The Book of Life (16 page)

“You have no intention of letting me carry your bucket.” Fernando put a hand over his heart in mock dismay. “You wound me. How will I hold up my head in the de Clermont family if you don’t allow me to put you on a pedestal as a proper knight would do?”

“If you keep Matthew from renting that steel roller he’s been talking about to resurface the driveway, I’ll let you wear shining armor for the rest of the summer.” I gave Fernando a peck on the cheek and departed.

Feeling restless and uncomfortable in the heat, I abandoned the empty bucket in the kitchen sink and went in search of my aunt. It wasn’t hard to find her. Sarah had taken to sitting in my grandmother’s rocking chair in the keeping room and staring at the ebonized tree growing out of the fireplace. In coming back to Madison, Sarah was being forced to confront the loss of Emily in an entirely new way. It had left her subdued and remote.

“It’s too hot to clean. I’m going into town to run errands. Do you want to come?” I asked.

“No. I’m okay here,” Sarah said, rocking back and forth.

“Hannah O’Neil called again. She’s invited us to her Lughnasadh potluck.” Since our return we’d received a stream of phone calls from members of the Madison coven. Sarah had told the high priestess, Vivian Harrison, that she was perfectly fine and was being well taken care of by family. After that, she refused to talk to anyone.

Sarah ignored my mention of Hannah’s invitation and continued to study the tree. “The ghosts are bound to come back eventually, don’t you think?”

The house had been remarkably free of spectral visitors since our return. Matthew blamed Corra, but Sarah and I knew better. With Em so recently gone, the rest of the ghosts were staying away so that we didn’t pester them with questions about how she was faring.

“Sure,” I said, “but it’s probably going to be a while.”

“The house is so quiet without them. I never saw them like you did, but you could tell they were around.” Sarah rocked with more energy, as if this would somehow bring the ghosts closer.

“Have you decided what to do about the Blasted Tree?” It had been waiting for Matthew and me when we returned from 1591, the gnarled black trunk taking up most of the chimney and its roots and branches extending into the room. Though it seemed devoid of life, the tree did occasionally produce strange fruit: car keys, as well as the image of the chemical wedding that had been torn from Ashmole 782. More recently it had offered up a recipe for rhubarb compote circa 1875 and a pair of false eyelashes circa 1973. Fernando and I thought the tree should be removed, the chimney repaired, and the paneling patched and painted. Sarah and Matthew were less convinced.

“I don’t know,” Sarah said with a sigh. “I’m getting used to it. We can always decorate it for the holidays.”

“The snow is going to blow straight through those cracks come winter,” I said, picking up my purse.

“What did I teach you about magical objects?” Sarah asked, and I heard a trace of her normal sharpness.

“Don’t touch them until you understand them,” I intoned in the voice of a six-year-old.

“Cutting down a magically produced tree certainly qualifies as ‘touching,’ don’t you agree?” Sarah motioned Tabitha away from the hearth, where she was sitting staring at the bark. “We need milk. And eggs. And Fernando wants some kind of fancy rice. He promised to make paella.”

“Milk. Eggs. Rice. Got it.” I gave Sarah one last worried look. “Tell Matthew I won’t be long.”

The floorboards in the front hall creaked out a brief complaint as I crossed to the door. I paused, my foot glued in place. The Bishop house was not an ordinary home and had a history of making its feelings known on a variety of issues, from who had a right to occupy it to whether or not it approved of the new paint color on the shutters.

But there was no further response from the house. Like the ghosts, it was waiting.

Outside, Sarah’s new car was parked by the front door. Her old Honda Civic had met with a mishap during its return from Montreal, where Matthew and I had left it. A de Clermont functionary had been tasked to drive it back to Madison, but the engine had fallen out somewhere between Brockville and Watertown. To console Sarah, Matthew had presented her with a metallic purple Mini Cooper, complete with white racing stripes edged with black and silver and a personalized license plate that said
NEW
BROOM
. Matthew hoped this witchy message would obviate Sarah’s need to put bumper stickers all over the vehicle, but I feared it was only a matter of time before this car looked like the old one.

In case anyone thought Sarah’s new car and her lack of slogans meant her paganism was wavering, Matthew purchased a witch antenna ball. She had red hair and was wearing a pointy hat and sunglasses.

No matter where Sarah parked, someone stole it. He kept a box of replacements in the mudroom cupboard.

I waited until Matthew was hammering in his next fence post before jumping into Sarah’s Mini. I reversed it and sped away from the house. Matthew hadn’t gone so far as to forbid me from leaving the farm unaccompanied, and Sarah knew where I was going. Happy to be getting away from the tension, I opened the sunroof to catch the July breezes on my way into town.

My first stop was at the post office. Mrs. Hutchinson eyed the tight swell under the hem of my T shirt with interest but said nothing. The only other people in the post office were two antiques dealers and Smitty, Matthew’s new best friend from the hardware store.

“How is that post maul working out for Mr. Clairmont?” Smitty asked, tapping his sheaf of junk mail against the brim of his John Deere hat. “Haven’t sold one of them in ages. Most people want post pounders these days.”

“Matthew seems quite happy with it.”
Most people aren’t six-foot-three vampires,
I thought, chucking the sales flyer for the local grocery store and the offers for new tires into the recycling bin.

“You’ve caught a good one there,” Smitty said, eyeing my wedding ring. “And he seems to be getting along with Miz Bishop, too.” This last was said in a slightly awed tone.

My mouth twitched. I picked up the stack of catalogs and bills that remained and put them in my bag. “You take care, Smitty.”

“Bye, Mrs. Clairmont. Tell Mr. Clairmont to let me know when he decides about that roller for the driveway.”

“It’s not Mrs. Clairmont. I still use— Oh, never mind,” I said, catching Smitty’s confused expression. I opened the door and stepped aside to let two children enter. The kids were in hot pursuit of lollipops, which Mrs. Hutchinson kept on the counter. I was almost out the door when I heard Smitty whispering to the postmistress.

“Have you met Mr. Clairmont, Annie? Nice guy. I was beginning to think Diana was going to be a spinster like Miz Bishop, if you know what I mean,” Smitty said, giving Mrs. Hutchinson a meaningful wink.

I turned west onto Route 20, through green fields and past old farmsteads that had once provided food to the area’s residents. Many of the properties had been subdivided and their land turned to different purposes. There were schools and offices, a granite yard, a yarn shop in a converted barn.

When I pulled in to the parking lot of the supermarket in nearby Hamilton, it was practically deserted. Even when college was in session, it was never more than half full.

I maneuvered Sarah’s car into one of the plentiful open spaces near the doors, parking next to one of the vans that people bought when they had children. It had sliding doors to allow for the easy installation of car seats, lots of cup holders, and beige carpets to hide the cereal that got flung on the floor. My future life flashed before my eyes.

Sarah’s zippy little car was a welcome reminder that there were other options, though Matthew would probably insist on a Panzer tank once the twins were born. I eyed the silly green witch on the antenna. As I murmured a few words, the wires in the antenna rerouted themselves through the soft foam ball and the witch’s hat. No one would be stealing Sarah’s mascot on my watch.

“Nice binding spell,” a dry voice said from behind me. “I don’t believe I know that one.”

I whirled around. The woman standing there was fiftyish with shoulder-length hair that had gone prematurely silver and emerald green eyes. A low hum of power surrounded her—not showy, but solid.

This was the high priestess of Madison’s coven.

“Hello, Mrs. Harrison.” The Harrisons were an old Hamilton family. They’d come from Connecticut, and, like the Bishops, the women kept the family name regardless of marriage. Vivian’s husband, Roger, had taken the radical step of changing his last name from Barker to Harrison when the two wed, earning him a revered spot in the coven annals for his willingness to honor tradition and a fair amount of ribbing from the other husbands.

“I think you’re old enough to call me Vivian, don’t you?” Her eyes dropped to my abdomen.

“Going shopping?”

“Uh-huh.” No witch could lie to a fellow witch. Under the circumstances it was best to keep my responses brief.

“What a coincidence. So am I.” Behind Vivian two shopping carts detached themselves from the stack and rolled out of their corral.

“So you’re due in January?” she asked once we were inside. I fumbled and nearly dropped the paper bag of apples grown on a nearby farm.

“Only if I carry the babies to full term. I’m expecting twins.”

“Twins are a handful,” Vivian said ruefully. “Just ask Abby.” She waved at a woman holding two cartons of eggs.

“Hi, Diana. I don’t think we’ve met.” Abby put one of the cartons in the section of the cart designed for toddlers. She buckled the eggs into place using the flimsy seat belt. “Once the babies are born, you’ll have to come up with a different way to keep them from getting broken. I’ve got some zucchini for you in the car, so don’t even think of buying any.”

“Does everybody in the county know that I’m pregnant?” I asked. Not to mention what I was shopping for today.

“Only the witches,” Abby said. “And anybody who talks to Smitty.” A four-year-old boy in a striped shirt and wearing a Spider-Man mask sped by. “John Pratt! Stop chasing your sister!”

“Not to worry. I found Grace in the cookie aisle,” said a handsome young man in shorts and a gray and maroon Colgate University T-shirt. He was holding a squirming toddler whose face was smeared with chocolate and cookie crumbs. “Hi, Diana. I’m Abby’s husband, Caleb Pratt. I teach here.” Caleb’s voice was easy, but there was a crackle of energy around him. Could he have a touch of elemental magic?

My question highlighted the fine threads that surrounded him, but Vivian distracted me before I could be certain.

“Caleb is a professor in the anthropology department,” Vivian said with pride. “He and Abby have been a welcome addition to the community.”

“Nice to meet you,” I murmured. The whole coven must shop at the Cost Cutter on Thursday.

“Only when we need to talk business,” Abby said, reading my mind with ease. So far as I could tell, she had considerably less magical talent than Vivian or Caleb, but there was obviously some power in her blood. “We expected to see Sarah today, but she’s avoiding us. Is she okay?”

“Not really.” I hesitated. Once the Madison coven had represented everything I wanted to deny about myself and about being a Bishop. But the witches of London had taught me that there was a price to pay for living cut off from other witches. And the simple truth was that Matthew and I couldn’t manage on our own. Not after everything that had transpired at Sept-Tours.

“Something you want to say, Diana?” Vivian looked at me shrewdly.

“I think we need your help.” The words slipped out easily. My astonishment must have shown, for the three witches all started to laugh.

“Good. That’s what we’re here for,” she said, casting an approving smile at me. “What’s the problem?”

“Sarah’s stuck,” I said bluntly. “And Matthew and I are in trouble.”

“I know. My thumbs have been bothering me for weeks,” Caleb said, bouncing Grace on his hip.

“At first I thought it was just the vampires.”

“It’s more than that.” My voice was grim. “It involves witches, too. And the Congregation. My mother may have had a premonition about it, but I don’t know where to begin searching for more information.”

“What does Sarah say?” Vivian asked.

“Not much. She’s mourning Emily all over again. Sarah sits by the fireplace, watches the tree growing out of the hearth, and waits for the ghosts to come back.”

“And your husband?” Caleb’s eyebrows lifted.

“Matthew’s replacing fence posts.” I pushed a hand through my hair, lifting the damp strands from my neck. If it got any warmer, you’d be able to fry an egg on Sarah’s car.

“A classic example of displaced aggression,” Caleb said thoughtfully, “as well as a need to establish firm boundaries.”

“What kind of magic is that?” I was astonished that he could know so much about Matthew from my few words.

“It’s anthropology.” Caleb grinned.

“Maybe we should talk about this somewhere else.” Vivian smiled warmly at the growing crowd of onlookers in the produce section. The few humans in the store couldn’t help noticing the gathering of four otherworldly creatures, and several were openly listening in on our conversation while pretending to judge the ripeness of cantaloupes and watermelons.

“I’ll meet you back at Sarah’s in twenty minutes,” I said, eager to get away. “The arborio rice is in aisle five,” Caleb said helpfully, handing Grace back to Abby. “It’s the closest thing to paella rice in Hamilton. If that’s not good enough, you can stop by and see Maureen at the health-food store. She’ll special-order some Spanish rice for you. Otherwise you’ll have to drive to Syracuse.”

“Thanks,” I said weakly. There would be no stops at the health-food store, which was the local hangout for witches when they weren’t at the Cost Cutter. I pushed my cart in the direction of aisle five.

“Good idea.”

“Don’t forget the milk!” Abby called after me.

When I got back home, Matthew and Fernando were standing in the field, deep in conversation. I put the groceries away and found the bucket in the sink where I’d left it. My fingers automatically reached for the tap, ready to twist it open so that the water flowed.