Gone With the Witch (16 page)

“Ten million,” I supplied. “Glinda told me.”

“Yes. I deserve that money after what he put me through.”

“Hmmph,” Ve said. “I think you're going easy on him. If he cheated on me like that, I'd slice off his—”

My cell phone rang, cutting off Ve, thank goodness. I pulled it from my pocket. “It's Nick.”

I took the call in the kitchen, and Titania followed me.

“I'm wrapping up here at the Lucases',” he said, “and just had a call from Natasha's sister, Alina Norcliffe. She's in the village, staying at Natasha's for a few days. She asked about Titania.”

The cat twined around my legs. “She did?”

“I had to tell her where she was. I'm sorry.”

“No, it's fine.” I vigorously rubbed a spot on the kitchen counter. “It's probably best I go talk to her, get this over with.”

“I thought you'd say that, so I set up a time for you to meet her. Two, this afternoon, at Natasha's.”

My heart sank. “Oh. So soon.”

“If that doesn't work, you can reschedule. . . .”

“It works, it's just . . .”

“Darcy?” The tenderness in his voice was like a hug. “Are you okay?”

“Sure,” I said, lying.

“Darcy.”

“I'll be okay.”

“All right,” he relented. “I'll be done here soon. Do you want to meet at the Wisp in an hour?”

“Definitely. How are things there?”

“Not finding much at all. The neighbors say Baz has been in and out, acting strange by sneaking around the house, like he was hiding from someone.”

“Hiding from who?” I asked. “You?”

“I don't see why. He was willing to talk with us last night. I have a call into his lawyer to set up another meeting.”

“Maybe hiding from Vivienne?” I whispered so she wouldn't overhear me.

But no, that didn't make sense, as she had moved out and made it clear she wasn't going back.

“No clue,” Nick said. “I'll ask when I see him. I've got to go. See you soon.”

As I headed back to the family room, I could think of only one other reason why Baz would be acting the way he was.

If he was scared.

Not of Vivienne.

But of becoming the next victim.

O
nce I confessed to Vivienne that Nick was executing a search warrant on her house because of Baz's relationship with Natasha, she had grabbed Audrey and hightailed it out of here faster than I could say boo. There had been no explanation to Ve or me where she was going.

I was curious whether she was on the hunt for Baz—to kill him for dragging her into this situation—or was she headed to the police? Did she have information that would potentially help Nick's case?

Time would tell.

Ve had quickly exited the house as well, feeding me an excuse about a pressing village matter she had to tend to.

I recognized avoidance when I saw it.

She didn't want to talk to me about the Lunumbra spell and why she'd been casting it only on me.

Fine. I was a patient witch. I could wait.

I'd called Glinda to let her know I'd be getting the spy pen soon, and since I had time to kill, I headed up to my bedroom, passing Tilda at the top of the staircase. I took a moment to give her some love, and she mustered up a faint purr for me, for which I was grateful. It could just as easily have been a bite.

She and I had a complicated relationship.

She joined Titania and Missy as we trooped into my bedroom like some kind of ragtag conga line.

Recognizing that I was a little on edge, I turned to the one thing that usually settled me down quickly.

My art.

I'd been working on that family portrait for Harper for a long while now, and I hadn't yet finished the piece. An hour wasn't much time, but it would be enough to make a decent dent.

I carefully withdrew the gray sheet of paper from the large zippered portfolio I stored under the bed. I'd taken liberties with the drawing, carefully crafting the images of my mother and father and Harper and me in the present day. We all sat on a bench in front of a weeping willow tree, my father smiling as he watched my mother laughing, Harper looking at her with her heart in her eyes, and me grinning ear to ear. If my parents were still alive, I imagined this was exactly how we'd be behaving.

As always, my gaze had immediately gone to my mother's face first. It was finished except for her eyes, a task I'd been putting off for weeks now, for a reason I couldn't quite define. It wasn't like me to procrastinate.

Sighing, I set the paper on my draft table and fastened it down. I set out my colored pencils, a sharpener, and a highlight stick. Made myself reach for the light blue to fill in my mother's iris. After that was done, I flecked the blue with gold.

Deryn Octavia Devaney Merriweather had been a
beautiful woman. For a long time I had trouble remembering the exact details of my mom's face, but thanks to Mimi and a spell she'd found in Melina's diary, I'd could see my mom as clearly as I had when I was seven years old.

I reached for another color, a vibrant blue to line her eyes—the color had been her favorite eyeliner—and then quickly picked up a silver metallic pencil to imitate the glitter in the eyeliner. After a few swipes and smudging with my fingertip to blend, I leaned back. There. Done.

I studied the result. The image I'd drawn looked so much like my mother that my breath caught. Grief made my chest ache, and I forced myself to think of the happy times we'd had. The dancing in the rain, baking cookies, reading stories. All the dress-up playdates, the way she'd sing to me, the way she'd hold my head against her chest to soothe me, the way she'd loved me.

The pain eased from my chest but a lingering melancholy remained. I left the portrait where it was and quickly stood up. I went into the bathroom to wash my hands, and was glad to see in the mirror that my hair was still one solid color.

Above the sound of the water, I heard a distinct
arr-ooo
, the hound-dog howl that was the ring tone I used for Harper.

I wiped my hands on my shorts and grabbed my phone from where I'd thrown it on my bed.

“Darcy, why did Ve just walk in here and pluck a hair straight out of my head and walk out again without saying a word? Has she gone crazy?”

I said, “Entirely possibly, but in all likelihood, she's just fixing your hair color.” I explained the temporary fix for the Lunumbra spell. “I'm guessing she didn't say anything because she didn't want to explain what was going on and potentially have to answer questions she didn't want to answer.”

“But,” Harper said, with a pout in her voice, “I kind of liked the streak. Once, you know, I got used to it.”

I glanced at the portrait on my draft table, and my gaze went immediately to my mother's eyes again. There was something about them. . . . “I'm sure the Magic Wand Salon can re-create it.”

Sounding put out, she said, “And why was Ve only casting the spell on
you
? Did she say?”

“No, and she left before I could quiz her about it.” I walked over to the drafting table and packed up my supplies.

“I live in bizzarro world. One with freaky streaks and crazy witches. Speaking of, you wouldn't believe the things I'm reading in this Craft book. Apparently, we witches are big on fires. Elf fires, balefires, need fires. Bonfires here, bonfires there. We're a bunch of pyros, that's what we are.”

Pyromaniacs. “I'm not sure I'd go that far, unless you're talking about Dorothy Hansel Dewitt.” Dorothy was infamous around the village for being a fire-starter when she lost her temper.

“True story,” Harper said, humor in the words.

In the Craft world, fire was an important element for transformation, recharging energy, and even as a remedy to fix spells, as Vivienne had used it for.

Dorothy had apparently misunderstood that memo.

I heard a shout from outside, and went to the window. The displaced Extravaganzers were back in force, but the party atmosphere had dissipated. Now, most looked solemn or angry, and I wondered if that had more to do with the gossip about a petnapper rather than being unable to get back into the Wisp.

I glanced at my own assorted critters and felt my stomach knot at the thought of one of them being stolen. It was a horrible feeling I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy.

“And there's nothing in this book about the Elder specifically,” Harper went on. “Except . . .”

I perked up. “What?”

“There's this section in the book called the Renewal, which is a ritual that takes place every twenty-five years on Midsummer's Eve. I think it has to do with the Elder, which is more instinct on my part than anything.”

Midsummer, the summer solstice, was a big deal with Crafters, a celebration of life. In the village, the euphoric atmosphere was marked by a weeklong observance that included a festival and a dance that was the biggest event of the year. “What kind of ritual?”

“A renewal,” Harper said with a “duh” tone to her voice.

I frowned at my phone.

“The paragraph talks in circles about the gathering of a coven of seven to—and I quote—‘facilitate matriarchal renewal or renaissance.' There is, of course, a fire involved. The cunning fire.”

“What's that?” I asked.

“I had to look it up. It's essentially a special bonfire that's used to give omniscient powers to a chosen witch. From what I've researched, this fire can be used for either good or evil, depending on the group using it, but for Craft purposes, it's used for good. That witch becomes a high priestess, the governess of her community.” She took a breath. “Sounds like the role of the Elder to me.”

It definitely did.

“And didn't Ve tell us once that the Craft was a matriarchal society?” she asked.

She had. “Yes.”

“Then the Renewal ritual
has
to involve renewing the Elder's powers. Right?”

“It sure sounds like it.” Harper had excellent instincts, so I didn't doubt for a moment that she was right.
But one thing about what she'd read was bothering me. “Does it explain what the renaissance represents? Because to me renaissance is something entirely new, a rebirth, a change. Which doesn't fit with a renewal of old powers.”

“No, but maybe it's more semantic than anything and just means that the renaissance is the beginning of another twenty-five years as governess. You know how witches can double-talk.”

We certainly could. “But you said renewal
or
renaissance. It doesn't add up.”

“I don't know what to tell you, Darcy. There's no clarification in this book. Maybe you should ask the Elder about it.”

I lifted Titania onto my lap and adjusted her new collar. She looked at me with those big amber eyes of hers, completely trusting me.

In that moment, I knew I somehow had to convince Alina Norcliffe to let me keep the cat. Exactly how, I didn't know yet, but I had a couple of hours to figure it out.

“When have you ever known the Elder to spill any Craft secrets?” I asked.

“Never,” she said. “But I've never been called to see the Elder, unlike some people I know. Cough, cough.”

“That's because you refuse to have anything to do with the Craft.”

“For good reason, you bunch of pyros.” She laughed. “I've got to go. I left Marcus downstairs in the shop, and we're swamped.”

“Hey,” I said before she hung up.

“What?”

“You seem awfully interested in the Elder, Harper Merriweather, for someone who doesn't care about the Craft.”

She blew a raspberry and hung up.

Smiling, I dropped the phone on the bed. Harper would eventually come around to accepting her heritage.

I hoped.

Tilda hopped up next to me and inched her way onto my lap, snuggling in next to Titania. I scratched her chin.

“Tilda and Titania. The tongue-twisting double
T
's. That's going to get a little confusing, isn't it?” I asked them.

Tilda flicked her tail in my face while Titania flopped in my arms, stretching out.

I took that as agreement on both their parts.

Titania's name was from
A Midsummer Night's Dream
by Shakespeare. The character of Titania was a fairy queen, headstrong but perhaps a little too trusting of her husband, who'd used a magic potion to make her look like a fool.

Headstrong would be the last thing I'd call the cat in my arms. The same went with foolish. She was neither. She was . . . a marshmallow, really.

Fluffy and sweet.

“How about a nickname?” I said to Titania. Then I glanced at Missy, who was watching us intently from the floor. “I've become one of those women, haven't I? One who talks to her pets and expects an answer.”

She barked, and I swore I saw her nod her head.

“I blame it on living in this village,” I explained to myself under my breath. “Where animals actually do talk.”

Missy dropped to the floor and yawned.

I turned my attention back to Titania. There was no way I was nicknaming her Marshmallow. Or Marsh. Or Mallow. They just didn't fit.

“Titania. Hmm. T? Tita? Tannie?” I tested. “Annie?”

At the last suggestion, her head lifted and she blinked sleepily at me.

“Annie?” I said again.

She closed her eyes and purred.

“Annie it is,” I said. I scooted backward and flopped against my pillows. Titania—Annie—was still nestled in my arms, and Tilda had settled at my hip. Missy hopped onto the bed, yawned, and turned in a circle three times before finding the perfect resting spot between my knees.

Right here, right now, with the pets and under my mother's watchful gaze, was the most at peace I'd felt in weeks. . . .

Right up until I woke up thirty minutes later to the sound of a booming cheer going up outside.

Panic set in as I hazily blinked at the clock and realized I'd fallen asleep. I had ten minutes to make it to the Wisp to meet Nick.

I jumped up, and both cats meowed protests and leaped off the bed.

“Sorry!” I said.

Throwing a glance outside, I didn't see anything that would cause celebration and wondered if they'd possibly received news that the Wisp had reopened.

I sent Nick a text that I was running a few minutes late and quickly set about making my bed, a task I normally undertook every morning like clockwork, but for some reason had skipped today. My OCD insisted I make it before I left again, and as I drew the rumpled comforter toward the head of the bed, I was confused for a moment when I found my Craft cloak beneath the covers . . . until I recalled that I had tossed it on the bed last night after returning from the Elder's meadow.

I hurriedly carried the cloak from my bed to my closet. Halfway across the room something fell from the hood, which had turned partly inside out in my rushing about. Both cats immediately pounced upon the object, batting it to and fro.

I bent to see what it was and found a feather. It was
pure white along the bottom its quill, slowly blending to a grayish brown near its tip. The barbs of the feather followed the same color pattern. Fuzzy white at the bottom, narrowing to a grayish brown at the top.

I recognized it immediately.

A mourning dove feather.

Glancing at my cape, I wondered how on earth the feather had become tangled up in it.

Unless . . .

Unless it had somehow fallen into my hood while I was standing under the Elder's weeping tree last night. Had the bird been there and I just hadn't seen it?

If so, why had the bird been there? In
that
tree?

Did the bird have something to do with the Elder?

Suddenly dizzy, I sat on the edge of the bed, my mind swirling. I had suspected for a while now that the mourning dove I kept seeing around As You Wish was more than it appeared. Was it possible the bird was associated with the Elder somehow, as Archie was? A secretary of some sort? A spy, even?

Maybe so, but as I stared at the feather, the sound of the Elder's voice kept going round and round inside my head, making me even more dizzy.