Girl's Guide to Witchcraft (24 page)

Mr. Potter turned to Uncle George. “Have you heard about the holdings in the Peabridge Library, George? They have original manuscripts dating back to the seventeenth century.”

I smiled at Mr. Potter’s enthusiasm. He had the vigor of the newly converted whenever he mentioned libraries. I said self-deprecatingly, “Not that we could find anything if we needed to.”

Uncle George shook his head and waved one hand about vaguely. “Surely you’ve got them all arranged by Dewey Decimal number, or something like that? I remember learning those numbers when I was just a boy. Always liked the 920s. Biography.”

“I was an 800 girl, myself. Literature.” And a touch of 133, I added silently. Witchcraft. Before I could say something aloud that I might regret, I surged ahead in the conversation. “But we don’t use the Dewey Decimal system in our library. If we did, all of our holdings would be under the same few numbers, for American Colonial History.”

“Ah!” Uncle George said, as if I had explained some secret of the universe. I saw that his attention was being drawn across the room. Anything, I supposed, to escape a discussion of the joys and beauties of library science. Either that, or he was actually taking seriously his role as “host” at this soiree. He made polite excuses and crossed the room to talk to a potential donor.

“So,” Mr. Potter said. “No Dewey Decimal. What do you use instead?” He seemed so interested that he ignored the three waiters who converged upon us with silver trays of appetizers. I snagged a lamb chop and a napkin, operating on the assumption that I needed to make up for time lost to both the Peking duck spoon and the dance floor.

I managed one quick bite of the most succulent meat I had ever tasted before I said, “We’ve pretty much invented our own system.”

Mr. Potter breathed in, as awed as if I had told him we were constructing an atom bomb in the basement. “Just like that? Without guidance from anyone? You must be so proud of yourself!” I could hear echoes of his love and respect for his lost librarian wife in the question.

I smiled gently. “I wish. I’ve never been fully trained as a cataloger.”

“Like my Lucinda was,” he said, and sighed.

“If we had the money, we would hire someone like her tomorrow. Good catalogers are worth their weight in gold.”

Mr. Potter looked out over the dance floor, his face gone soft and vague. I wanted to know what he was remembering, what private jokes, what secret love. A pang daggered just beneath my heart, and I wondered if anyone would ever miss me as much as he missed Lucinda.

I took another bite of lamb, trying to fill the silence with some sort of normal life activity.

“Jane Madison. I didn’t know you were an opera fan.”

I knew the voice before I turned around. Before I finished chewing. Before I swallowed. Before I thought about the animalistic awkwardness of clutching a lamb bone in my supposedly delicate well-manicured hand.

“Jason,” I choked out after I had gulped down the partially chewed bite in my mouth.

He was stunning. He wore a tuxedo that had clearly been tailored specifically for him. His glistening linen shirt shone against a scarlet cummerbund. As my eyes lingered, I realized that the red was shot through with gold—a perfect complement to my own silk dress. The satin stripe on his pants accentuated the long line of his legs, and I felt myself melting right there.

Mr. Potter cleared his throat.

“Oh! Jason Templeton, this is Samuel Potter, one of the board members of the concert opera guild. Mr. Potter, Jason is—” I started to say “my Boyfriend,” but I couldn’t bring myself to say the words. Not in public. Not in front of another man I had snared with my love spell. “Jason is a professor at Mid-Atlantic. He uses our collection regularly.”

“The best in the city,” Jason said. “For
my
purposes, the best on the entire eastern seaboard. And the reference librarian is the finest in the profession.”

I blushed.

The band struck up a spirited waltz. “I’m sorry, Mr. Potter,” Jason said. “May I steal Jane away for this dance?”

The older man looked disappointed, but only for a moment. “Of course. I should mingle with the crowd, anyway. The role of a board member, you know.” He turned to me, though, before he walked off. “Thank you, Jane. This has been a most memorable evening.”

“Thank
you,
” I said, hoping that Gran would be proud of me. I glanced around, desperately hoping that I could find a waiter to take my nasty lamb bone, now wrapped in a napkin.

“Here,” Mr. Potter said, just before stepping away. “Let me take that for you.”

“I couldn’t—”

“Now, don’t keep your young man waiting.” He took the napkin and waved me toward the dance floor. Once again, I felt like a child, spitting out my gum into an adult’s hand before a meal. But Mr. Potter smiled, and I turned away. To dance with “my young man.”

Jason guided me toward the floor with a hand on my waist. My heart was beating so hard that I could scarcely breathe. If Neko had found me a dress one bit tighter, anyone could have seen the pounding inside my chest.

And Jason proved to be everything in a dancer that Mr. Potter wasn’t. His arms around me were strong, confident. He guided me about the dance floor, not in any showy way, but in a manner that convinced me—and apparently everyone around us—that he knew what he was doing.

Where had a man his age learned to dance? My peers had mostly managed to shuffle back and forth at the occasional bar mitzvah, or we had jumped up and down at school dances in high school. I would never have learned ballroom dancing myself if it weren’t for Uncle George and some misguided Arthur Murray lessons that Gran had insisted on giving me for my Sweet Sixteen.

But who was I to question my Boyfriend waltzing me around the dance floor of the Harvest Gala?

I finally recovered enough presence of mind to say, “What are you doing here?”

“The opera folks contacted the university about this fund-raiser. They said they wanted to build town-gown relationships. The head of the history department is a big opera fan, so he bought tickets for everyone—to help us bond as a department, he said.” Jason nodded toward a cluster of people in the far corner of the room. I darted a glance and saw that Ekaterina was anchored in the middle of the circle. Well, any department head that brought me my Boyfriend could bring the Ice Ballerina, as well, I supposed. Jason asked, “But what are
you
doing here?”

“My grandmother is on the board. Sarah Smythe. She’s the one who thought it would be a good idea to build up the guild’s relationships with universities.”

He smiled, and I suddenly felt faint. “I suppose I should meet her and thank her for getting me here. For letting me see you. I should have phoned you this past week, but things have been insane. I have an article due on the fifteenth. You know—publish or perish.”

I took a breath, the first time I’d filled my lungs since turning around to see Jason. So that was why he hadn’t phoned. He’d been busy with work. Nothing more ominous than that. Everyone got busy. I did, myself.

“Which one is your grandmother?” he asked.

“She’s not here tonight. She’s still recovering from her pneumonia.”

“What a shame,” Jason said, pulling me in closer as he led us through a graceful spin. “I’ll have to meet her another time.”

And that’s when it hit me. The perfect plan. After all, I’d already promised Gran that I would go to the Farm. And she had said that I could bring someone. And after my little, um, makeout session with Jason beneath the stairs at La Perla, it was time to see just how far my Boyfriend was willing to follow me….

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and leaned in closer to Jason’s ear. “Come with me to my family reunion.”

He almost stopped moving, right there, in the middle of the parquet floor. Not exactly the reaction I had hoped for. Nevertheless, he recovered his dancing legs quickly, and he asked in a careful voice, “When is it?”

“The third weekend in October. Two weeks away. We get together up in Connecticut, at our family farm. Gran will be there, and a couple dozen cousins and aunts and uncles.”

“The third weekend…That’s Historical Politics.”

“Excuse me?” I knew that my family had a lot of issues, but I’d never heard anyone phrase it quite like that.

“The Historical Politics Society of America. The ‘trade association’ all we history professors belong to. They always have their annual meeting the third weekend in October.”

“Oh.” I knew that I shouldn’t feel so disappointed. I mean, five minutes before, I’d never even considered asking Jason to join me. I looked up to find him staring across the dance floor, looking at his historical political colleagues. He was probably imagining the raucous time they’d have, discussing Hegelian dialectic and Cartesian dualism over endless beers in the hotel bar at the conference.

He pulled me a little closer to his chest, his fingers spreading more broadly across my back. “This reunion thing. It’s for the whole weekend?”

“Friday afternoon until Sunday afternoon.”

“I wouldn’t be able to make it up there until Saturday. I can’t get out of a commitment Friday night. I could drive up and meet you there, though.”

I knew that the music was playing. I knew that other couples were dancing around us. I knew that Jason was holding me close, waiting for me to say something.

I knew that my entire world was opening, expanding, like the moment that a theater curtain flies up and a play begins and all the possibilities are spread out on the stage, just waiting for the audience to discover them.

“That would be wonderful,” I finally said.

Suddenly, I thought that he would kiss me. There. On the St. Regis ballroom dance floor, with his arms folded around my perfect green silk dress, as he looked down at my newcut hair and my manicured nails, into eyes not obscured by glasses.

But the band stopped playing. The waltz ended, and everyone started to clap. Out of the corner of my eye I saw movement, and then Uncle George was standing by my side. “Jane!” he exclaimed. “Your grandmother’s bid on the Schmidt painting has been overwritten. You should take a look and see if she wants to pay more.”

“Okay,” I said, wishing that he would disappear, that he would take all of his concert opera cronies and enter suspended animation, that he would leave me for even one more minute with my amazing, stupendous, incredible Boyfriend. My Boyfriend who was joining me at the Farm. My Boyfriend, who was going to redeem me after years and years of aunts and cousins questioning how I could possibly remain single for so long.

“I’m sorry,” Uncle George said, half turning toward Jason. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Not at all, sir,” Jason said, inclining his Greek-statue head. “In fact, I should get back to my friends.” He still held my hand, though, and he squeezed my fingers gently before he started to walk away. “We’ll talk more at the library next week, Jane. I can’t wait to see what you’ve found for me about the apothecary trade. That’s the last piece that’s missing from my article.”

“I’ll have it for you at the circulation desk on Monday morning.”

I felt like I was speaking code in front of Uncle George.
And I’ll see you at the Farm,
I meant.

“Wonderful,” he said. Then he smiled and was gone, scarlet cummerbund, impeccable tux and all. Uncle George needed to remind me three times before I was ready to cross the room and check on Gran’s silent auction bid.

My Boyfriend was going to meet my family. At the Farm.

“Jane, you’re just not concentrating,” David said, collapsing back on the couch and sighing with frustration.

“I’m trying!”

“No, you’re not.” He picked up the pink fluorite crystal that was centered on the coffee table. He’d explained numerous times that it was supposed to help focus my thoughts. I was supposed to be able to see through it, to channel my energies as I worked a spell.

I glared at the stone. “I just don’t think that my strength is with crystals.”

“Your mother’s seems to be,” he said in a perfectly reasonable tone.

Neko had the good sense to cringe at those words. He’d heard enough of my rants about Clara to know that mentioning her was not about to make me more pliant to the warder’s wishes.

“And if
Clara
—” I gave a definite emphasis to her proper name “—had bothered to train me, then maybe all this witchcraft stuff wouldn’t be so hard to pick up now. Maybe I’d be ready for a teacher, if a decent one could be found around here.”

David sucked in breath to reply, but he visibly caught himself before he could say something that he’d regret. Neko winced, stood and stretched. “Perhaps if I made you both a cup of tea…”

David looked toward my familiar, annoyed. “We don’t need tea. What we need is a bit less self-pity and a bit more concentration.”

Neko positioned himself precisely equidistant between us and shrugged. “It seems to me that at least one of us needs a nap. Awfully cranky tonight, aren’t we?” He minced into the kitchen before David or I could ask just who was supposed to be the tired one.

I leaned back against the couch’s cushions, exhaling sharply to get my stupid bangs out of my eyes. I’d never had a problem with my hair when it was just one long tangle of curls. I closed my eyes, suddenly too exhausted by the whole training process to focus on the room around me. Not that I needed a nap. Really.

“Neko,” I called. “A cup of tea
would
be wonderful.”

He didn’t answer, but I heard him bang the kettle against the sink.

David took another deep breath and said, “I’m not meant to be a trainer, you know. I’m here to protect you. To keep you safe. I only started to teach you about your powers because you seemed so completely lost.”

I didn’t bother opening my eyes. I was almost too weary to say, “Fine, then. Don’t teach me anymore.”

He was silent for a long time, and I wondered what expression was on his face. We’d worked together twice since the Harvest Gala and at both sessions, he’d complained that I wasn’t applying myself. I wasn’t quite sure what he wanted me to accomplish. I thought it was extremely unlikely that I’d hurtle from being Jane Madison, Meek and Ordinary Librarian to Jane Madison, Super Witch, practically overnight.

Besides, I had important things on my mind. Like my Boyfriend. And our looming weekend at the Farm. I’d only seen Jason once since the Gala, to hand over my apothecary research which—if I do say so myself—he had declared invaluable. Now he had me digging up historic midwife’s records; he believed that Chesterton and his wife might have lost twins before young George was born. That loss might modify how scholars had traditionally viewed the stoic farmer—and Jason might glean another career-advancing article.

“You don’t understand.” David interrupted my scholarly distraction, using a weary parent’s tone of voice, as though I were an unruly toddler.

“Explain it to me, then.” I forced myself to sit up and open my eyes. “Tell me what I’m missing. Tell me why this is so important. There are about a hundred other things I’d rather be doing, you know. I was supposed to be at yoga tonight with Melissa. And I should be packing for the weekend. I leave tomorrow morning.”

“I know.”

I heard his disapproval, as loud as a bonfire crackling. “And what’s that supposed to mean? Are you telling me that I shouldn’t go to my family reunion?”

“I don’t have anything against your family.” He laid out his answer very precisely, with just the faintest emphasis on the last word.

Jason. I never should have mentioned that Jason was coming to the Farm.

Well, David Montrose had passed up his chance. After all, David was the one who had stood outside my cottage and kissed me good-night before deciding that it was better off for both of us to stop our “relationship” before it began. I certainly wasn’t asked what
I
preferred.

Not that I would ever trade Jason for David. Perish the thought.

I
knew
Jason. I’d spent almost an entire year observing his every move. All the time that he’d been my Imaginary Boyfriend, I’d memorized his preferences, his quirks, the endearing little things he did that made my heart twist inside my chest.

I didn’t know David well enough to get worked up about him. He didn’t make me tongue-tied. He didn’t make me question every word, every thought I had in his presence. There was no chemistry with David. No rush of flirtation. He was my warder, plain and simple.

And he was acting as if he was in charge of every aspect of my life. Including my love life.

Neko slunk in from the kitchen, carrying a tray laden with teapot, mugs, butter cookies and a pitcher of cream the size of Montana. He poured oolong for all of us, then doctored his own, adding a quick dollop of tea to a mugful of cream. He blew on the lukewarm mixture and sipped daintily. When he finally noticed that David and I were studiously avoiding looking at each other, he pursed his lips and asked, “Are we having fun yet?”

“I’ll be having fun tomorrow afternoon. When I’m in Connecticut.” I crossed my arms over my chest. I knew that I was acting like a petulant teenager, but what else could I say? David brought out the worst in me. If he was going to act like my schoolteacher, I was going to regress to the worst of my student days.

Predictably, David sighed in exasperation and set down the mug that he had just picked up. “You know, we don’t have to do this, Jane. You can just hand over all the books downstairs. Let the Coven take charge, and you won’t have to worry about them anymore. The crystals, too. The Coven would be thrilled to have the entire collection.”

Neko slammed his own mug onto the table, letting some of his ecru-colored drink slop over the top. “Stunning advice,” he hissed, glaring at David. I was reminded immediately of the black cat that Neko once had been, and I wondered what he would look like if he actually attacked in his feline form.

David answered my familiar, but he looked directly at me. “It’s not ‘advice,’ Neko. It’s merely a statement of fact. The Coven hasn’t interfered so far because I’ve convinced them that a valid witch has possession of the materials downstairs.” He pointed at my familiar. “The fact that Jane was able to awaken you is an indication that—at some level—the magic accepts her. I assure you, though, that the Coven is getting rather curious about the situation. They’re growing impatient. They want to meet Jane, know her capabilities. And they want to know exactly what is in that collection. I can’t put them off forever.”

“Dammit, David! I’m not asking you to!” I responded more loudly than I’d intended. “All I’m asking is to be left alone until after my family reunion. Is that so much? The books were missing for decades. Can’t I take one more weekend, for myself?”

David sighed. “You can take one more weekend.”

Surprised by my sudden victory, I sank back onto the couch and hid my gloat behind a swallow of tea. As I thought about Neko’s hissed concern, though, it occurred to me that there was more at stake here than I had imagined at first. “David?”

“What?” He sounded every bit as annoyed as I had felt.

“If I did give back the books, what would happen to Neko?”

David looked at the young man who sat in the chair beside me. Neko, for his part, studiously avoided both of us, apparently discovering endlessly fascinating patterns on the surface of his drink. When David answered, his voice was soft. “He goes with the materials. He’s the familiar for the collection.”

“Not for the witch? Not for me?” I was stunned by how much David’s words hurt. As annoying as Neko might be, as frustrating as he was, I had become accustomed to sharing the cottage with him. I had just assumed that he was meant to help me. To stay with me.

“If the collection is yours, then he is yours. But if you reject the collection, then he’ll go with it to the next witch who has the power to transform him.”

Neko wouldn’t meet my eyes.

I wondered if he was thinking about this cottage that he’d come to call home. Or the fish market down on Thirty-first Street. Or the cream that he’d taken to buying in quart containers. Or Roger. Or me.

I sighed. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll make a serious effort with my witchcraft after I get back from the Farm. But I really don’t have any choice about this weekend. I promised Gran.”

“And Jason,” Neko added helpfully, stealing a butter cookie from the tray. So much for his everlasting loyalty as I made sacrifices to protect him from strangers.

I watched David stiffen at my Boyfriend’s name. “What?” I said to him, and I was surprised to hear that my one-word question was a shout. “What can you possibly have against Jason Templeton?”

David eyed me steadily. “Do you really want me to answer that question?

His smooth certainty infuriated me. “Yes! I am sick and tired of your coming in here and posturing every time his name comes up. This isn’t some kind of contest between the two of you. Jason Templeton has nothing to do with you, Scott!”

I was so deep into my tirade that it took me a moment to realize my mistake. The name of my ex-fiancé hovered in the air, taking on a life of its own, assuming every bit as much form and substance as Neko possessed.

And in the end, it was Neko himself who broke the charged silence. “Well now,” he said. “Isn’t this uncomfortable?”

“Shut up, Neko,” I said. I turned to David, whose face had set in a perfect, implacable mask. “Seriously. Jason has nothing to do with you. He is completely separate from your world. From witchcraft. From warding.”

“My job is to keep you safe,” David said. His voice was so flat that it might have come from a million miles away.

“And how can Jason possibly be a threat? Do you think that he’s going to come in here with a stake, or a silver bullet or, or, I don’t know, whatever kills witches?”

“Of course not.” David set his answer perfectly in the center of the room, the words as smooth and polished as if he’d spent a lifetime carving away any hint of an offensive note.

“And is he a threat to my powers? Do you think that he’ll suddenly decide to burn the books downstairs? Or steal my crystals? Or stab Neko?”

“I have no reason to think that he will.” David sounded like Mr. Spock; he had stripped out every last vibration of emotion from his voice.

“So you think that he’ll steal everything in the basement? Hide it away from the Coven? Sell it to the highest bidder on the magic black market?”

“No.”

I stood and gestured toward the door. “I think that we’re through with this conversation.”

David stared at me for a long time. I watched the muscles in his jaws tighten, as if he were biting back words. He reminded me of the David that I’d met the night I awakened Neko. The dark David. The angry David.

Gone was the man who had changed himself to appeal to me, and in his place was a man doing all that he could to test me. He was Petrucio, cracking his whip to tame my rebellious Kate. It seemed like he was
trying
to alienate me. To distance me.

And he was being remarkably successful.

He set down his mug and stood. He brushed his hands down the front of his slacks, as if he were shedding invisible crumbs. He looked at Neko for several heartbeats. My familiar gazed back, his almond eyes as distant and remote and unblinking as a cat’s.

“Very well,” David said. “No more training.”

I waited for him to finish, and when he did not, I made my voice as firm as I could and said, “Until I get back from the Farm.”

“No.” He shook his head slowly. “No more training from me at all. Things have become too confused. Too confusing. I had hoped to avoid that, but I can see that I was not successful.”

He held out his hand, as if we were concluding a business meeting. I stared at it, not offering my own. “You’re kidding, right?” I finally said. “You want me to think about what you’ve told me tonight. You want me to realize that I need you, and then get back to witch school like a good little student. Right?”

He did not answer. I looked to Neko, but he gave me no further guidance. His gaze was pinned on David, as intent as a cat stalking a broken-winged bird.

I tried again. “So, do you want me to apologize? Is that it? I’m sorry, and I want you to be my teacher again?”

David’s voice was perfectly even. “I don’t want anything of the sort. I want you to be content in your life. I want you to know who you are and what you are. I want you to be balanced, so that you can find all your natural power and strength. Jane, I want you to be happy.”

“And your walking out of here tonight is going to make me happy?”

“In the short term,” he said, his voice so dry that he might have been lost in a desert.

I said, “And in the long term?”

“In the long term, the Coven will take care of you. They’ll provide you with a proper trainer. Someone who is used to teaching witches. You don’t need to be afraid. They’ll be fair about everything. They won’t test you until you’re able to show your true potential.”

He made everything sound so reasonable. So sane. So utterly, perfectly normal. “And if I can’t learn from the Coven’s teacher?”

“Then they’ll take back the books.”

“And Neko?”

He nodded, not sparing my familiar a glance. “And Neko.”

Before I could even begin to figure out a response to that, David crossed to the front door. “Enjoy the Farm, Jane. But be careful. And apply yourself when you come back here. Work
with
your teacher.”

Then he was gone.

My warder was walking down the garden path outside my home. I stared after him until he turned the corner of the library, until he was out of sight. Until he was clearly not coming back again.