Enchanted, A Paranormal Romance / Fantasy (Forever Charmed) (6 page)

Mandy’s fingers walked along the feathered edges and realized the fabric was indeed so frayed that it was no longer connected to the wood of the trunk itself. It had come apart ever so slightly, only allowing the very tips of Mandy’s fingers entrance. Mandy thought it could probably be fixed easily enough; her grandmother would know what to do. On the other hand, there was no pocket to be found…maybe Mandy would not mention the little tear to her grandmother. She could stash the image behind the fabric itself, no one any the wiser.

Mandy folded the paper into thirds, and began to maneuver it delicately under the silk fabric. She did not want to damage the heirloom anymore than it was already. The paper was being difficult, however. It simply did not want to slide easily behind the fabric as Mandy had assumed it would. She put her fingers under the little give that was there and tried to see if it was not being held to the wood in other spots. As she did this, her fingers brushed on something. It felt as though someone else had already found this hiding spot and claimed it as their own.

Paper of some sort was folded behind the fabric. Mandy dropped her own printout and began to try to get a grasp on what was behind the silk. It was pushed pretty far back. She walked over to her desk and started opening the drawers, looking for something, anything, with which she could lure the hidden contents out. A ruler! Mandy grabbed it and stuck it gingerly behind the fabric and up against the paper. She slid it towards the opening, slowly, trying not to put a run in the fabric or pull it off more from its resting place. The paper was acting agreeably and complied with the ruler, making its appearance after a moment of struggle.

What was before Mandy was not just one paper, but several, folded in thirds as Mandy had just folded her own. They were held together by a thin string, discolored as the paper was, from age. It was tied in a neat bow. Mandy wondered how long this string had done its duty by holding the stack neatly together. She was almost scared to touch it for fear it would disintegrate into dust before her very eyes, but she couldn’t escape the urge to do so anyway.

Mandy pulled on one edge of the string ever so slowly, all the while holding her breath for fear of breathing it into oblivion. No such thing happened though. The delicate little string must be sturdier than it looked. It came off easily, gladly even, bestowing to Mandy what it had held for so long in its clutches.

Eagerly, with shaking hands, Mandy unfolded the yellowed papers that felt stiff with age. It was obvious they had not been so much as touched in a very long time, never mind unfolded. Upon straightening out the first page she saw a date in elegant script written in the upper right hand corner. Letters. Notes. To who? From who? The lady on the trunk and on the tombstone? Mary Nasson? She scanned the page, observing the old-fashioned handwriting that adorned it, until she came to the bottom of the letter and saw the phrase “Ever yours, M. Nasson”.

Mandy could not stifle the gasp that forced its way from her mouth. She almost couldn’t believe her eyes. Was it possible she was dreaming? Maybe this whole move was one long dream. It did have a dreamlike quality to it. Too much weirdness had filled her days since coming here. It couldn’t be real, could it? Then why wouldn’t she wake up? Why was this dream going on for so long? She wished she could yell at herself, but she knew that wouldn’t do any good. If this was a dream and she hadn’t woken up yet, she doubted that she would be troubled in the least by her dream-self yelling at her.

Instead she unfolded the rest of the papers. More letters by the looks of them, all signed in the same manner. One page was different though. Clinging to the old paper were frail looking flowers, pressed and dried, glued presumably by M. Nasson to the paper for eternity. Mandy looked at this paper closer, curiously, and felt it in her hand. The paper was of good quality, heavy even, but yellowed with time. The colors of the flowers had faded she was sure, but they were still obvious and visible. Under each specimen was handwritten the scientific name and its common name. Under each of these entries was a third line of writing. Mandy couldn’t quite make out what it meant. She saw words like love, luck, friendship, but also backache, chills, headache, vomiting. It was so odd.

Mandy traced the flowers with her fingers, awed that each flower still had its downy softness about it after what must be so long. She could not stop herself from putting the paper up to her nose, even though she felt foolish doing so. She was glad she was alone in her room now. Logically, Mandy knew there was no way that these flowers would be able to hold on to their sweet aromas, but logically, none of this should even be happening. Mandy closed her eyes and sniffed a little sniff at first, and thought she caught a whiff of something. She inhaled deeper, positive now that she was smelling the flowers that were quite possibly hundreds of years old. Sweet as if they had just been plucked yesterday. Overpowering even. Mandy got the odd sensation that her room had suddenly been filled with wildflowers in bloom, so strong was the smell.
You are delusional, Mandy! Snap out of it!
She was angry at herself now, for giving in to this game of hallucinations. She was smarter than that. She didn’t believe in things like this. Impossible that these flowers, faded by age, could still smell so appealing. She opened her eyes and sniffed each again, each slightly different as should be the case with different varieties of flowers. The rose smelled sugary but with a bit of spice, pepper perhaps? The violet, more delicate but still hard to miss. The pansy smelled like summer should, warm and fresh. The daisy had a fresh bite to her. The morning glory seemed to hold in it the dew of so many sunrises past. There were still other varieties attached to the paper that Mandy was not entirely familiar with. They were all intoxicating.

Mandy thought she would like nothing more than to sit here and breathe in their delicate perfume all night, but she knew she needed to get to the letters as well. She took in one last breath and folded the paper back along its ancient creases and put it down gently in the trunk until later. As interesting as the flowers were, curiosity about the faded letters was getting the best of Mandy now.

Mandy eagerly reached for them, wondering what she would find as she read the outdated contents. Carefully, she opened the first one lying on top of the pile. The ink was faded, but the elegance and flourish in which the words had been laid were still intact. The date read May 12, 1769. Mandy felt her eyes bug out at the date. She did the math in her head quickly. It felt surreal to be holding something that had once been written by someone’s hand 240 years ago. Her brain tried to wrap itself around the idea that something so old could still even be in existence, but here was proof in her hand. Instinctively she loosened her grip on the paper, trying to handle it ever so delicately so as not to somehow send it crumbling into dust leaving her to wonder what secrets had been laid on its pages. The fact that maybe she should be reading these letters at a more proper, secure location rumbled in her brain. Mandy picked up the little bundle and took them over to her desk, switching on the lamp so she could get a clear look at the stack.

It has been so long since I have last lain eyes on you. I hope this letter finds you and Brother in good health and spirits. I am well. The spring weather has taken a firm hold on us here and shaken off winter’s icy grip with a vengeance. All is in bloom and beautiful. I have been up and down the seashore and wooded areas many times of late, collecting and pressing nature’s treasures for future references. Mother always said it should be written down for the coming generations.

Aye! The good townsfolk do not know what to make of me I fear! They are pleasant, that is a sure thing. The part that troubles me is that I cannot perceive if they are so because they are scared of me, or because they respect and like me. Fear not, there has been no negativity or threats, nor neither whispered suspicions. The people do find themselves upon my doorstep with their ailments, but I know not what to make of it as of yet. Husband says that I am simply a healer to them. He says they are lucky to have me as there is only one medical doctor in town and he’s not always readily available. The cases that are deemed most dire are always treated first and others must be forced to wait their turns. However, if they come knocking at my door, they are always warmly greeted and treated straight away, whether it’s a mere cut upon their finger or they show up with death himself breathing down their necks.

Oh, Lavinia! I know it is shameful of me, but I sometimes wish that I had not learnt the gift. I know it is right to carry on Mother’s work, but sometimes it is so tiresome. Sometimes I find myself wishing I was rather like you. Do not take this the wrong way, but you have such a simple hand to play, Lavinia. A quiet life, without secrets.

As always, my work is calling. I must hasten to it. Write soon, dear sister! I look forward to the day we might be together once more.

Ever yours,

M. Nasson

Mandy stared at the paper, feeling as if she was in a trance. She was very confused after reading the letter, but the one thing she was certain of was that there was more to this letter than just what it read. It talked of secrets and of being a healer. There was the part of writing it down for coming generations. It suddenly clicked together in Mandy’s head that the page of pressed flowers must be what was mentioned in the letter. Apparently there was something to this whole Mary Nasson thing, Mandy was sure. She unfolded all the letters and set them out, side by side, under the lamplight. There were eight of them.

Now that Mandy was scrutinizing them so closely, she realized that they weren’t all in the same handwriting. Each page was covered in an old-fashioned slant, with scrolls and loops flying off the letters, but the bottom signatures were different. Two more pages were signed M. Nasson, one signed Lavinia McNare, one signed simply Mother, and three more were not signed at all. In fact, now Mandy realized that those three pages were not letters at all, but looked more like recipes.
Weird
, she thought.
Then again, what’s not weird lately? Weird is my new normal.

My day was made much brighter as I received a letter from your gentle hands this morning. While I am reading it, I can almost believe I am back with you again instead of in this dreary town, which is now my home. Oh, Lavinia! I know I should not burden you so with my complaints, but I do so miss the old times. I will put on a brave face and only write you of happy things.

I have begun to make quite a reputation for myself here, sister. I have a steady stream of paying customers. It is not much, but it is something. Word is spreading of what I am capable of and I have even had some folks come in from Kittery to take advantage of my services. The people come for common things such as a headache, head colds, or toothaches, but also for more serious ailments, such as the feared Small Pox or respiratory problems. I know it is wrong to brag but so far I have had no causalities. I am proud to say all I have treated have made a full recovery.

Aside from health problems, the town folk turn to me with their woes and personal troubles in life. Now Sister, I most surely am not a miracle worker, but I have found much success in these areas as well. I feel my abilities must be growing. Being in a new climate I have found many new specimens from the usual. I have only just begun to discover what these treasures are capable of. The thought of what may lie ahead excites me.

There is but one in all of York who will not come near me. The good doctor is wary and keeps his distance. His wife has befriended me against his wishes. She sometimes works in the post office so we have worked up an acquaintance, as I am in and out frequently to pick up my blessed letters from you and Mother. She is quite interested in my work and I have begun to feel that perhaps she would like to learn the ways in order that the doctor may benefit from the knowledge. I am sure this is not something Dr. O’Leary would approve of so I have endeavored to steer Goody O’Leary away from my secrets.

Mandy folded this letter and put it on top of the first one. These letters were quite interesting even though Mandy got the distinct feeling that she was only tapping on the edge of a vast array of secrets. It was almost as if something was being shrouded in the letters. Something was being left out intentionally, but Mandy got the impression that the Lavinia written to in the letters was in on the secret, whatever it was. Mandy felt more determined than ever to get to the bottom of these letters.

Mandy moved on to the next one, the one signed Mother. This was much shorter, perhaps better classified as a note. It was written in elegant script as the others were but simply read:

June 8, 1774

Dear Daughter,

I have been to see Ophelia Jenks. She has delivered me some troubling news, which is why I hasten to write you. I fear for your safety Mary. Please take caution and heed this revelation with care. I am afraid Ophelia Jenks is concerned that you will fall prey to danger. All precautions must be taken against this. Certainly a bottle of Salted Primrose should be brewed and stored for safekeeping in times like these. Godspeed, Mary! My love is always yours,

Mother

Mandy tried to absorb the note and its clouded caution. The first thing that stuck out was the name Ophelia. An uncommon name and yet this was the second time she had run across it since being in York. Could the Ophelia in town be a descendent of this Ophelia Jenks? Mandy considered this and thought it would be a very odd coincidence if this wasn’t the case. This Ophelia Jenks mentioned in the letter was said to deliver troubling news. The word “deliver” seemed to roll around Mandy’s brain like a silver ball in a pinball machine. Deliver…in order to deliver something a person had to have it in their possession…so Ophelia Jenks must have somehow known Mary would be in danger…but how would someone know that unless they were some type of psychic or the one planning on fulfilling the prophecy? The Ophelia in town claimed to be psychic. Wasn’t being psychic supposedly a “gift” passed on through generations?