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  “You’re Millie Melbourne?” Mr. Hall raised his eyebrows.

  Millie was even worse than Mildred. I thought about correcting him, but decided it wasn’t worth it. “Yeah.”

  “I’ve been informed that you are the owner of a certain item which—”

  “She’s not interested in selling it,” James said.

  Mr. Hall held up a palm to James without turning from me. “—which my employer is interested in. I’m here to make an appointment for you to meet with him.”

  “He’s right. I’m not selling it.” But if he was going to be a prick about it, maybe I should offer him one of the cheap

  ones from Heidi’s Bazaar and see if he’d fall for it too.

  Mr. Hall set his briefcase on the counter and opened it. “My employer has a busy schedule, but he insists on speaking with you in person.”

  “She’s already given you her answer. What part of ‘no’ are you having trouble with?” James must have taken a dislike to Mr. Hall, because he never treated people this rudely, even if they weren’t customers.

  Mr. Hall frowned, the frown of the vice president confronting the mail boy about a missing document. He handed me a business card. “I’ll give you a few days to reconsider.”

  I glanced at the card but didn’t unfold my arms. “Thanks for stopping by. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

  He held the card in his fingers for a minute, and when I didn’t take it from him, he set it on the counter, and huffed out the door. I threw the card in the trash and went back to the mementos.

  Lying on top of the stack was a photo of Uncle Fred and Aunt Hazel standing in front of their cottage in Maine. I only spent one summer there, but still remembered the place vividly. It was a small wooden A-frame, painted red-orange like a Buddhist temple. Instead of a lawn, Uncle Fred had a clearing in the woods with vegetables and herbs growing hither and yon, and a cracked concrete path leading from the drive to the door.

  “You know, it was pretty jerky of Uncle Fred to give me something valuable, and then tell me not to sell it. You inherited his house, right? He didn’t make you promise not to sell that.”

  “No, I sold it. Most of the money went to pay off debts.” He removed a large three-ring binder and opened it carefully.

  “What’d you do with all his stuff?”

  “He had gotten rid of most of it before he died. A lot of the rest had tags saying who each piece was to go to.”

  “At least you got something out of it. I don’t understand why he gave me this thing. Obviously, there are other people who want it more, since all his old buddies keep coming out of the woodwork asking for it.”

  “There were others?”

  I kept flipping through the black and white photos, pretending not to hear him.

  “Kit? Were there others?”

  Photography must have been Aunt Hazel’s hobby, because the prints had white around the edges, like she’d developed them herself. Who were all these people? Someone had written on the back of the photographs, usually just a first name, or the date. It wasn’t much to go by.

  “Kit …”

  That tone of voice always got to me. “I went to an appraiser, and he told me that a woman named Madame R. hired him to find me.”

  “Why did you go to an appraiser?”

  Dusting was a better way to avoid this conversation. I grabbed a rag and wiped the counter tops.

  James put the binder down and got off his stool. “You promised not to sell it.”

  “I promised not to sell it to Monica Delcourt.” I ran the rag along the top of the dessert case, lifting the tip jar to get the dust out from underneath. The tip jar was seeded with my dollar seventy-five and James’ tiny money-gathering charm, neither of which was working.

  “Kit!” He pulled on my shoulder to make me face him.

  “James, I’m just keeping my options open, okay? Anyway, I didn’t sell it.” But I couldn’t keep the hint of a smile off my face.

  James glared at me a second time. “What’s that look for? You told her no, too, right? Kit …” James had a warning tone. “What did you do? You’ve done something bad.”

  My smile became a smirk as I wrung out the rag and hung it up over the edge of the sink. “I sold a fake.”

  “You what?”

  “I never claimed the one she was buying was magical,” I said. “In fact, I tried to convince her it was useless.”

  “That’s wrong, Kit. You have to give her a refund.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  James was giving me that look that said he wouldn’t do anything if I refused, but would be disappointed in me.

  A customer came in, saving me. Instead of meeting James’ eye, I smiled at the customer with a bright greeting and a happy-to-help air.

  James folded his arms and continued our conversation, sotto voce. “It’s wrong.”

  “Yeah, so?” I sprayed whipped cream on a latte.

  He handed me a plastic lid. “You have to give her the money back.”

  “You should have seen Madame R. She’s a carnie through and through. She would have ripped me off if she were in my shoes.”

  “I don’t care if she’s a serial killer. You still have to do the right thing.”

  “I already spent some of it.” I patted the wad of tobacco-scented money in my pocket.

  “Then apologize, and offer to give her the rest later.” He went back to his stool, as though he had already won the argument. He read something out of the three-ring binder, then rooted through the box of mementos, searching for something under the photos.

  “And what if she demands the real one?”

  “Don’t sell it.” He drew out a geode and set it on the counter.

  “What if she demands it? What if she won’t take no for an answer? I need a backup plan.”

  “Kit, you read too many spy novels. She’s not going to threaten you.” James didn’t mention that he was the one who had foretold all those bad things happening to me. Maybe he had conveniently forgotten his tea leaf readings.

  I climbed up on the stool again, grateful to rest my feet. “You know, James, there could be another reason why Uncle Fred didn’t want me to sell it. What if Monica is right, and it wasn’t his to begin with?”

  “I can’t believe that of him.” James pulled out a small sheaf of grain from the box of mementos and added it to the other Lammas decorations already on the counter. James liked to put floral displays up for each of the eight Pagan holidays, but the dried wheat didn’t look like it was going to last until Tuesday, much less the autumnal equinox.

  “There’s got to be some other story behind it, something about him that he never told us. Mr. Thorn said something about a scandal, and Madame R. mentioned the Sacred Grove coven.”

  “I’m sure it was nothing. He was in the Sacred Grove coven, but he didn’t talk about them much, even when I asked. I only found out he was the High Priest when I ran across an old photograph and asked him about it. Let me see if it’s in here.”

  He dug around at the bottom, then carefully extracted a large color photo, faded almost sepia with age. Uncle Fred and Aunt Hazel were there, along with a group of hippies, all holding brooms.

  I held it carefully by the edges. “I remember this photo. It hung in the room with the masks. Why are they holding brooms?”

  “They’re not brooms, they’re besoms. They’re for purifying ritual areas.” He found a brown and white striped pinion feather in the box and pulled it out, inspecting the tip.

  “How do you use a besom to purify an area?”

  “You sweep with it.” James had gone back to reading something from the three-ring binder, absentmindedly stroking the feather with his hands. “Kit, do you still have your utility knife in your pocket?”

  “Sure,” I agreed, handing it over.

  He took it from me and began to whittle a nib on the end of the feather.

  I picked up the binder. The open page was a yellowed piece of notebook paper c
overed with dense writing. Most of the writing was in ballpoint pen, and had been scratched out and edited in places. Curling runes were drawn in the margins with a pencil, so faint it was hard to make them out. “What’s this?”

  “Uncle Fred’s Book of Shadows.” He blew on the nib and whittled it some more.

  “That’s where he learned witchcraft? From that? It doesn’t look very mystical.”

  “No, this is where he wrote down the things he learned. Mostly he learned from his teachers, from workshops, from other witches.”

  “So, anyone can learn this?”

  “Sure,” James said. “If you know the right people, you can even learn witchcraft at the university.”

  “For credit?”

  “No, not really. They have workshops and study groups. They’re small and impossible to get into without knowing the right people. And sorry, but having Fred for an uncle isn’t good enough. I tried.” He walked to the doorway with his geode in one hand and the feather in the other.

  “What about the Inner Sight School of Mage-Craft?”

  “Waste of money,” James said. “Hold that thought. I want to take care of this while there’s a lull.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “This is one of the first spells I learned. It takes longer to cast from scratch, but today I just want to renew the energies.” James dipped the feather into the geode, and then began to draw runes, using the feather as a quill.

  “More of your superstitious hoodoo, James?” I imitated Mom’s voice, hoping for a laugh.

  “Kit, please don’t mock me for my beliefs,” James asked gently.

  That stung. “I'm sorry.”

  The few customers, a blonde woman with glasses reading an entire newspaper over an Americano, and two students drinking extra-chocolate mochas on their way home from school, didn’t find James interesting enough to gawk at. He was just waving the end of a feather around the metal frame of the door.

  I flipped through Uncle Fred’s Book of Shadows. It contained a great deal of poetry, lists of herbs with their uses, and a few rough sketches of pentacles and other symbols, but no demons or arcane diagrams. What a disappointment. Physics textbooks looked more mystical.

  James finished the top half of the door, and leaned down to continue his script along the right side. His body blocked whatever he’d been writing. It sounded like he was whispering something, a poem maybe. He kept concentrating on his whispered speech, but set the geode and the feather down on the counter.

  Still not that interesting. I flipped through the book.

  “All done. What do you think?” James asked, stepping away from the door. He put the geode and the feather back into the box.

  The runes were glowing.

  “It’s real,” I whispered. “It’s really, really, real.”

  “You can see them?” James turned back to admire his handiwork. There was no ink in the geode, and no ink on the feather, and yet the runes glowed, as though he had used a highlighter on the door and illuminated it with black light.

  “What’s it for?”

  “It’s a wellness charm. For avoiding disease.”

  “Disease?” The glow of the runes was fading, but they were still visible, like an oil spot under a coat of paint.

  “You know, colds and stuff.” James took the Book of Shadows from my hands and tied it closed with a ribbon before laying it in the cardboard box.

  “Does it work?” I blinked and turned away from the doorway. When I turned back, they were still there.

  “Of course it works. I don’t get sick since I put the wellness charms up.”

  “How do you know that’s why it works? How do you know it’s not for some other reason?”

  “Like what?” James put the photos back, saving only the picture with the brooms. He tore the cellophane off the glass of the picture frame and eased out the stand to slide the photo in.

  “Like, I don’t know, like maybe this year’s flu strain is one you’re immune to, or maybe you’re just healthier this year.” I shook my head in disbelief. I thought being a witch was just about hippy nature-worship. All this time witchcraft was real?

  “That’s how it works. Mage-craft is about altering the world. It’s subtle, especially witchcraft.

  “Say for example you wanted to cast a spell to make your roses grow better. The Lord and Lady choose how to grant your request. They might give you more days of sun and the right amount of rain, or they might bring a knowledgeable gardener into your life to give you advice, or they might ignore your garden and just have a friend bring you a bouquet.”

  “And of course, you assume it’s the spell that made things happen. There’s no proof it’s anything other than wishful—”

  “I’m not the one who saw runes on the door.”

  What could I say to that?

  He sprayed the glass of the frame with Windex and wiped it with a paper towel. “You’ll get used to it, Kit.”

  I nodded. My brain had become so full of weirdness I was just one goblin away from the loony bin. Or maybe one goblin from accepting all of this as normal.

  The doorbell tinkled and a couple came in, so I went to wash my hands while James took the new customers’ drink orders.

  The guy, who ordered a latte, asked, “Hey James. Got a new photo?” He looked about the same age as Uncle Fred, old enough to get a discount at Denny’s. He must have been a regular, because James answered him.

  “Yes. It’s my Uncle Fred. Frederick Edgerson.”

  “Oh yeah?” he replied, pulling at his beard. “Oh yeah! I remember him. Didn’t he run for mayor once?”

  “I dunno,” James answered. “Did he?”

  The second customer took her cappuccino. She was about Uncle Fred’s age too, with chin-length gray hair and a dark beret. She nodded as she took a sip. “He died recently, I heard.”

  “This summer.”

  “I saw his obit.” She lifted the lid to add honey. “Shame. He was a nice guy. Can I get a biscotti?”

  James fished her out an almond cookie.

  I ignored the rest of their gossip, because a fluorescent pink flyer taped to the front door caught my eye. An idea formed.

  “Hey, James. Can I go early? The Huge is playing at the UPub tonight. It’s one of Rob’s favorite bands.” I was already removing my apron.

  He nodded and handed me his cell phone. “It’s not too busy. You going to invite that guy you’re in love with?”

  “Yeah.” If I had the guts.

  I picked up James’ phone but didn’t dial. What would I say? How could I be so nervous when I saw him all the time? Okay, how about, hey, just wanted to ask you out, just the two of us. No, that would sound like I was asking him to cheat on Julie. But I was, wasn’t I? Maybe more casual was better …

  “Call him already,” James said, exasperated.

  “Okay, okay. Fine.”

  Rob answered, almost yelling over the chatter of people in the background.

  “Hi, Rob, this is Kit. The Huge is playing at the UPub, and I was wondering if you …”

  “You’re going too? Dude, I didn’t know you were a Huge fan. Me and some friends from the dorm were gonna go tonight and if you want to tag along that’s totally cool. I’ll call Fenwick and see if he wants to go too.”

  “No, that’s—”

  “Gotta go. See you there. Bye.” Rob hung up.

  I was going to go, and he was going to be there, and he almost invited me, really. So, why wasn’t I happy?

  Chapter Six

  The UPub was a small bar on campus, made smaller by the addition of a stage at one end. It was full of rowdy frat boys and as sumptuously decorated as a high-school cafeteria. The band was setting up when I got there, and the belched “Jingle Bells” of the singer testing the mike could barely be heard over the chatter of drunken college students.

  Rob sat with a crowd in the back, jammed into a booth that barely accommodated them, much less me as well. Two giggling sorority girls sat on g
uys’ laps, which meant that someone would probably ask me to sit on a strange guy’s lap too. I wanted to turn and leave, but Rob spotted me and waved. That smile! It was worth putting up with a lot to see that smile. My heart flipped.

  “Hey, Kit! Come over and sit with us. Julie can sit on my lap. Won’t you, babe?”

  And she did, setting her tiny little bottom on his thighs, which put her breasts at his face level. This was worse. Here I was, thigh to thigh with Rob, and Julie’s perfect blonde hair kept tickling my nose. I didn’t like anyone Rob dated who wasn’t me, and I wouldn’t have liked Julie if she’d never met Rob. Perfect boobs, perfect hair, perfect family, college degree, nice clothes, good job. Easy to hate.

  Rob introduced me to their friends, but I forgot their names, and couldn’t see them anyway, because Julie blocked my view. They started chatting about other people they knew. The waitress came and gave them their overpriced domestic beers, but left before taking my order.

  Great, so now I was going to be thirsty too. Maybe being home alone wasn’t so bad.

  A sudden crowd came in and pressed against our booth just as the warm-up band finished. Rob’s thigh was still touching mine, but I couldn’t see him, couldn’t talk to him, and four-inches of jean-clothed leg was hardly a spiritual connection. Leaving Rob, vs. leaving Rob’s friends. It wasn’t like they’d notice if I left. The two guys I could see hadn’t even made eye contact. Rob was halfway drunk too, which meant a fight might break out anytime.

  I mumbled something about needing a cigarette, and squeezed my way towards the entrance. The air outside was crystalline fresh compared to the stale warm press within, and best of all, there was a friendly face.

  Fenwick was having a discussion with the doorman. “Look, I’m twenty-four, I just forgot my ID.”

  “Sorry, rules are rules.” The doorman, almost as muscular as Fenwick, had a bored tone as though he heard this particular excuse five times an hour.

  Fenwick spotted me exiting and grinned. “Hey, Kit! Here’s my friend; she can vouch for me. She knows I’m twenty-four.”

  I decided to jerk his chain. “Fenwick, are you trying to sneak into bars again? That whole, ‘No, I’m really twenty-four’ crap? I’m twenty-two, do you actually think you look older than me?”