She went back to her station behind the front desk, just another small-town librarian immersed in her daily task. Her sweater was still damp from her friend’s tears. If Ingrid had never resented their situation before, had never chafed against the restriction that was placed upon them before, well. There was always a first time for everything.
Chapter 3
Old houses had a way of getting under your skin, Joanna Beauchamp knew; not just your skin but into your soul, as well as deep into your pocketbook, defying reason or logic in an ever-elusive quest for perfection. Over the years, the Beauchamp homestead, a stately colonial built in the late 1740s with pretty gables and a saltbox roof located right on the beach, in the older part of town, had been refashioned in many ways: walls torn down, kitchens moved, bedrooms redistributed. It was a house that had weathered many seasons and storms, and its crumbling walls echoed with memories—the massive brick fireplace had kept them warm for countless winters, the multitude of stains on the marble-topped kitchen counters recalled various cozy repasts. The living room floors had been stripped, redone, then stripped again. Now oak, then travertine, currently wood again—a gleaming red cherry. There was a reason old houses were called money pits, white elephants, folly.
Joanna enjoyed putting the house in order on her own. To her, a home renovation was constantly evolving and never quite finished. Plus, she preferred doing it herself; the other week she had personally retiled and grouted the guest bathroom. Today she was tackling the living room. She dipped her roller back into the aluminum tray of paint. The girls would laugh—they teased her for her habit of changing the wall colors several times a year on a whim. One month the living room walls were a dull burgundy, the next a serene blue. Joanna explained to her daughters that living in a static house, one that never changed, was stifling and suffocating, and that changing your environment was even more important than changing your clothes. It was summer, hence the walls should be yellow.
She was wearing her usual tromp-about-the-house attire: a plaid shirt and old jeans, plastic gloves, green Hunter boots, a red bandanna over her gray hair. Funny, that gray. No matter how often she dyed her hair, when she woke up in the morning it was always the same color, a brilliant silver shade. Joanna, like her daughters, was neither old nor young, and yet their physical appearances corresponded to their particular talents. Depending on the situation, Freya could be anywhere from sixteen to twenty-three years of age, the first blush of Love, while Ingrid, keeper of the Hearth, looked and acted anywhere from twenty-seven to thirty-five; and since Wisdom came from experience, even if in her heart she might feel like a schoolgirl, Joanna’s features were those of an older woman in her early sixties.
It was good to be home and to have the girls with her. It had been too long and she had missed them more than she would admit. For many years after the restriction had first been imposed, the girls had wandered far and away, alone, aimless, and without purpose, and she could hardly blame them. They checked in only once in a while when they needed something: not just money, but reassurance, encouragement, compassion. Joanna bided her time; she knew the girls liked knowing that no matter where they went—Ingrid had lived in Paris and Rome for much of the last century, while Freya had spent a lot of time in Manhattan lately—their mother would always be at the kitchen counter, chopping onions for stock, and one day they would come home to her at last.
She finished with the far wall and assessed her work. She had chosen a pale daffodil yellow, a very Bouguereau shade: the color of a nymph’s smile. Satisfied, she moved on to the other side. As she carefully painted around the window trim, she looked through the glass panels across the sea, to Gardiners Island and Fair Haven. The whirlwind around Freya’s engagement had been exhausting, all that bowing and scraping to that Madame Grobadan, Bran’s stepmother, who made it clear she thought her boy was too good for Freya. She was happy for her daughter, but apprehensive as well. Would her wild girl truly settle down this time? Joanna hoped Freya was right about Bran, that he was the one for her, the one she had been waiting for all these long years.
Not that anyone needed a husband. She should know. Been there, done that. And if some days she felt like a shriveled-up old hag whose insides were are dry as dust, whose skin had not touched that of a man for so long, those were the days when she was just feeling sorry for herself. It wasn’t as if she had to be alone; there were many older gentlemen in town who had made it quite clear they would welcome the chance to make her nights less lonely. Yet she was not quite a widow, and she was not quite divorced, which meant she was not quite single or as free as she would like to be. She was separated. That was a good word. They lived separate lives now, and that was how she wanted it.
Her husband had been a good man, a good provider, her rock, when it all came down to it. But he had not been able to help them during the crisis and for that she would never forgive him. Of course it was not his fault, all that hysteria and bloodshed, but he had not been able to stop the Council from passing down their judgment either, when the dust finally settled and the evil had passed. Her poor girls: she could still see them, their lifeless bodies silhouetted in the dusk. She would never forget it, and even though they had come back relatively unscathed (if one considered being declawed, powerless, and domesticized unscathed) she could not quite find it in her heart to make room for him in her life once again.
“Right, Gilly?” she asked, turning to her pet raven, Gillbereth, who was privy to her thoughts and was currently perched on top of the grandfather clock.
Gilly fluffed her wings and craned her long black neck toward the window, and Joanna followed her gaze. When she saw what the raven wanted her to see she dropped her roller, splashing a few drops of paint on the stone floor. She rubbed it with her boot and made it worse.
The raven cawed.
“Okay, okay, I’ll go down and check it out,” she said, leaving the house through the back door and walking straight down to the dunes. Sure enough, there they were: three dead birds. They had drowned—their feathers were mottled and wet, and the skin around their talons looked burned. Their bodies formed an ugly cross on the pristine stretch of sand.
Joanna looked down at the small, stiff bodies. What a pity. What a waste. They were beautiful birds. Large raptors with pure white breasts and ebony beaks. Ospreys. The birds were native to the area, and a large colony lived on Gardiners Island, where they built their nests right on the beach. The birds were dangerous creatures, natural predators, but vulnerable as all wild creatures were vulnerable to the march of progress and development.
Like her girls, Joanna struggled to conform to the bounds of the restriction. They had agreed to abide it in exchange for their immortal lives. The Council had taken their wands and most of their books, burned their broomsticks and confiscated their cauldrons. But more than that, the Council had taken away their understanding of themselves. They had decreed there was no place for their kind in this world with magic, and yet the reality was that there was no place for them without it either.
With her fingers, Joanna began to dig at the wet sand, and gently buried the dead birds. It would have taken only a few words, the right incantation, to bring them back to life, but if she even attempted to wield an ounce of her remarkable abilities, who knew what the Council would take away next.
When she returned to the house, she shook her head at the sight of the kitchen. There were dirty pots everywhere, and the girls had taken to using every piece of china and silverware they could get their hands on rather than run the dishwasher, so the sink and the counter were overflowing with a messy jumble of expensive antique porcelain plates. The china closet in the hall was almost empty. If this went on any longer, they would be eating from serving trays next. It would not do. One expected this of Freya, of course, who was used to chaos. Ingrid always looked impeccable and that library of hers was spotless, but the same could not be said for her housekeeping skills. Joanna had raised her girls to be lovely, interesting, as strong in charact
er as in their former talent for witchcraft, and as a consequence they were completely useless in domestic matters.
Of course, as their mother she was not completely blameless in this field. After all, she could have spent the morning cleaning up rather than painting the living room again. But while she enjoyed refurbishing and renovating, she detested the daily household chores that kept life on an even keel. Or at least kept it sanitary. She saw Siegfried, Freya’s black cat and familiar, slink in through the pet door.
“The girls have invited lots of little mice here for you, haven’t they?” She smiled, picking him up and cuddling his soft fur. “Sorry to tell you it’s not going to last, liebchen.”
For want of a wand, a house was lost, Joanna thought. If she could use magic to clean her house, she would not need a dishwasher. The doorbell rang. She wiped her hands on her jeans and ran to answer it. She opened the door slowly and smiled. “Gracella Alvarez?”
“Si,” smiled a small, dark-haired woman standing at the doorway with a little boy.
“Bueno! Come in, come in,” Joanna said, sweeping them into the half-painted living room. “Thank you for coming so early. As you can see we really need some help around here,” she said, looking at the house as if for the first time. Dust bunnies sprouted in the corners, large sacks of laundry bloomed in the stairway, the mirrors were so cloudy it had become impossible to see one’s reflection.
The agency had recommended the Alvarezes highly. Gracella kept house while her husband, Hector, took care of the grounds, which included the pool, the landscaping, the gardens, and the roof. Gracella explained that her husband was finishing a job out of town but would meet them that afternoon. The family was to stay in the cottage out back, and they had brought their things in the car.
Joanna nodded. “And who’s this cherub?” she asked, leaning down to tickle the boy’s belly. The boy jumped away and flapped his arms, giggling.
“This is Tyler.”
At his mother’s prompting the boy spoke. “I’m four,” he said deliberately, rocking his heels up and down. “Four. Four. Four. Four Four.”
“Wonderful.” Joanna remembered her own boy, so long ago. She wondered if she would ever see him again.
Tyler’s Mickey Mouse T-shirt was stained and his eyes were bright and merry. When Joanna moved to shake his hand he shied away from her but allowed her to pat his head. “Good to meet you, Tyler Alvarez. I’m Joanna Beauchamp. Now, while your mother gets settled, would you like to take a walk down to the beach with me?”
Tyler spent the afternoon running around in circles. Joanna looked at him affectionately. Every once in a while he would look over his shoulder to make sure she was still there. He seemed to take to her immediately, which his mother remarked upon before letting him accompany her to the beach. When he got tired of running, they picked seashells together. Joanna found a perfectly formed cockleshell that the boy immediately brought up to his ear. He laughed at the sound and she smiled to see it. Still, she could not help but feel apprehensive, even in her delight at her new young friend. It throbbed right underneath the idyllic moment, just below the surface.
There was something not quite right about the three dead birds on the beach this morning, the ones she had buried a little ways away in the sand, but Joanna could not put her finger on it just then. Was it a threat? Or a warning? And for what? And from whom?
Meet the Witches
Ingrid Beauchamp and The Book of White Magic
As the head librarian of North Hampton, Ingrid spends her days matching books to the right patron. She is also working on compiling the spells her family has used over the centuries in a work entitled The Book of White Magic. Ingrid becomes famous in town for her knots, charms, and spells that address everything from infidelity to infertility.
Here are two you can try at home:
Money Bags
Everyone needs money, of course, but more than money, people need luck. Try Ingrid’s money charm to let your fortunes prosper and your dividends multiply.
Ground clove
Crushed marigold petals
Add a dash of ground clove and crushed marigold petals to your coffee (or cappuccino or whatever you drink in the morning.)
Ingrid likes to make her spices ahead, and keeps her magical herbs in a pretty velvet pouch. (Hence “money bags.”) Clove and marigold mixed together is a powerful elixir that will bring good fortune to your life.
Sailing Knots
Ingrid learned to sail off the coast of North Hampton, and never leaves shore without a length of cord tied with three knots tied in a row, as Finnish sailors were instructed to do so by their wizards. Bring the knotted cord on your next sailing trip, and untie the knots as needed to bring a lucky wind. The first knot unravels to call a moderate wind, the second a strong one, and the third—to be used only in emergency—releases a full gale. Remember to hold on!
Freya Beauchamp and Lovers’ Libations
Freya, the sexy and energetic bartender at the North Inn, brews a variety of love potions to cure any number of ailing or aspiring hearts and lovers. Over the centuries, from her travels across the globe, she has perfected an array of enchanted elixirs sure to conquer even the most indifferent crush and cure the most devastating heartbreak.
Here are her current favorites:
Heartsick in Havana
(also known as Inconsolable in Instanbul or Miserable in Minneapolis)
Sometimes love means being apart, and Freya knows this better than anyone. As a girl who has loved and lost and loved and lost again, Freya has weathered it all. In 1955, she strolled through the empty streets of Havana, missing a boyfriend who had left her to join up with Che Guevara in Mexico. Havana was then the Latin Las Vegas, a town where good food, good music, and beautiful people reigned, and a certain sexy witch made the most of it. But magic is no haven from heartbreak, and even the most gorgeous witch can feel blue from boyfriend troubles.
One ounce of very good rum
(the best you can buy)
Thirteen mint leaves
(thirteen is a lucky number for the witches and mint is a cure-all for heartache)
One tablespoon of sugar
Half ounce of lime juice
Two ounces of soda
Place mint leaves in the bottom of a glass and press them until they release their juice. Add crushed ice, rum, sugar, lime juice, and muddle the whole thing together. Add soda water and garnish with a few more mint leaves.
Drink until you stop feeling the need to call him, or else call him for naughty conversation ONLY. No whining or sobbing allowed.
Chucked in Charleston
(also known as Dumped in Davao or Abandoned in Albuquerque)
There’s nothing worse than being dumped. When your lover tells you he loves you no more, there’s nothing to do but pull him back from the door, tear his shirt, sob into his chest, and try to make him stay. But if that doesn’t work, Freya has this solution. Grab your best girls and serve them a nice Southern-style sweet tea with a punch that gets everyone feeling comfortable. Then burn everything he ever gave you, except the jewelry. You get cash for gold these days, she hears.
Firefly Sweet Tea Vodka
(a local Charleston favorite)
A tall glass of ice
Water
For a “John Daly” (the alcoholic version of an Arnold Palmer) add lemonade, for a “mo-tea-to” add lime juice, mint leaves and soda.*
Drown your sorrows, cry on your girlfriends’ shoulders, and remember that love is not magic, it is fickle and cruel, and it is better to have loved and drunk sweet tea vodka than never to have loved at all—at least that’s what Freya believes.
Joanna Beauchamp and Recipes for Restoration
Joanna’s power comes from the ability to bring things back to life: dead people, plants, animals, burnt pies, old homes. She believes that rearranging the furniture, painting the walls a different color, and caulking your own bathroom tiles are good for the soul and restorative for the
spirit.
Here are some of her suggestions for bringing old favorites back to life.
“Living” Rooms
Joanna hates a room with a couch against the wall; not only is it ugly, but it traps the energy in the room. A room should flow, and the feeling in the air should be one of movement and light. Move the couch to the middle of the room, or at least two feet away from the wall, and see what happens. You will notice you don’t slump on it as often as you did, gazing at the television and wondering what snacks are hidden in the cupboards.
How Not to Die
If you are unlucky enough not to know a witch who will be able to drag you back from the Kingdom of the Dead, you should do your best to live as long as possible. There are many ways to do it: eat healthily, exercise, see a doctor annually, blah blah blah. But for Joanna, a life is more than a body going through the motions. What is life if there is nothing to live for? Feed your soul as much as your physical self.
Soul Foods
Make friends, take an interest in people, meet your neighbors (Joanna bets you don’t know their names), make sure you see your friends if not once a week, then once a month. Take the time to laugh, and not just on your couch with the television. Laughter restores the spirit, creates bonds between people, and brings happiness to your daily life.
Don’t be a zombie. Don’t sleepwalk through life. Participate. You don’t have to be a witch to have a long and immortal life.