”

Neko pouted. “I bet you wouldn’t answer your grandmother that way.”

“You’d lose your bet.”

Jacques stepped in before Neko could complain again. “You look quite lovely thees evening, Jane.” His accent was strong in the living room’s dim light, and I smiled at the Gallic softening of my name, despite myself. What
did
that French hottie find in Neko? Especially given my familiar’s rather, um, unorthodox housing arrangement and his invisible means of financial support? Oh well—the things we do for love. Or at least for strong, mutual physical attraction….

Jacques asked, “Who ees the lucky man?”

“Who says there’s a lucky man?” I answered too quickly.

“Any man who will dine with you ees lucky. And at nine-thirty. I am turning you eento a proper French girl.”

“It’s not dinner,” I said, although my stomach chose that moment to grumble and remind me that I hadn’t actually eaten after work. “Just coffee. And dessert.”

Neko pounced. “Food. Drink. It
is
a date, then. Where?”

“Bistro Francais,” I said. After all, they’d get the information out of me eventually.

“Ah,
bon!
” Jacques exclaimed. “They are open until the earliest hours of the morning. Perhaps Neko and me, we will come weeth you?” He nodded, as if this were the most brilliant idea he’d ever conceived. “We will join you there. Make sure that thees man you see ees a good one.”

“No!”

I thought of the silver-lined card tucked beneath my mattress, the card that Melissa had made me promise to keep secret from Neko. Even greater than the promise, though, was my terror of the very real romantic damage my familiar could do if he put his mind to it. In fact, even if he didn’t—Neko had a knack for saying precisely the wrong thing at the wrong time. Graeme would flee the bistro in short order if Neko had anything to do with orchestrating my love life.

My familiar hid a delicate yawn behind his hand. “Are you ashamed of us, Jane, or are you ashamed of your mystery man?”

I felt the walls closing in on me. But then, like a ray of sunshine slicing through a fog bank, I saw a way to escape. “If you must know, I’m meeting Melissa. She wanted to keep it secret. We’re going to try the desserts at the Bistro, to see if there’s anything she should duplicate for Cake Walk. We’ll be there, sort of in disguise.”

Both Neko and Jacques deflated at Melissa’s name. After a moment’s blessed silence, though, Neko twitched his nose, as if he could smell my lie. “Melissa? Sampling Bistro Francais at nine-thirty at night? Doesn’t she have to be at her own bakery by four in the morning?”

“All the more reason—they’ll never suspect their competition,” I said, trying not to sound desperate. “Please, Neko.” I looked pointedly at Jacques. “The last thing I need is to have her angry, when she’s trying to go unnoticed.”

Jacques let out a long Gallic sigh, as if all the chateaux in France were weighing on his shoulders. “Poor Meleessa. I never meant…” He sighed again.

Neko stroked the poor Frenchman’s hair, flashing a look to me that implied I had overstepped my bounds. “Go on, then,” he grumbled. “Go enjoy your tarts.”

I thought about challenging his tone, but I realized that I’d won the battle. Waggling my fingers in the guys’ general direction, I ducked out the door, pulling it shut behind me.

Time was running short; I had to hurry through the heavy August night. The sun was still setting late; a faint hint of crimson afterglow remained in the sky. Despite the hour, heat shimmered off the sidewalk, and I wondered once again why our founding fathers had insisted on building their capital on a swamp.

When I was a block away from the Bistro, I stopped to catch my breath. I glanced at my watch—9:25. Perfect timing. I didn’t want to get there too early, but I didn’t want to be late. Receptive, I wanted to project. Open. But not eager. Not needy.

I resisted the urge to run my fingers through my hair. I even managed not to nibble at the nails on my right hand. I took three quick breaths to calm myself, and then I walked the last block to the restaurant.

“Bonsoir, madame,”
the maître d’ said, his accent challenging Jacques’s for Continental grace.

“Um, hello.” I said. “I’m meeting someone here, at nine-thirty.”

“You are Meess Madison?” I nodded. “Right thees way.”

Graeme stood as the maître d’ escorted me to one of the booths in the back. The dining room was well lit, hardly a secret, romantic getaway, but Graeme had contrived to secure a quiet corner. Facing his movie-star good looks once again, I found my breath catching in my throat. His smile lit a tiny fire deep beneath my breastbone, and he said, “I’m so pleased that you could make it.”

Before I had a chance to worry about how to greet him, he stepped closer and leaned down, kissing me lightly on my cheek. I breathed in the scent of him—fresh air, with just a hint of evergreen—cool and quiet on a summer night. His greeting was more intimate than a handshake, more alluring than Jacques’s Continental two-cheek kiss. And it was infinitely more satisfying than the awkward dances I shared with David.

Graeme waved me to my seat, waiting until I was settled before he sat across from me. I cleared my throat and said, “I hope that you didn’t have any trouble finding this place.”

“None at all. I’m learning my way around.”

“How long have you been in the States?”

“For quite a few years, actually. I’m based here now, although my business takes me back to London regularly.”

I resisted the urge to fiddle with my silverware. Instead, I forced myself to look at him, to take in his open expression, the perfect bow of his lips. Maybe, just maybe, I could inoculate myself. If I stared at him long enough, often enough, I might become accustomed to his breathtaking appearance.

Yeah, right. Or maybe I’d just let the conversation lag so completely that I’d be embarrassed to ever say anything else, to even try to get it moving once again. “Business!” I said, clutching at a conversational straw. “Your card said Acquisitions. Are you a lawyer?”

I caught my breath, waiting for the answer. Please-don’t-be-a-lawyer. Please-don’t-be-a-lawyer. Don’t be anything like Scott Randall. Don’t be anything like my failed romances of the past.

“Hardly.” His eyebrows arched into an expression that would have been a sneer of disgust on a less refined face.

“I mean, a solicitor. Or a barrister. Or whatever they’re called.”

“They’re called both, for somewhat different services. And I assure you, I stay as far away from the law as I possibly can.”

I laughed at his rakish grin. “That makes you sound positively dangerous.”

“I can be,” he purred, and his smile was so intimate that I forgot to breathe.

“Madame. Monsieur.”
I jumped as a waiter made his presence known. The man wore a white apron, and he had a harried expression on his long, droopy face. “Will you be dining with us this evening?”

My belly reminded me that it had been sent to dress without any supper, but I firmly squelched a positive reply. Graeme said, “Just dessert, thank you.”

The waiter barely stifled a sigh, but his eyes looked deeply pained. If he were an animal, I was certain he’d be a basset hound. A depressed one. “I’ll bring the cart.”

“Poor man,” Graeme said as soon as the waiter was out of earshot. “I didn’t realize that the Hundred Acre Wood had shipped out poor Eeyore to wait tables at the Bistro Francais.”

I laughed despite my nerves. “I suppose he was planning on earning a monster tip, hoping we’d order a five-course supper.”

“Alas for him. But ‘how shalt he hope for mercy, rendering none?’”

My jaw dropped. I mean, it was one thing for the man to know Prospero’s line from
The Tempest;
the play was performed all the time. But
Merchant of Venice?
And then, to temper the knowledge of Shakespeare by mentioning my childhood favorite, sagging old Eeyore…My heart swelled inside my chest.

I was spared the need for a witty Elizabethan rejoinder because the basset hound returned with the dessert cart. We were treated to a desultory explanation of the treats—almond cake, baba au rhum, chocolate éclairs, a towering croquembouche, triplets of tiny fruit tarts, crème caramel, napoleons, Strasbourg cake, St. Tropez cake, profiteroles…I gained five pounds just listening to the list.

When the waiter finished his recitation, Graeme waved an inviting hand toward the cart. “What pleases you?” he asked.

Oh so many things, I thought.

Melissa had a long set of rules about foods to eat on dates. I needed to avoid anything that would squirt onto my clothes, anything that would leave seeds in my teeth, anything that would be difficult to cut on a slippery plate with the small fork that would likely be my only utensil. What did that leave? And what could I choose that wouldn’t make me feel that I had betrayed Cake Walk?

Charmingly, Graeme misread my indecision. He said to the waiter, “Why don’t you bring us a few things. The almond cake, and the chocolate éclair, profiteroles, and…?”

He quirked an eyebrow toward me. How did he maintain his quarterback physique, eating multiple desserts? I hadn’t had any dinner, though, so I could splurge. Throwing Melissa’s cautions to the winds, I said, “The fruit tarts!” They were likely to slip about when I tried to cut them into bites, and the berries posed a threat to my otherwise gleaming smile, but I was willing to live life dangerously.

“And the fruit tarts,” Graeme told the hound. “And a decaffeinated coffee for me, with a Grand Marnier. Jane?”

“Decaf, also.” The waiter nodded and started to wheel his cart away. “And a Baileys!” I called, abandoning the last of my common sense. He nodded and sighed, as if I had just sentenced his youngest child to a lifetime banishment in the barbarian wilds outside the city walls. I settled back in the booth. “Mmm,” I said. “This is so decadent!”