Girl's Guide to Witchcraft (23 page)

Of course, I left out some parts. I didn’t mention that I was estranged from my own biological mother. I didn’t tell him about my late-night crystal training session with David and Neko. I didn’t say that I had created a healing charm in the privacy of my own living room, and I overlooked announcing that I seemed to have an affinity for crystals that was at least as great as my ability with spells.

I didn’t tell him that my grandmother seemed to have some sensitivity to magical power—the same as Clara. As I.

But I entertained my date. Jason seemed intrigued as he dug into our garlic bread with gusto. So much had changed, he commented, since George Chesterton’s time. Health care then was a nightmare of tinctures and ointments. I found myself agreeing, even going so far as to volunteer my time researching treatments for typhus, to learn more about how Chesterton’s son had been cured of the deadly disease. After all, I
was
a librarian, and if my skills could help my Boyfriend…

Scott had never asked me for help.

By the time our pasta arrived, I was much more relaxed. I asked Jason how his work was going, about the current semester and the classes he was teaching. I laughed when he told me about one of his students—the one who thought that the colonists should have purchased their arms from the Soviet Union on the black market, so that they could have overwhelmed the British that much sooner.

“The Soviet Union?” I asked, incredulous.

“Well, he knew that the Soviets preceded today’s Russia.”

“What
do
they teach in high school these days?”

“A question that I ask myself every single day,” Jason said, shaking his head. “I’m actually thinking of setting up a new project for next semester. You probably won’t believe this, but I got the idea from the Peabridge.”

“From us?” I felt a flush of pride. Or maybe that was my second glass of wine.

“When you started wearing your costume, it really changed everything for me. It made my reading come alive—it was as if the history was happening right then. George Chesterton could walk in the door at any moment.”

Damn. Evelyn had been right.

Jason went on. “I’m thinking of having the students put together their own outfits. Use quill pens. Do some laundry the colonial way. Anything to actually experience the time period, to realize how different things were two hundred years ago.”

“Don’t you think that sounds a little…beneath college students?”

He smiled at me across the table. “Is it beneath you?”

“Well—I—” I tried to picture a roomful of college coeds, all wearing hoops and petticoats and sack gowns. I expanded my mental view, imagining Ekaterina the Ice Ballerina in a mobcap, grading essay exams with a quill pen dipped in red ink. “Do you think your grad students would go for it? I mean, I only met Ekaterina once, but
she
certainly didn’t seem the type—”

“Ekaterina?” Jason looked surprised. He obviously had not thought through his grand hands-on scheme. Then, he shrugged. “She wouldn’t need to join in. She specializes in nineteenth-century. Early suffrage movements.”

“Yes!” I was surprised to hear myself say that out loud. Must have been the Chianti. But I had told Melissa that Ekaterina was a proto-feminist controlling bitch the first time I’d met the Russian Ice Queen. I’d known it from the moment I’d laid eyes on her perfect brow.

Jason blinked, then smiled slyly. “It wasn’t Ekaterina I was thinking of when I came up with the idea.”

I twirled the stem of my wineglass between my fingers, suddenly shy. “Oh?”

“It was you.” He leaned forward, settling his hand on top of mine. “Jane, I have to admit that there’s something about seeing you dressed up that way.”

I tried to laugh, but no sound came out. “I bet you say that to all the girls who try to poison you with peanut soup.”

He shook his head. “I’m serious, Jane.”

I couldn’t believe it. Jason—my Boyfriend—was attracted to me in my colonial costume. It
must
be the love spell that I had worked, the words I had read from the grimoire.

He went on. “You’ll probably think I’m crazy, but when I look up from my research, and I see you sitting at your desk, wearing your stays and that lace bodice…”

Oh. My. God.

The waiter came to take away our plates. “Dessert?” he asked. “Coffee?”

Jason looked at me, and I managed one short shake of my head. Jason said, “Just the check, please.”

It was my turn to say something. Anything. “Sometimes, the lace itches.”

Oh, that was great. Brilliant. The hottest words that anyone had spoken to me since Scott Randall first told me what he wanted to do in my Barbie-pink bedroom, and all I could think to say was that I itched. I deserved to be alone until the day I died.

“I’ve made you blush.”

“I just don’t think of quilted petticoats as a turn-on.”

“When you wear them, they are.”

The waiter returned with the check before I could stammer out another embarrassing reply. Jason pulled out his wallet and dropped some money on the table. I started to reach for my purse, but he waved my hand away. As the waiter returned, Jason asked him, “The restrooms are downstairs?”

“Yes, signor.”

I recognized Jason’s grin. I remembered it from years before, from when Scott still thought about long afternoons of romance. Somehow, miraculously, I matched that goofy smile with one of my own.

Trying to pretend that I had just discovered my own need to freshen my makeup, I followed Jason down a narrow flight of stairs at the back of the restaurant.

Melissa was never going to believe this. She would never believe that I had shared garlic-cheese bread with my Boyfriend on our first official date. And she would certainly never believe that said Boyfriend found my colonial dress sexy. And there was absolutely, positively, no possible way that she was going to believe that that Boyfriend had led me down the service stairs toward the restrooms, only to sweep me into an alcove underneath those very steps.

I
didn’t even believe that it could happen to me.

Until I felt Jason’s hand on the back of my neck. Until I felt his lips on mine.

Was this what I had missed the other night? The kiss that I had managed to overlook, because I had been stupidly obsessing over the dinner I was about to ruin?

Okay, so it wasn’t the best kiss in the world. How could it be, with us standing up in a poorly lit alcove beneath the stairs of an Italian restaurant during a busy lunch hour? I worried that I wasn’t into it enough, that I wasn’t leaning against him the right amount. I was afraid that my feet would slip on the linoleum floor.

But Jason managed to distract me from the flaws in the setting. The touch of his palms on my back did that. And the realization that he was gliding his hands around to my front. That he was slipping his fingers under the straps of my bra. My black lace bra. The one that I had hooked up that morning, chiding myself for wishful thinking.

A door opened behind us. I heard a woman’s heels on the hard floor, heard her quick gasp of indrawn breath as she saw us. “Well, I never!”

Well, lady, I never did, either. But I sure as hell wouldn’t mind doing it again.

Jason, though, was stepping away from me. “I’m sorry,” he said, as the woman’s heels clomped above us.

“Don’t be.”

He brushed back a strand of my hair. “I shouldn’t have done that. You must think I’m some sort of animal.”

“I think you’re something, all right.” I hoped that my smile indicated exactly what I thought he was.

There was more traffic on the stairs, another woman coming down. What was this, Grand Central Station? Trying to find something to do while she walked by, I glanced at my watch. “Ach! I have to get back to work!”

“So soon?”

“Evelyn thinks that I’m at an appointment. I need to get back to the reference desk.” I started to sigh, frustrated that I hadn’t managed to win the lottery and retire from my day job forever.

“I should let you go then.” He trailed a finger along my jaw, and I almost melted into a garlic-fragrant puddle.

“I’ll be changing clothes,” I said when I could breathe again. I felt more than a little foolish, but I was rewarded by another one of Jason’s wicked grins. “Once I get back to the library. I’ll be wearing my costume.” He actually moaned as he kissed me. I whispered as we pulled apart from each other: “But I’ll think of you as I lace up my stays.”

And I did.

Cheeks flushed from the walk back to the office, eyes bright with untold secrets, I pulled the linen strings extra tight. And I thought of Jason’s touch all afternoon, as I researched medicine of the eighteenth century, an obscure founding father and the father’s even more obscure son.

“Jane, I just can’t get over how wonderful you look without glasses.”

“Gran, was I really so terrible before?”

I was beginning to wonder. I’d received nothing but compliments since I’d picked up my contact lenses four days before. Neko had watched as I made faces in the bathroom mirror, inserting the lenses and taking them out until it seemed natural to poke my fingers in my eyes. He’d sniffed when I set aside my eyeglasses. “They were the wrong shape for your face anyway.”

Now he told me.

Even David Montrose had noticed—and commented on—the change during our training sessions. We’d met three times in as many days. He had wanted me to focus on crystals rather than spell books, once I’d explained that Clara and Gran both seemed to have an affinity for them. He thought that we should explore their magic, try to figure out whether they were the true source of my own power.

We hadn’t come to any solid conclusions, but I’d learned a lot more about chalcedony, bloodstone and natrolite than I had ever thought possible. (Chalcedony stimulates maternal instinct among other things. I decided that I might want to make a gift to Clara.)

The training sessions had been intense, all the more so because I was constantly distracted by thoughts of Jason. My Boyfriend had not phoned during the week, and I’d constantly fought the temptation to dial his cell. I’d hoped that he would add a research session or two to his library schedule during the week, but I’d been sorely disappointed. I kept reminding myself, though, that the university was hurtling toward midterms. Jason was probably busy counseling students. Still, I sulked for the second half of the week, reading and rereading the research notes I’d prepared.

Maybe that was why I was so determined to make the Harvest Gala a success. Perhaps I was depressed over Jason’s failure to phone. Or I was just desperate for a break from studying crystals with David. Or, just possibly, I wanted everything to be perfect for Gran.

She had been released from the hospital two days before, but she was still on strict instructions to get plenty of rest and limit outside activities. It had taken every ounce of my persuasive capabilities to convince her to stay home during the Gala. In the end, I think that it was actually Uncle George who made her believe that the possible risk of a relapse wasn’t worth it. He’d said that he wanted to spend many more Harvest Galas with her.

Gran’s eyes had teared up, and she’d finally agreed to stay in bed. Somewhat surprisingly, Clara had offered to spend the evening with her. Now I stood in front of both of them, feeling for all the world as if I were about to head out to my high school prom.

Earlier in the evening, I’d started to force my newly trimmed hair into some sort of updo for the grand event, but Neko had talked me out of that. Just as he’d convinced me that I couldn’t wear my classic little black dress, as I’d long intended.

Well, if I hadn’t wanted his advice, I probably shouldn’t have told him that the event was black tie. He had immediately decided that I simply
must
wear autumn colors. I’d assured him that there was not a single shade of orange or yellow that would complement my coloring, and he’d reluctantly agreed. But then, he’d dragged me into some little boutique, a tiny hole in the wall that he’d apparently discovered during his daily neighborhood rambles.

I had to admit that the dark green shantung sheath he picked out was stunning. It was shot through with a hint of gold, just enough to make the eye take notice. I’d never had the courage to wear a strapless gown before. (I won’t even bother explaining the lingerie lessons I was given by my familiar. Suffice to say that Victoria’s Secret can accomplish miracles. Even on short notice.) Fortunately, Gran had already agreed to foot the bill for my finery.

“Now, don’t forget to place my bids at the silent auction,” Gran reminded me for the 432nd time. “And try to mingle with the new people. Make them feel at home.”

“And don’t forget to be home by midnight, or your coach will turn into a pumpkin,” Clara added in a grave tone.

Gran frowned at her, momentarily distracted from her list of dos and don’ts. “Do you need money for a cab, dear?”

“I’m fine,” I said, brandishing the little gold handbag that Neko had insisted I buy to complete my outfit. “But I really should be going.”

I still needed another fifteen minutes of grandmaternal advice, including instructions on the frequent reapplication of lipstick and a reminder to keep my hair brushed. By the time I finally escaped, I wondered if I should just give up and head home. After all, it was the getting-dressed-up part that had been fun. The event itself was bound to be a disappointment, as I tried to remain vivacious and witty with the over-seventy crowd.

But I knew that Uncle George would report back to Gran. And I
had
promised to place her silent auction bids. Not to mention the fact that I felt pretty wonderful wearing my ball gown.

Ball gown. Who would have ever thought that Jane Madison, Librarian, would own a ball gown? Whether I was lucky or the green sheath did its job, I had no trouble hailing a cab right outside of Gran’s apartment building.

The Gala was being held in the St. Regis Hotel, just a couple of blocks from the White House. As the taxi pulled into the small circular driveway, a shiver tiptoed down my spine. I paid the driver while the uniformed doorman waited to assist me out of the cab. Fairy lights reflected off the lobby’s turquoise and gold coffered ceiling, and I blinked, trying to figure out where I was supposed to go. Another uniformed attendant glided to my side. “May I help you, madam?”

Madam? Me?

I couldn’t help but answer with a British accent—it just seemed like the appropriate thing to do. “Yes, please. The Concert Opera Harvest Gala?”

“Of course, madam,” he murmured. “Right this way.”

Rather than point to the door on the far side of the lobby, he walked me across the inlaid floor. I murmured my thanks as he left me framed in the ballroom’s ornately carved double doorway.

The Gala seemed to be in full swing, or at least as full a swing as the evening was likely to achieve. A surprisingly good jazz band filled the stage at the end of the room, energetically playing something that was actually danceable. At least a dozen couples were taking advantage of the parquet floor.

Rectangular tables had been set up around the edges of the room, pushing up against heavy gold-brocade curtains. Each table had a green-shaded accountant’s lamp, directing light onto a beautifully printed silent auction form. As I sidled along the wall, I could see that several bids had already been entered for many of the prizes. Deciding that I should keep my promise to Gran early, I wrote in her bids on the appropriate sheets, taking especial care with her first pick, a landscape painting by local Impressionist artist, Bill Schmidt.

The bar was set up against the near wall of the room, and a few people were waiting for drinks. Next to the bar was a towering display of desserts; even from my vantage point, I could make out perfect mini-eclairs, a glistening croquembouche and wave after wave of individual fruit tarts.

Feeling strangely anonymous without my glasses, in my grown-up dress with my grown-up hair and my grown-up clasp handbag, I secured a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. Alas, once I had my drink in hand, I slipped back into the trauma of every party I had ever attended anywhere in my life. I didn’t know anyone. I was terrible at making small talk. No one was ever going to ask me to dance. I’d never even heard of most of the operas that were the bread and butter of this crowd.

I made another circuit of the room, upping one of Gran’s auction bids that had already been countered, and then I retreated to the corner farthest from the band. I wished that I could lock myself into a stall in the ladies’ room until the evening was over.

I considered it a success that I made my champagne last for an entire jazz number. When a too-attentive waiter took my glass away on his silver tray, I practically sprinted to the bar to secure another flute. After all, it wouldn’t do to have my hands empty. People might think that I wasn’t enjoying myself.

That second drink, however, only made things complicated. Just as I was feeling the first heady tickle of the champagne, a flock of waiters descended on the room, passing enormous trays of sinfully tempting appetizers.

The first that came my way was a deconstructed Peking duck—slivers of duck served with shreds of crisp pancake and a drizzle of hoisin sauce, all presented on porcelain Chinese soup spoons. The food was delicious, and I managed to eat it without leaving behind unsightly streaks of Pick-Me-Up Pink. But then, I was left holding a spoon in one hand and a champagne glass in another.

And I realized I was really hungry.

Other waiters sailed by. There was a tantalizing tray of miniature frenched lamb chops, their curved bones serving as the perfect handhold. Another tray of grilled pear slices with blue cheese melting on top. A third of roast beef tenderloin, sliced paper thin and presented on caraway flat-bread.

But not a single server was collecting used soup spoons. If I had planned better, I would have eaten the other treats first, then gone for the Peking duck. Having gone out of order, I was stuck without fingers for the finger food. (In theory, I could have put down my champagne glass, but I never actually considered that as an option.)

Just as my stomach actually gurgled a protest, I heard someone say, “May I help you with that spoon?”

I turned around, relieved that one of the tuxedoed staff had finally noticed my predicament. I found myself face-to-face with Samuel Potter, the owner of the shih tzu named Beijing. “Mr. Potter!” I said, surprised to find a person instead of a waiter. No, I knew that waiters were people, too. But you know what I meant.

Much to my embarrassment, he took my spoon, and my now-empty glass. Within seconds, a waiter materialized to relieve Mr. Potter of the burden. I started to make a snappy complaint, but I decided that the Harvest Gala was neither the time nor the place.

Mr. Potter kissed my cheek gallantly. “You look ravishing, dear.”

I flushed, even as I wondered at the strength of my grimoire’s love spell. How many weeks had passed since I had first worked it? How long could my witchcraft hold? And why had I repeatedly forgotten to ask David about the spell? I’m sure I would have remembered at some point in the past week, if he hadn’t been plying me with tray after tray of dusty rocks.

I remembered that I needed to reply. “It’s certainly kind of you to say so, Mr. Potter.”

“And are you enjoying yourself?”

“Absolutely. The Peking, er, Beijing duck was excellent.”

Mr. Potter’s laugh boomed across the room. “My Lucinda used to do that all the time. One of our neighbors owned a yappy little
Beijingese,
if you listened to my wife—you know, those lapdogs with the dark little faces and fluffy bodies.”

“I’ve always thought they looked like mops,” I said.

“Precisely!” Mr. Potter laughed again. “Lucinda also irritated the smile off my cousin, an anthropologist, by always referring to
Beijing
Man, no matter how many times he explained that the evolutionary find was made well before we became politically correct in our pronunciation.”

“And how is Beijing the shih tzu tonight?”

“Home alone, and probably howling at the window. He hates to be abandoned.” For just an instant, a frown crossed Mr. Potter’s face, and I regretted having reminded him of his loss. Before I could think of something to say, though, the jazz band began an energetic swing number. Mr. Potter’s face cleared, and he said, “May I have this dance?”

He sounded so formal that I almost wondered if I was supposed to have a dance card. I wouldn’t put it past those opera people to perpetuate the tradition. Ordinarily, I’m afraid of embarrassing myself on a dance floor, but the poor man looked so smitten. And I
was
wearing my new green silk dress. And I
did
have the perfect haircut. And new contact lenses. “I would love to, Mr. Potter.”

I felt like a child, being led out to the middle of the parquet surface. I wondered if Mr. Potter would let me put my feet on top of his, matching him step for step, as if I were a little girl. Instead, he clasped one hand firmly to my waist and offered me his palm. We shuffled awkwardly for a moment, trying to find the beat of the music. As he stumbled left and I leaned right, I wondered if I had a dance spell hiding in my basement, a few magical words that would lend us even a faint semblance of grace and beauty.

We staggered around the floor, Mr. Potter muttering the count beneath his breath. We never quite found the rhythm projected by the band, and we certainly didn’t mesh with each other.

But none of that really mattered. The entire time that we were demonstrating how not to dance, Mr. Potter was beaming. He looked from me to his fellow opera fans, then back to me. He maneuvered us so that we were standing directly in front of the band. He was
proud
of me. And proud of himself for being with me. And I was pleased that I could make him happy.

I wished that my grandfather had lived longer.

As if summoned by that thought, Uncle George was waiting for us at the edge of the dance floor when the band finished its number. His applause was partially for the musicians, but he tilted his head toward me in an amused acknowledgment of my supposed dancing skills. Or, at least, my social skills. I laughed and kissed him on the cheek.

“Jane,” he said. “You look stunning.” He clapped his hand on Mr. Potter’s shoulder. “Sam, you old dog. You were quite a sight out there.” Uncle George winked at me, and I grinned in response.

Mr. Potter said, “Jane, your grandmother must be so proud of you. Not only are you accomplished in a noble profession, but you’re willing to fritter away a weekend night with us old farts, in support of a good cause. What a pity that Sarah couldn’t be here tonight.”

Sarah. I never thought of my grandmother as “Sarah.” I never thought of her having any life separate from being my grandmother.