To honor the Mother Goddess, the giver of life and creator of all things, celebrate her bounty in the Fall, when her fruits are most plentiful.
Goody Fletcher, Book of Useful Household Tips
“Your mother is magic.”
That’s what my father told me one day when I was nine, and had been sent to my room for being disrespectful.
I don’t remember now exactly what I’d said. Nine is the age when trouble can start for so many girls—but it’s not necessarily our fault. We’re best friends with someone one minute, then by recess we’ve been replaced. Usually we have no idea why. Meanwhile, our baby teeth are being pushed out of our head by our adult teeth, yet we’re still young enough to believe in unicorns. It’s a dizzying, disquieting time.
But 9 is also one of the most powerful numbers in the world of witchcraft. It represents selflessness, humanitarianism, compassion, and generosity—all the qualities a good witch aspires to possess.
Of course I didn’t know any of this when I was nine. All I knew then was that I was miserable, and I was taking it out on the person who meant more to me than anyone else in the world—my mother.
“What do you mean, Mom is magic?” I’d asked my father suspiciously.
“I mean that if you’re respectful and do what your mother says,” my geeky bookkeeper father explained, sitting so awkwardly on the edge of my pink canopy bed, “she can make life really easy for you. But if you treat her badly, like you did today—well, things aren’t going to go so great.”
It’s the rare nine-year-old who would realize that her dad was only trying to express his own feelings for his wife—a woman he was so deeply in love with, he did, in some ways, think she was magical. My dad, who knew that I loved fairy tales and princesses, was simply trying to explain to me in words he thought I’d understand that if I stopped taking my growing pains out on my poor mother, life would improve.
He could have no way of knowing that I’d take him literally—that in my nine-year-old brain, hyped up on Narnia and Disney, all I heard was that my mother was magic, which made her a witch . . . and that made me a witch, too.
Our family, I deduced, must be descended from a long line of witches—powerful ones, probably, who could read minds, cast curses, and fly. Soon, because of my magic mother, I’d be learning to fly, too.
Of course nothing was further from the truth. My mother’s people were hardworking Italian immigrants who’d arrived in the United States at the turn of the twentieth century—same as my father’s, only his family had come from Minsk. The closest any of them ever got to anything remotely witchy was when my parents moved from New York City to the small town of West Harbor, Connecticut, to open an antique shop. West Harbor was only a hundred and fifty miles south of Salem, Massachusetts—though my family never traveled there.
By the time I was old enough to figure out that my father hadn’t meant his words literally, it was too late: I’d read everything I could about “the Craft” in the library and on the Internet (which, in those days of dial-up, was quite an accomplishment for a kid.)
and was well on my way to full-blown Sabrina the Teenage Witch–hood, though I never did learn to fly.
But by then I didn’t care. Although I know some people—especially those belonging to the World Council of Witches—would disagree, you don’t have to be descended from a witch to practice magic. Anyone can effect change by using the energy within and around them. It’s all about their will and awareness . . . and intentions, of course.
And since that day in my bedroom, my intentions have been nothing but pure. I’ve never wanted anything except to be the best good witch that I can be.
So the summer before my senior year of high school, when Mom brought home an ancient—but amazing—book from an estate sale, I begged her to let me keep it, rather than sell it in her shop. So old the binding had come loose and the edges of its handwritten pages were close to crumbling, the book smelled of vanilla and lavender and secrets. As I carefully turned the pages and spotted words like “lover,” “waxing,” and “threefold,” my heart began to pound.
Mom and I were getting along much better by then because I’d realized my father had been right: my mother was magic . . . just not the kind of magic I thought he’d meant. My mother was magic like all mothers are magic: she loved me unconditionally.
And I loved her right back . . . enough not to worry her by telling her the truth.
“Of course you can have it, sweetie,” she’d said, kissing me airily on the top of my head. “Though why you want it, I can’t imagine. It’s just an old Puritan recipe book. Are you going to start making pottage stew for us now?”
“Maybe, Mom,” I’d said, carefully turning the pages of Goody Fletcher’s Book of Useful Household Tips. “Maybe I will.”
Keep out unwelcome guests (from evil spirits to garden slugs) by sprinkling a little salt across thy threshold.
Goody Fletcher, Book of Useful Household Tips
I should have known. I should have put it together right away, what with all the signs the universe was practically hurling at me: Floods. Fire. The return of neon.
But as usual, I was clueless. So clueless that when the tall guy dressed all in black wandered in off the sidewalk during my annual “Fall into Fall Apparel” sale, I didn’t think twice.
Why would I? I mean, yes, the sign outside my shop has the words Enchantments: A Women’s Clothing Boutique carved into it in broad hand calligraphy (then painted in gold leaf for maximum impact).
But I get male customers all the time. So I didn’t even catch on when, instead of glancing around at all the extremely tasteful (if I do say so myself) racks of dresses, blouses, leggings, jackets, scarves, and jewelry, this guy simply stood there in the doorway and stared.
At me.
We get all kinds during leaf peeping season, so this didn’t strike me as odd. It was kind of flattering, in fact, because this guy was sexy looking, and apparently alone. There wasn’t a ring on his wedding finger, either. Nice, I thought.
“Well, Mrs. Dunleavy,” I said, turning to the mayor’s wife—and my best customer. We were standing in front of the full-length mirror beside the dressing room doors. I wasn’t trying to hurry her, but sexy single guys don’t walk into my shop and stare at me every day. “How do you feel in this one?”
Margo Dunleavy, as always, sighed uncertainly at her reflection. “I just don’t know, Jess. Do you think it’s a little . . .” She lowered her voice so that the hot guy in the doorway, clearly eavesdropping on us in a low-key kind of way, wouldn’t overhear. “. . . risqué?”
“Absolutely not.” I straightened the hem of the close-fitting—and slightly revealing—burgundy silk gown. “It’s the West Harbor Tricentennial Ball. When will there ever be another occasion like this? Not for three hundred more years.”
I tried to ignore the fact that my reflection in the mirror wasn’t nearly as flattering at the moment as that of the mayor’s wife. For one thing, I wasn’t wearing a practically bespoke evening gown. And for another, I’d been working hard since early morning getting things ready for the blow-out sale, so my dark curls were secured to the top of my head with a plastic claw clip, my cheeks were pink and damp with sweat, and I was wearing a jumpsuit—in neon yellow.
That’s because jumpsuits for women my size—five foot nine and two hundred pounds—sell out in minutes in all the good colors. I have to save all the best colors (black, obviously) for my customers.
At least I’d remembered to tie one of the cute silk scarves from our new floral print line around my neck. But still, I looked like what I felt: a sleep-deprived, slightly cranky, full-figured thirtysomething witch in a neon yellow jumpsuit.
But maybe those were all the things Hot Doorway Guy looked for in a girl? It had been so long since anyone at all had been interested in me, I’d take a guy who liked neon, so long as he was gainfully employed and chewed with his mouth closed.
“And this dress fits you like a glove,” I pointed out to Mrs. Dunleavy. “It’s like it was made for you.”
Because, although the mayor’s wife didn’t know it, the dress had been made for her—well, tailored, anyway. Because as soon as it arrived, I’d set it aside, knowing it would be perfect for her—with a few little adjustments of my own.
“Oh.” The older woman fingered the delicate cloth longingly as she gazed at her reflection. “I have to say, I do love it. And the price is just right, as always. But Rosalie Hopkins and some of those other women from the Yacht Club—”
My voice was sharper than I intended it to be. “What about them?”
“Well, I just wouldn’t want them to think I was”—her voice dipped even lower—“putting on airs.”
“Who cares what anyone else thinks?” The mere allusion to Rosalie Hopkins—not to mention the Yacht Club—was enough to cause me to momentarily forget my fatigue, as well as Hot Doorway Guy. Margo Dunleavy was one of the sweetest women in West Harbor, but, like so many caretakers, she always put others before herself. The upcoming ball was the perfect time for her to shine, if only she’d let me do my job and make it happen. “If you feel good in it, that’s all that counts.”
“Well.” Mrs. Dunleavy chewed worriedly at her lower lip. “I suppose that’s true. Rosalie says she’s going into the city to buy her gown.” Margo’s gaze met mine in the mirror. “Which I told her is a mistake!” she added quickly. “Support local businesses. You know that’s always been one of our campaign slogans.”
“Thank you for that. I wonder if this will help.” I draped a navy crepe de chine shawl around Mrs. Dunleavy’s bare shoulders. Dotted with crystals that shimmered when they caught the light, the shawl brought out the silver in the older woman’s hair, as well as the sparkle in her dark eyes. “Now what do you think?”
Margo Dunleavy caught her breath and, right there in the mirror, a transformation seemed to take place. Suddenly, she was standing taller, her shoulders thrown back, her cheeks aglow with a color that hadn’t been there before . . .
. . . and I knew I’d worked the magic I’d been hoping for.
“Oh, Jess!” she cried. “I love it!”
“Do you?” I beamed. This was the part I loved best about my job—what made all the late nights and hard work worth it. “I’m so glad. And again, not that it matters what anyone thinks but you, but I’m sure Mrs. Mayor will love it, too.”
“Oh, I think you’re right. I’ll take it. I’ll take them both, the dress and the . . . the . . . whatever this blue thing is.”
“Great. We’ll wrap them up for you.” I was grinning—until my gaze returned to the doorway of my shop, and I caught sight of my afternoon visitor once again. He was still looking my way—but
unlike me, definitely not smiling.
And that’s when, for the first time, I noticed that Hot Doorway Guy had a bright silver amulet hanging from a black leather cord around his neck—an amulet I recognized immediately once he stepped out of the doorway and some of the bright afternoon sunlight spilled in from behind him.
No. That was my first thought. Just no.
What did the World Council of Witches want with me? Their bylaws made it very clear that I didn’t qualify for membership—not that I cared to join their ultra-exclusionary club.
And choosing clothes for women that made them feel sexy and confident couldn’t possibly count as a violation of using magic without—
“Jessica Gold?” Doorway Guy said, in such a deep voice that nearly every customer in the shop spun around curiously to look at him, and then—the ones who knew me, at least—at me.
And though the expression on his face was carefully neutral, my heart started banging in my chest.
Run, I thought. Run.
But where? Earlier that morning I’d propped open the shop’s front door to welcome in not only the crisp autumn breeze, but the many out-of-towners who’d come from the city to look at the leaves, which had recently peaked in color, setting the forested hillsides around Connecticut’s Gold Coast ablaze in brilliant swathes of red, gold, and orange.
But now as tourists strolled down the Post Road past Enchantments’ open front door and peeked inside, all they could see was this guy’s broad-shouldered back as he stared at me, refusing to budge until I spoke with him—and blocking my only path of escape.
Great. So not only was I being held hostage by a member of the WCW, I was losing potential sales, as well.
It’s really no wonder witches have such a bad reputation.
Fine. I wasn’t going to run. Even if I had somewhere to go, that would be undignified.
“Uh, Becca,” I said to my trusty sales assistant. “Could you ring up Mrs. Dunleavy’s purchases after she’s changed? I have to meet with this, er, gentleman here for a few moments.”
Gentleman. Yeah, right.
“Of course.” Becca’s dark eyes were wide with curiosity and concern as she watched the tall stranger follow me into my small, cluttered office in the back of the shop—curiosity because she’d never seen this man before, and concern because . . . well, my
my office was a well-known disaster area, and I’d never allowed anyone in there before—anyone except Enchantments employees and Pye, my cat and our official shop mascot.
“Sorry,” I muttered as I lifted a pile of unpriced bralettes in order to make room for him on the office’s only visitor’s chair.
Since there was no place to put the lacy bralettes, however, due to the piles of other merchandise, not to mention the bags of candy I’d bought (and already begun snacking on) to give out during the Post Road’s Halloween Trick-or-Treating, I could only set them on the desk in front of me . . .
Which meant that I was now going to have to have a meeting with a member of an association that billed itself as “the world’s largest professional organization meant to advance the common interests of witches” over a pile of ladies undergarments.
But then I reminded myself that I didn’t care. There was nothing for me to be embarrassed about or ashamed of. Women needed stylish, comfortable bras, and there wasn’t anything about his organization that advanced my interests.
“Look, Mr., er,” I began.
“It’s Derrick,” Hot Doorway Guy said. “Derrick Winters.”
That threw me. Whoever heard of a WCW member named Derrick? Most of them were proud that they could trace their “magick” lineage back to Colonial times, or even earlier. They all had names like Elizabeth Carrington or John Ayres or, in the case of West Harbor’s local rep, Rosalie Hopkins.
Hot Doorway Guy didn’t even look like a member of the World Council of Witches, except for the amulet. He looked . . . well, more like someone who hunted witches: tall, dressed all in black, lanky as a cowboy, but wearing biker boots—a rarity in this affluent part of Connecticut—with long blond hair tied back into a low messy knot at the nape of his neck, several days’ growth of whiskers, and angular features. His slate-gray eyes seemed to be judging all my sins at once: the disorganized office, open bags of Halloween candy, the yawning window behind me (for Pye to leap in and out of as he conducted his patrols between my house and the shop), and of course, the jumpsuit.
Still, the amulet didn’t lie. It was a slim crescent moon attached to a full moon, a design worn by all members of the WCW (which I’d never be), representing Gaia, the Greek goddess of creation.
I decided my best defense was to take the offense.
“Well, look, Derrick,” I said. “I don’t know what they’ve told you about me. And I don’t know what you thought you saw out there, either. But I can assure you, it wasn’t magic.”
He raised both golden blond eyebrows. “What wasn’t?”
“What you saw. First of all, I would never, ever cast a spell on someone without their consent. At least, not anymore. Spells cast as a juvenile shouldn’t count, in my opinion.”
The eyebrows went up even more, but before he had a chance to say anything, I barreled on.
“I ordered that dress with Margo Dunleavy in mind, and the shawl, too.” I rubbed my knuckles, remembering how I’d been up sewing on the crystals until well after midnight, knowing Mrs. Dunleavy
would be coming in today. My joints were still a little sore. “She’s the mayor’s wife. This town is having a ball to celebrate its Tricentennial—”
“Yes, I noticed. The banners hanging from every single streetlamp were hard to miss.”
But he didn’t say it in an admiring way. He deadpanned it, the corners of his mouth turned up into a smirk.
I thought I knew what he was thinking—or what a rational person would be thinking, anyway. I forgot for a moment that WCW members aren’t rational.
“Yeah,” I said. “I know. And, for the record, I, too, am against celebrating the three hundredth anniversary of the theft of land from its indigenous people.”
When his eyebrows only furrowed at this, I went on, quickly, “But the town council decided that if we threw a Tricentennial Festival the weekend of Halloween, complete with a ball in the village square, people would show up, and we’d make a lot of money. And it turns out they were right—tickets for the ball are two hundred dollars a pop, and they’re selling fast. Mrs. Dunleavy out there is the one who proposed that the sales go to West Harbor schools’ arts and music departments instead of beautifying the beach near the Yacht Club.” I tried to keep the self-satisfaction out of my voice over this turn of events, since Rosalie Hopkins was the one who’d made the Yacht Club beach proposal. “But that’s how Margo Dunleavy is—she goes out of her way to do kind things for people. She doesn’t even have kids! That’s why I thought it would be nice if she had something really spectacular to wear to the ball. But I don’t cast glamours on my customers. Ever. So you can go back and tell the Council they’re wasting their time. I haven’t broken their rules.”
Satisfied I’d put him in his place, I leaned back in my chair and thought about rewarding myself with a miniature Snickers bar, but decided it wouldn’t be dignified.
“Well,” Derrick replied, slowly. “That’s all good to know. But that’s not why I’m here.”
“Really?” I was shocked. From what I’d read on the various spellworking message boards I belonged to, the WCW was always sticking its nose where it wasn’t needed, much less wanted. “Why are you here, then?” Suddenly realization hit, and I slammed both my hands down on either side of the pile of bras and pushed myself up to my feet. “Wait a minute. You can’t be telling me I’m on the Council’s shit list for something I did more than a decade ago, when I was only a teenager?”
“Ms. Gold,” Derrick said, his eyebrows raised again. “I think you ought to sit down.”
“It’s Jessica. Or Jess. And no, I won’t sit down. Just because you uptight wand-clutchers can trace your magic lineage back to your ancestors on the Mayflower, you think you’re so superior to the rest of us. Well, let me tell you something that no one else has probably ever had the guts to: Hereditary witchcraft? That isn’t a thing. There’s no genetic marker for
magic. Everyone has psychic ability. Some people are simply more in touch with it than others, and that’s because they’ve worked at it. They’ve honed and practiced their craft. That’s all there is to it. Having a relative who was hanged for witchcraft in the sixteen hundreds doesn’t make you any more of a—”
“Ms. Gold.” The leather of his motorcycle jacket creaking, Derrick reached across my desk and laid a hand upon my shoulder. “I said, sit down, please.”
Instantly, a fizzy sort of . . . lightness came over me. That’s the only way I could describe it. It started where his hand touched my shoulder, then traveled down my arm to the tips of my fingers until it enveloped my entire body, robbing me of the tiredness I’d felt all day. Not only my tiredness, but the soreness I’d been feeling in my knuckles from sewing half the night, and my feet from being on them all day, hand selling dresses for the ball.
Instead, a delicious warmth descended upon me, as if I’d been wrapped in a blanket made of the golden autumn sunlight outside. Even when he drew away his hand—which he did almost immediately—the light, warm feeling stayed with me, and the pain didn’t return. I felt . . . well, good.
“What,” I asked incredulously, sinking down into my chair, “was that?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” He was all business. “Ms. Gold—Jessica—I’m here to deliver a message to you, and it’s not about your illicit glamour-casting or whatever else you seem to think.”
“I said I—”
“Don’t cast glamours. I know. I heard you. Again, that’s not why I’m here.”
“Okay.” I felt an endorphin rush as strong as if I’d just eaten a bag of chocolate bars, only without the bloating and regret. “But seriously. You have to give me that spell.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. What I do need is for you to listen to me. I’m here because you’ve been chosen.”
“Chosen?” I shook my head, still enjoying the effervescent fizz in my veins. “Chosen for what?”
“Not what,” he said. “Who. Jessica Gold, you’re the Chosen One.”
For lasting love, carve thine initials into an apple, then thy lover’s initials on the other side. Slice the apple in two. Feed thy lover the slice with thine initials, and thyself the other.
Goody Fletcher, Book of Useful Household Tips
The spell worked.
Last night I heard the strangest noise as I was lying in bed, wondering why Billy had shown no sign at all during Chem of having been affected by the sight of me eating pottage stew in front of him in the caf.
At first I couldn’t figure out what the noise was. It sounded kind of like when Dina and I go out cruising with Mark in his Mustang along the country roads outside of East Harbor, and gravel flies up and hits his fenders.
Only I was in my bedroom. On the second floor of my house.
Then I heard it again. And again.
I realized it was coming from my bedroom window, and it was gravel: someone was throwing bits of gravel at my window from the street.
Of course I figured it was Mark and Dina. It’s the kind of thing they would do, sneak out on a school night and throw rocks at my window to get me to come join them on another one of their lunatic adventures. ...
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