“All right. Who else, do you think?” she asked, looking up.
“Jane Barton, of course. She would never let it go if she weren’t included,” Theresa answered, leaning forward and resting her elbows on the table. “And Viola and Beatrice Hirsch.”
“Isn’t Bia a bit young?” Catherine asked.
“She’s no younger than me,” Alice pointed out.
“But she
seems
younger,” Eliza said, thinking of the way Bia was always following Viola around, asking about her opinions.
“Yes, but Viola is one of my closest friends. She must be invited, and Bia must do anything Viola does,” Theresa said flatly. “Besides, Bia can be quite sweet when she wants to be.”
“All right, then. That’s seven. We’ll need four more,” Eliza said, looking up from the page.
“Lavender,” Catherine said, before Theresa could answer.
“Ugh! Lavender’s awful,” Theresa groused, crossing her arms over her chest. “She’s so awkward and bland.”
“But she’s a good person to have on your side,” Catherine replied. “Did you see the way she moved to protect us that night when Miss Almay caught us? She seems the type to lay down her life for her friends.”
Eliza’s heart thumped at the sentiment.
“Why are we talking about death?” Alice asked.
“Yes. Let’s hope our club doesn’t come to that,” Eliza added. She reached up to her neck and rubbed the gold locket between her finger and thumb.
“All I’m saying is that I think she’s loyal,” Catherine replied in a soothing tone. “I’d like to invite her.”
“I agree,” Alice said. “She might not be my sort of person, but she’s nice enough. Besides, she’s my roommate, and I don’t want to have to sneak around keeping secrets from her.”
“All right, then,” Eliza replied, writing down Lavender’s name. “I nominate Marilyn DeMeers. She’s worldly.”
“Fine, but she’ll have to leave that yippy dog of hers at home. And Marilyn won’t come without Genevieve, so write her down too,” Theresa directed, looking down her nose at the page. “How many is that?” she asked.
“Ten. We need one more,” Catherine replied.
“What about Clarissa Pommer?” Eliza whispered, glancing sideways at Clarissa from across the room.
“Yes! Clarissa would be perfect,” Catherine agreed.
Theresa wrinkled her nose in Clarissa’s direction.
“But she’s so . . . uppity,” Theresa protested. “Who wants to be around someone who’s not only smart but knows it and never stops telling you about it?”
“But that’s just the thing about her,” Eliza said, glancing at Clarissa. “She’s smart. If we were ever to get into any trouble, it might be a blessing to have a quick thinker on our side.”
“I think plenty quickly,” Theresa replied.
“Not quickly enough to get us out of our punishments and back into the dance,” Alice grumbled, sitting back in her chair.
Theresa shot her a withering glance.
“Besides, Clarissa has always been willing to cover for you,” Catherine said. “Like the other night when we snuck out.”
“Yes, but that’s just because I pay her,” Theresa muttered with a huff, crossing her arms atop the table.
“You do?” all three girls asked, speaking as one. Clarissa finally looked up, but only long enough to shush them.
Theresa tilted her head and lowered her voice even further. “All right, fine. Clarissa it is.”
Eliza wrote down Clarissa’s name, then turned the book around so the others could see it.
“It looks lonely,” Alice said, sticking her bottom lip out slightly.
“She’s right. It needs some kind of title,” Catherine agreed, sliding her hand around the back of her neck to knead her muscles.
“Well, I can’t exactly write ‘Our Coven’ across the top,” Eliza whispered, placing the book down again and casting a look toward
the librarian. “Imagine the inquiry if we misplaced it and one of the instructors found it.”
“It’s not a coven; it’s a club,” Alice said stubbornly.
“Oh, I’ve got it!” Eliza exclaimed. “The Billings Literary Society!” Theresa snorted, sitting back hard in her chair. “Are
all
the Williamses bookworms?”
Eliza’s face flushed hot. “What do you mean?”
“Your sister. The fabulous May,” Theresa said, rolling her eyes.
Eliza’s hand dropped down on the table with a
bang
. “What exactly is your quarrel with my sister?”
Theresa exchanged a glance with Catherine, whose cheeks flushed pink. “I have no quarrel with your sister,” she said with a sniff. “She got exactly what she wanted, and I got exactly what I wanted . . . eventually.”
“What does that mean?” Eliza demanded. “What did you both want?”
“Never mind that,” Theresa said through her teeth. “What I was
trying
to say was that her first year here, May actually wanted to form some kind of novel-reading club. I wasn’t a student here yet, obviously, but I overheard my parents and Miss Almay talking about it. My mother was in favor of it, but Miss Almay called it frivolous, and her word is law when it comes to student organizations.”
Eliza’s heart pounded shallowly in her chest. In all her letters, May had never mentioned a book club. She felt a sudden rush of pride, followed by a huge chasm of disappointment on her sister’s behalf. Forming a club of that sort was so like the old May. If she had been so
adamant about such things when she’d first come to Billings, how had she returned home so changed?
“The Billings Literary Society it is,” Eliza said resolutely, writing the words in big, bold letters across the top of the page. “Miss Almay might not like it, but if she ever hears about it, we can defend ourselves by saying we’re simply reading the great works in order to make our conversation more interesting for the boys.”
“She’ll love that,” Alice said with a giggle.
“If only she knew what we’re really reading,” Catherine said, grinning as she opened the book of spells.
All four of the girls laughed then, earning another resounding
shhh
from Clarissa and a few of the other students in the room, as well as a stern glance from the librarian—which only made them laugh all the louder.
That Saturday morning, Eliza and Catherine set out to the stationers in town, with Mrs. Hodge in tow as their chaperone, following behind at a respectful distance. Though they had told Mrs. Hodge they wanted letterhead on which to write their families, the stationery would in fact serve as invitations to the first official meeting of the Billings Literary Society.
“I love this time of year,” Eliza said dreamily, tipping her face toward the sun and breathing in the fresh autumn air. For the first time since the term had begun, the awful humidity and heat had fallen away, leaving behind a pleasantly warm, clear day and a cool breeze.
“I could have sworn you’d told me summer was your favorite season,” Catherine teased, swinging her small silk handbag by its cord as they turned up Main Street. “Actually, I believe the words you used were ‘I want to die every year when summer turns to fall.’”
“I did say that, didn’t I?” Eliza said, kicking a pebble with her sensible, brown walking shoes—her favorites of all she owned, for their comfort. “But there is something about those few days when you can feel summer melting into fall. There’s a feeling of . . .”
“Possibility,” Catherine finished.
Eliza looked at her and grinned. “Yes. That’s it. Possibility.”
Catherine nodded as she looked around at the leaves rustling in the trees. “Seasons don’t change so drastically in Georgia. Every year when I arrive at Billings, all I can think about is that first snow.”
Eliza’s eyes widened. “There’s no snow in Georgia?”
“No.” Catherine laughed, shaking her head. “Not in southern Georgia, at least.”
The girls stepped up onto the brand-new plank sidewalk together, heading toward the Easton Police Station and its austere brick façade. Catherine glanced back at their chaperone, then took Eliza’s arm, leaning closer to her.
“There’s something I wish to tell you, and I hope you will not judge me,” she said quietly.
“I would never judge another without hearing all the facts,” she assured her friend.
A pair of gentlemen tipped their hats to the girls as they strolled by. Eliza pretended not to notice their attentions.
“The reason I knew right away what the book of spells was . . . Well . . . my mother . . . She . . .”
Catherine hesitated, bringing a gloved hand to her face for a moment.
“Is your mother a witch?” Eliza gasped. The moment the words left her lips, she realized just how judgmental they sounded. She cleared her throat and ignored her pulse, which was now fluttering ferociously in her wrists. “I’m sorry. You were saying?”
Catherine paused in front of one of the two lampposts outside the police station. She glanced back at Mrs. Hodge again. Seeing them stop, the maid took the opportunity to rest on the bench in front of the Easton Feed Store.
“My mother has always been obsessed with youth and beauty,” Catherine said, her blue eyes downcast. “She has spent much of her life in search of what you might call the fountain of youth. That one salve or elixir or . . . or potion that might keep her young.”
“I see,” Eliza said, even though she didn’t quite see at all.
“This quest of hers has taken her to some . . . unsavory places,” Catherine continued. “Including to the dens of some fairly notorious witches.”
“I see,” Eliza repeated. Suddenly her heart was in her throat. Until that moment, she had never truly considered the notion that magic was actually real. Her head felt light as she imagined the possibilities of such a thing . . . and the dangers.
“She brought me along on some of these visits, and I must say . . . I thought the whole practice was fascinating,” Catherine said, speaking more quickly and freely now, as if she felt the hard part was over. “The things these women can do, the magics they’re capable of producing . . . It’s amazing.”
Eliza glanced at Mrs. Hodge. She was eyeing the two girls
suspiciously. Eliza quickly looked away. “These potions, these spells in the books . . . It’s all real?” she whispered.
“Oh, yes,” Catherine said matter-of-factly. “I’ve seen things you would scarcely believe.”
Eliza suddenly found she had to concentrate to breathe. Unbidden, the names of some of the spells flashed through her mind: the Love Spell, the Spell of Confusion, the Helen of Troy Spell, which made any girl irresistible to all men for the three nights of the full moon. Could these spells really work? And if they could, what did that mean for her . . . for Harrison . . . for Theresa? Could she ever use one to—
No,
the answer came immediately.
Don’t even think it, Eliza.
“Eliza? Are you all right?” Catherine asked.
“I’m not sure. Is it very hot out?” Eliza asked. She touched her gloved fingertips to her forehead, and they came away damp. Breathless, she leaned back against the lamppost, fighting for focus.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of, Eliza,” Catherine said, reaching for her wrist. “Witchcraft is a wonderful thing, as long as it’s used for good. And I don’t think any of us intends to use it otherwise.”
Mrs. Hodge appeared over Catherine’s right shoulder, her expression one of sheer alarm. “Miss Williams! Are you unwell?” she asked.
“I think I need some . . . some water,” Eliza managed.
Mrs. Hodge looked over her shoulder at the police station. “Stay here. Miss White, try to keep her cool. I’ll be right back.”
Then she turned, lifted her skirts, and scurried up the steps faster than Eliza would have thought possible.
“I’m so sorry, Eliza,” Catherine said, holding on to her wrist with one hand and fanning Eliza’s face with the other. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Eliza took several more deep breaths, but couldn’t seem to calm her racing heart. Suddenly, her vision slipped out of focus.
“Eliza? Eliza!”
A pair of strong arms caught her as she went down. Eliza’s eyes fluttered open, and she found herself nestled in the firm grasp of Harrison Knox.
She looked directly into his dark blue eyes and felt faint all over again.
“Miss Williams! Are you all right?” he asked.
Somehow Eliza found the strength to straighten up. She pressed her palm into the cool lamppost behind her again and cleared her throat. Before long, her mind felt solid once more and she was able to collect her thoughts. She looked up at Harrison and saw that Jonathan was with him as well, hovering with Catherine just over Harrison’s shoulder with a look of pure concern.
“Here. Come sit on the stairs,” Jonathan said, gesturing at the stone steps of the station.
“No. No, thank you. I’m fine,” Eliza replied, cursing herself silently for being so feeble.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Harrison asked, taking her hand and looking deeply into her eyes, as if he was trying to see inside her body for himself and make sure all was well.
The tenderness and concern in that glance made Eliza want to
lean into him and beg him to take her home. But something moved in the corner of her vision, and she turned her head. Mrs. Hodge was on her way down the stairs with a tin mug of water. When she saw the boys, Mrs. Hodge paused, as if startled. Then her jaw set with determination and she hustled toward Eliza even faster.
Eliza glanced at Catherine, panicked. But Catherine was staring at Eliza’s and Harrison’s hands, which were still touching. As Theresa’s best friend, Catherine was surely obliged to tell her about such things. Blushing furiously, Eliza quickly withdrew her fingers.
“Here, Miss Williams,” Mrs. Hodge said, handing the mug of water to Eliza and helping cup her fingers around it. “Drink slowly.”
Eliza sipped the cool water as Mrs. Hodge shot Harrison an admonishing look. He took a step back.
“Mr. Knox, Mr. Thackery, thank you for your assistance,” Mrs. Hodge said stiffly. “You may go now.”
“Of course,” Harrison said quickly.
“Feel better, Miss Williams!” Jonathan called out as the two boys started down the sidewalk again.
Before Eliza could say anything, Mrs. Hodge swooped in, checking her pulse, feeling her forehead, and ushering her to the nearest bench. As she sat, her eyes trained on Harrison’s retreating form, Eliza felt ill all over again—but for reasons having nothing to do with her fainting.