Chapter Two
Maven
The moment Bea and I step through the front door of the house, we’re enveloped by the scent of my childhood. Old books and melting candle wax, the lingering perfume of dried herbs, a faint whisper of something sweet but also rotting, like overripe fruit. The air is still and heavy because the windows are never opened, but also somehow alive, as if charged with invisible energy.
Then my aunts appear from around the corner, and a whisper of static electricity lifts the hair on my arms.
Esme and Davina stand side by side, arms entwined, smiling sweetly at us like a pair of cherubs.
Any resemblance to angelic creatures ends there. Though they may look harmless, these women are as fierce and cunning as lions.
Like all the women of my lineage who’ve lived and died in this town, they’ve had to be.
“Welcome home, Maven,” says Esme, her green eyes glittering.
“Thank you. It’s good to see you.”
A floorboard creaks, a door hinge groans, then the house falls into deep, unnatural silence. I take Bea’s hand and pull her closer.
“Auntie Esme, this is my daughter, Beatrix. Bea, this is your great-aunt.”
“I’m the smart one.” Esme smiles, flashing the dimples in her cheeks.
Davina counters, “You’re as smart as a goldfish. Everyone knows I’m the intelligent one.”
“And this is your great-aunt Davina. And for the record, they’re both geniuses.”
Bea glances back and forth between them, staring in open-mouthed awe.
I try to look at them objectively, with the eyes of a stranger.
Tall, straight-backed, and square-shouldered, the sisters are dressed in identical simple, long black gowns. They wear no makeup, but their skin glows with health. They aren’t adorned with any jewelry, either, except for matching opalescent moonstones on their left ring fingers.
Despite their modest dress, they’re striking. But it’s their hair that really makes them remarkable.
The succulent red of fresh pomegranates, their hair cascades in fiery curls all the way down to their waists. They wear it loose, allowing it to move freely with each turn of their heads, an unruly mass of color that’s become threaded with silver since I last saw them.
My mother had that hair. As does my daughter. As do I, though mine has been dyed black and kept in a single tight plait for many years. I only unwind it twice a week to shampoo and condition, then it’s braided again as soon as it’s dry.
I almost cut it all off once, but I couldn’t do it. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror with scissors in my hand, hearing my mother’s voice in my head as I stared at myself.
“Never be ashamed of the things that make you different. That’s where your true power lies.”
By then, I was so tired of being different, I wanted to be anyone but myself.
I wanted to be anonymous. I wanted to disappear.
“Say hello to your great-aunts, Bea.”
“Hi. It’s a pleasure to meet you both. Thank you for having us.”
Pleased by Bea’s manners, Esme smiles. “You’re so welcome. Now, you must be hungry after your journey. Come into the kitchen with me, love, and I’ll fix you something to eat.”
She takes Bea’s hand, shoots me a loaded glance, then leads my daughter off into the kitchen.
The moment they’re out of earshot, Davina turns to me and grips my cold hands in hers.
“How are you?”
“I’m fine.”
“Of course. But how are you really?”
I exhale and briefly close my eyes. “Tired. I forgot how much I hate to travel.”
She makes a sound of understanding. “All those people.”
“Yes. How are you and Auntie E?”
She gazes at me silently for a beat, then lifts a shoulder. “The same as we always are. Surviving.”
I study her unlined face, wishing I’d inherited some of that buoyant collagen. The bags under my eyes have their own bags now. I’m not yet thirty, but you couldn’t tell it by looking at me.
Constant stress takes its toll.
“What have you told Bea?”
“Nothing.”
“Are you sure that’s wise?”
“The truth can sometimes do more harm than good.”
“Says the scientist.”
“In this case, it’s accurate. We’re only here for a few days. I’d rather not end her childhood prematurely. Where will we be staying?”
“You in your mother’s old room, Bea in yours.”
I nod. “Thank you. She’ll appreciate having her own space.”
Davina gives my hands another squeeze. “Come and have some food.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“But you’ll eat. You need something in your stomach. You look too thin and pale, like you’re recovering from a chronic illness.” Lips pursed, she inspects my face. “Tuberculosis, maybe. Or something spread by mosquitos.”
Not even five minutes in, and the fun has already started. It’s no wonder rates of depression spike around holidays. That’s when people spend the most time with their relatives.
As she turns away, Q slowly walks up the main staircase to the second floor with our bags, his step as silent as a cat’s, and I look around the place.
The house hasn’t changed since my childhood. A colossal unlit fireplace of black granite dominates the main room. Beeswax candles flicker in niches in the cracked plaster walls. The mantel above the hearth is draped with woven boughs of fresh fir, and the high ceiling is crossed with dark wooden beams from which iron chandeliers hang, their arms wrapped in wisps of cobwebs.
Most notable are the books, which are everywhere.
Packed into floor-to-ceiling bookcases, stacked on the coffee table, side tables, and even on the floor beside the sofa and chairs, books are the dominant feature of the room. Ancient leather-bound tomes nestle beside contemporary hardcover editions. Academic journals and encyclopedias dominate one entire wall. I see the illustrated folio series on entomology that so fascinated me as a child, along with all the titles about history, astronomy, the arts.
The rest of the house is a labyrinth of rooms and passageways that defy conventional architecture, a maze where the unfamiliar can easily get disoriented and lost. Doors open onto steep drops. Staircases lead nowhere. Serpentine corridors wind back on themselves until they dead-end.
As I stand there, a cold sense of foreboding creeps over me. I feel suddenly as if I’m looking over the edge of a high cliff toward a black churning sea far below, bitter wind tearing through my hair and buffeting my body, an evil presence at my back readying to shove me over and send me screaming to my death.
Hoping it’s nerves rather than premonition, I shake it off and follow Davina into the kitchen.
Hours later, after the supper dishes have been cleared and Bea is asleep in my old bedroom upstairs, Esme, Davina, and I sit at the kitchen table, making good progress on our third bottle of pinot.
The Blackthorn women are many things, but teetotalers isn’t one of them.
“Bea’s quite precocious for her age,” observes Davina as she languidly traces a finger over one of the many marks carved into the ancient wood tabletop.
“As were you,” Esme says as she glances at me. “But she’s an angel. You were a little devil. Full of spit and vinegar, just like your mother.”
I chuckle into my wineglass, then swallow the final ounce. “You say that like the two of you are such sweet little lambs.”
Davina looks down her nose at me. “Pardon me, your royal highness, but we’re the most docile little lambs in all of New England. We hardly ever bite.”
“Tell that to Father O’Brian. Does he still make the sign of the cross over his chest when he sees you?”
“Psh. That old fool. He’s the only person who can read from the Book of Revelation and make it boring.”
“If you think mass is so boring, stop going.”
She smiles. “How else would we scandalize the good citizens of Solstice on a weekly basis? They count on us to give them something to gossip about. We’d be shirking our duties as the town outcasts if we gave up church.”
“Maybe if you didn’t purposely antagonize people, they’d be nicer to you.”
Davina studies me silently for a moment, her gaze assessing. “We’re Blackthorns. We antagonize people merely by existing. We’re different, and we always will be, no matter how we might try to pretend we’re not.”
She looks pointedly at my hair.
Uncomfortable for being called out, I shift my weight in the chair. “I’m not pretending anything.”
“That hideous dye job would suggest otherwise. And why shoe-polish black, of all things? You look like you lost a bet.”
“I’ll have you know, I get my hair dyed professionally.”
Her tone is amused. “By Morticia Addams?”
I laugh, but then I think of my mother, and my laughter takes a dark turn. I clap my hand over my mouth to stifle a sob.
“Oh, love, I know,” says Esme, reaching across the table to clasp my hand. “We miss her, too. It hasn’t been the same around here since Elspeth died.”
This is one of the many reasons I hesitated about coming back for Granny’s funeral. Goblin memories aside, it’s painful to be close to people who can read me so well. Since I left, I’ve carefully arranged my life to avoid such a thing.
Like all Blackthorns, I harbor far too many secrets for true intimacy.
I press my knuckles against my closed eyelids and exhale. Then I dash away the moisture gathered on my lashes and change the subject. “Bea asked on the train ride over why the three of you lived together with Granny and never married.”
Esme looks interested. “What did you tell her?”
“That men have never mattered much to the women of this family.”
Davina’s smile is small and satisfied. “They matter well enough for what they’re useful for.”
“If you’re about to start talking about your sex life, I’m going to bed.”
“Pardon me? Mature women aren’t allowed to enjoy sex?”
“Of course they are. But the last time we spoke on the phone, you went into graphic detail about your seduction of the handsome young doctor who recently moved to town. I’m still trying to scrub my memory of the images. If I need medical attention for any reason while I’m here, I won’t be able to look the man in the eye.”
Davina toys with a lock of her hair. “Men in their twenties are really at their sexual peak. Such stamina.”
“For the love of God, what did I just say?”
“Are you jealous, darling?”
My laugh is dry. “Extremely.”
“What about Bea’s father? You’ve never told us about him. Is he still in the picture?”
Because this particular subject is a black pit filled with vipers, I pause to carefully choose my words. “No. We had different ideas about what fatherhood meant.”
The sisters regard me in silence, their green eyes sharp. Just as Davina opens her mouth to say something, a cold gust of wind rattles the windowpanes. The candles lining the sill above the sink gutter, then go out. The bundles of dried lavender and herbs hanging from the rafters begin to sway.
Looking up at the restless ceiling, Esme says in a low voice, “Someone’s here.”
Davina adds darkly, “Or something.”
Rising from the table, the sisters peer out the kitchen window into the night, but a sixth sense has me turning toward the living room. I stand, cross quickly to the stairs, and take them two at a time until I reach the landing on top. There’s a small window there that overlooks the front yard.
At first, I see nothing. All is dark and still. Then a sliver of moonlight spears the cloud cover and illuminates the iron gate at the end of the driveway.
A tall figure dressed all in black stands outside the gate, looking up at the house. Though his face is obscured by distance and shadow, I don’t have to glimpse his features to know who it is.
I’d know Ronan Croft anywhere, in any lighting, even in the inky blackness at the bottom of the sea.
You never forget your first love.
Especially when he’s also your worst nightmare.
Ronan remains motionless until the clouds obscure the moon again, then he’s swallowed by the same darkness that produced him and disappears. ...
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