Once a Witch

Once a Witch

My thanks to my family and friends for their encouragement throughout the writing process. My deepest gratitude to my wonderful agent, Alyssa Eisner Henkin, for her dedication and enthusiasm, and for matching me up with the wisest of editors, Jennifer Wingertzahn, who made this book the very best that it could be.

I WAS BORN on the night of Samhain, when the barrier between the worlds is whisper thin and when magic, old magic, sings its heady and sweet song to anyone who cares to hear it. All night my mother struggled, and when she finally heaved me into this world, my grandmother hovered over me, twisting her fingers in arcane shapes, murmuring in a language only she knew.

“What is it?” my mother gasped, turning her face against the lavender-scented pillow.

“What's wrong?” Finally, my grandmother answered, her voice full and triumphant.

“Your daughter will be one of the most powerful we have ever seen in this family. She will be a beacon for us all.”

I always wonder how my older sister, Rowena, who had been allowed into the room, reacted to that statement. No one thought to check that part of the story, but I really would have relished the one moment when I, and not Rowena, was the sun and the moon and the stars combined. They say I never cried at birth, never made a sound, but opened my eyes immediately and regarded them all with a calm and quiet gaze.

“As if she's seen so much already,” my mother whispered, touching my fingers and then my face. Well, if I had seen anything, I've long since forgotten what it was, and as for what my grandmother promised, that's been forgotten, too. Or not forgotten, but definitely scrapped. Even now, seventeen years later, I still catch my mother's gaze lingering on me and I just know she's pondering how she managed to lose the child she'd been promised and gain me instead. I also wonder if my grandmother ever recalls the echo of her words: one of the most powerful… a beacon. Doubtful. The story was told so many times in eager anticipation up until my eighth birthday. Then the whole family gathered and sang while my mother lit the eight golden tapers to represent the four elements and the four directions. Then they watched me, some openly, some furtively.

And what did I do? Nothing. At. All. Nothing that I was supposed to do, anyway.

After a while, I got tired of everyone staring at me and then at one another so I went around blowing out all the candles, taking comfort in the dimness as I ate my way through two large pieces of sugar-sweet birthday cake. Eventually, everyone trickled home. I come from a family of witches. Each and every member of my family down to my youngest cousin manifests his or her particular Talent without fail just before, and certainly no later than, the age of eight.

Except for me. Nine years have passed since that birthday and I have nothing to show for it. Not a drop, not half a drop, not even a quarter of a half of a half drop of magic runs through my apparently very pedestrian veins. As for what my grandmother said about me–one of the most powerful… a beacon, etc. , etc., etc. –all this goes to show that contrary to popular belief, even the oldest and wisest of witches can be dead wrong.

“TWENTY MORE MINUTES, Hector,” I say, “and I'm free of this hellcrater” Hector, whose tawny eyes flared open when I spoke, now only flashes his needlelike teeth at me as he yawns. He blinks once, then curls back into sleep, his tail covering his front paws. Hellcrater is not exactly a fair description, I concede as I look around my grandmother's bookstore, making sure nothing is out of order.

But hellcrater has become my favorite word lately. I have to go to the hellcrater, I like to say to my roommate, Agatha, whenever I'm summoned home for a holiday or for the weekend. Agatha always gives me a blank look in response.

“I think it must have been so awesome to have grown up in a commune,” she ventured once. I didn't bother explaining how it's not really a commune. I can kind of see how it might sound like one from the edited descriptions I've given her. A big rambling stone farmhouse in upstate New York, with a revolving doorof cousins and aunts and uncles and the adjoining barn and fields and gardens, which fuel the family business, Greene's Herbal Supplies. All presided over by my mother and grandmother in their long, colorful skirts and shawls and strings of beads.

“I mean, I grew up Pine Park, Illinois, Tamsin. Come home with me sometime and you'll see a hellcrater. And by the way, that's not even a word.”

“I'd love to,” I answered eagerly at the time. And I meant it. I would love to see what it's like to be part of a real, normal American household. Where your mother and grandmother aren't reading tea leaves and entrails every other second. Or making strong-smelling brews from the garden herbs for dozens of village girls and women. They come after dark, rapping timidly on the back door, begging for something to slip into some man's coffee or beer when he isn't looking. The women's eyes fill with grateful tears, those same eyes that'll skitter away from meeting yours if you cross paths in town during daylight. In a real, normal household people celebrate Thanksgiving and Christmas or Hanukkah.

Halloween is for the kids to dress up in costumes. It's not a holiday when your whole family gathers in the deep woods behind your house and builds a bonfire and burns sweet herbs on the altar built to the four elements. Not a holiday when your whole family dances until the first fingernail of dawn scrapes at the hills and finally you can stumble home, bare legs scratched andbruised, hands and feet freezing, sick from Uncle Chester's homemade wine.

“Hellcrater,” I say again now with feeling, as sheets of rain splatter against the oversize windows. At least there's only one more week until I can take the train back to Grand Central. I yawn, stretch my fingers to the polished tin ceiling. The bell over the door chimes three notes softly and I drop my arms midstretch, startled. I'm not the only one. Hector leaps off the counter, lands with a disgruntled meow, and disappears between two stacks of poetry books that I just remembered I was supposed to re-price and shelve in the half-off section.

But instead, I glance at the man who has just entered. He's tall, and since I'm tall myself, this is saying something. Tall and thin and muffled up in a dark overcoat that seems to overlap his frame. He politely folds his umbrella and puts it into the copper planter that serves as a stand by the door. His eyes find mine across the room.

“Sorry,” he says, and his voice is a nervous wisp almost blown away by the wind.

The door swings shut, sealing us in.

“For what?” I ask lightly.

“You haven't even met me yet” In my mind, I can hear Agatha groan. She despairs of me and my obvious one-liners. He indicates the area around his feet.

Puddles are spreading across the hardwood floor, trickling from the wet hem of his raincoat and sleeves. ”Oh,” I say. And then all my wit deserts me.

“I… have a mop,” I finish brilliantly. He nods, shakes his coat a little, then looks abashed as more rainwater drips onto the floor.

“Are you about to close?” His accent is faint but familiar, and I try to puzzle it out.

“No,” I lie gamely, because after all he is a customer and I've made somewhere around twenty-two dollars in sales today. I move behind the cash register and begin to straighten the stack of ledgers there, pretending not to watch the man as he drifts past the new fiction display. When he moves a little closer to the occult and arcane section, I feel the familiar prick of resignation. So he's one of those. An out-of-towner, definitely, who thinks that magic can be found in a book. I sigh. Believe me, I want to shout at him, if magic could be found in a book, I would have found it long ago. I fiddle with the cash register tape, then look up again, expecting to see the man fully immersed in Starling Raven-wood's latest book, Spells for Living a Life of Good Fortune, our current bestseller. But he is nowhere to be seen. I crane my neck, balance on one foot. Suddenly, he materializes from between the poetry shelves and makes his way toward me while holding up a slim bronze-colored book. Inexplicably, I find myself taking a step backward. My elbow grazes the coffeemaker that I insisted my grandmother buy if I was going to work in the store all summer. The pot gives a hiss, its oily contents sloshing a little as I jerk my arm forward.

“Ouch”

The man doesn't seem to notice. Up close, I see the glints of gold stubble on his chin and that his thick, rain-soaked hair is dark blond. His stylish black-framed glasses reflect the light back at me but don't allow me to see the color of his eyes. I put his age at about thirty. He's not conventionally good looking, but there is something about him, something that makes me look away, then look back again.

“Do you have any more like this?” he asks, and the origin of his accent niggles at me again. The clipped syllables, the perfect enunciation. English, I decide.

That definitely adds to the attraction factor. Agatha, for one, goes crazy for accents. I flip open the cover, flick through the pages.

“This is one I haven't read,” I say, surprised because Eve read most everything in the store. At least everything worth reading. The book seems to be a photo montage of my town's origins. Pencil sketches and ink drawings of early mansions give way to glossy photos of autumn foliage, the town square, the waterfalls, and the cemetery. Underneath each photo is a brief paragraph or two of text explaining the history.

“Interesting,” I say with a noncommittal smile, handing it back to him. He adjusts his glasses on the bridge of his nose and says,

“Interesting is one of the most banal words in the English language. What does it mean, really?” My smile freezes in place.

“It means I don't have anything better to say so interesting comes in handy.”

He shakes his head once.

“Somehow I don't think you're the kind of person who would find herself in a situation where she has nothing better to say”

The coffeepot hisses again, and casually I rub my hand across the back of my neck to stop a chill from spreading there. Out of nowhere, Hector leaps up onto the counter again, arching his back and butting his head fiercely against the book the man is holding. The man appears startled for one second, and then suddenly lines curve around his mouth, creating these not-quite-dimples.

“Hector sees all books as rivals for people's attention.”

“Bad place for him to live, then,” the man comments.

“He exacts his revenge in subtle ways. Will this be all?” I ask, pointing to the book. In a flash, Hector bats at the silver bangles on my wrist and hooks a claw into my skin.

“Ow!” I say, snatching my hand back.

“See what I mean about revenge,” I mutter, glaring at the three beads of blood that have welled up on my pale skin.

“Allow me,” the man says, and swiftly, so swiftly that I don't have time to react, he pulls a blue handkerchief out of his raincoat pocket and presses it to my wrist.

His tongue flickers at the corner of his mouth. I yank my hand back, a smile wobbling across my face.

“Who owns a handkerchief these days?” My voice sounds shaky–pinched, even. I examine the corner of the cloth, which is embroidered with the letters AEK. He shrugs and looks embarrassed, and it disappears back into his coat pocket.

“Yes, it's not a very American habit, I'm gathering.”

“So you are English,” I conclude. He looks briefly pained.

“Scottish,” he says.

“Sorry,” I mock-whisper.

“Bad mistake. Mortal enemies and all, right?” I bring my wrist to my mouth, pressing my lips to the flaps of torn skin. He stares at me and I drop my hand, embarrassed.

“On vacation here?” I ask, filling in the gap of silence.

“No. I'm at NYU.”

“You're a student there?” I ask. A fine stain of color washes over his cheeks.

“I'm a processor there.”

“You are?” I say, realizing belatedly how rude that sounds.

“I mean… you are” I nod.

“Sure. Sorry, you just look so young” Now I'm the one who's blushing. I can feel it across my cheeks and forehead. Even my nose feels hot.

“First year,” he says, then adds with a slight smile,

“I guess I'll grow into it.”

“What do you teach?” I ask.

“Art history. Are you a college student?”

“Not yet,” I say.

“I go to New Hyde Prep” He gives me a blank look.

“It's a boarding school in the city. On the Upper East Side. I'm just home in Hedgerow for the summer” I pusha stack of cardboard bookmarks closer to the register, aligning their edges perfectly.

“NYU is one of my top picks. So if I get in, maybe I'll end up in your class next year.”

“That would be lovely,” he says. Then he looks up and smiles briefly, almost wickedly, at me.

“As long as you promise to not use the word interesting in any discussions.”