Our motley group troops up a steep sidewalk climbing up a slim Beacon Hill street. Other than window shopping along Charles Street, I’ve never spent time on the narrow, cobbled streets that make up one of Boston’s wealthiest neighborhoods. Glancing at Sam to see if she’s freaking out, I trip on an uneven brick in the sidewalk. Thankfully, Andrew’s holding my hand and prevents me from kissing the ground.
“Here we are.” Tate stops in front of a Victorian brownstone.
The only unique thing about the four-story brownstone is a small bay window jutting off of the second floor like a Tardis stuck to the exterior.
“Do you see the Tardis?” I ask Andrew, whispering for no reason.
Nodding, he squeezes my hand. “Maybe the Doctor will be able to help us.”
It’s silly, but I love him a little more for playing along with my Doctor Who obsession. “Do you still have your Halloween costume?”
His lips curl a fraction, forming a tiny, but wicked smile. “Maybe. Do you still have that tiny skirt?”
For a few seconds, I forget where we are and who we’re with as I stare into his clear, aquamarine eyes. Halloween feels like it was a million years ago.
The muffled sound of chimes pops the bubble between Andrew and me, reminding me of our location and mission.
“Are they expecting us?” Sam asks from behind Tate, who stands closest to the door.
“Of course. We’d never show up unannounced,” Philips scoffs. “Not only rude, but when it comes to the Society, surprises can be dangerous.”
My eyes widen and I’m about to ask for more of an explanation, but the sound of locks opening draws my attention to the entrance. I half expect the door to creak on its hinges when it swings open.
What I don’t anticipate is who answers it. At first I think it must be a strange similarity, because there’s no way the man standing across the threshold is the same man who showed up at the Winthrop mansion.
“Officer Smith,” Tate says in the same bored monotone he used before when greeting the middle-aged man. A neatly tailored suit replaces the Marblehead police uniform he wore during our first encounter in December. His light brown hair is trimmed short and he sports square, metal-framed glasses over his brown eyes.
“Mr. Winthrop. Nice to see you again.” Smith extends his hand to Tate. “Apologies about the last time we met. Sometimes I get a little carried away, like a kid with a new toy.”
Accepting his hand with a friendly shake, Tate grins at Smith. “Your surliness puts the real Marblehead police to shame. You should consider giving training seminars in your free time.”
“Right. When I find some, I’ll be sure to get right on that.” Smith’s focus drifts over Tate’s shoulder. When our eyes meet, I feel the building pressure of a headache for a second before it fades. His tone is formal yet friendly when he speaks again. “Welcome to the Wicked Society. Please come in.”
After glancing behind us to scan the narrow street, he steps back, allowing the door to fully swing open. A large brass chandelier reflects light around a foyer lined in dark wood paneling—the understated style typical of Boston wealth.
Sarah and Dr. Philips step through the door, offering warm greetings to Smith while Sam and I exchange wide-eyed looks of “what the eff is going on right now.”
“Andrew?” I finally find my voice.
He gives my hand a squeeze. “It’s okay. We’ll explain more once we’re inside.”
“No.” The word comes out before I realize I’m the one speaking.
“It’s better if you don’t linger outside,” Smith says, his voice kind, but slightly impatient. “You’re safe here.”
I still don’t trust him. The pressure behind my eyes has faded, but I’m on edge. Something deep inside me is warning that once I go inside, nothing will ever be the same again.
“Sure you’re not a cop?” I ask like I’m a drug dealer on an episode of Law and Order.
“Not exactly.” Smith gives me a warm smile. “But I do love a car with its own flashing lights.”
His chuckle should reassure me, but it doesn’t.
Andrew’s hand presses against my lower back, encouraging me forward.
We follow Smith, if that’s his real name, inside and across the black and white marble floor of the foyer. He leads us up the turned staircase into a parlor room filled with leather couches and velvet wingback chairs arranged around various tables anchored on large, burgundy antique rugs. The space is straight out of a classic private club and the only thing missing is a crowd of aging white men, snapping their newspapers while smoking cigars.
“Have a seat. Geoffrey will be down in a few minutes. Can I get anyone some tea? Cookies?” Smith offers, sounding like a thoughtful host.
“Both sound wonderful.” Philips settles into a deep, hunter green wingback chair.
I remain standing until Smith leaves us.
“What is going on?” I whisper to Sarah, who sits in the corner of the sofa opposite Philips.
“You’ll need to be more specific.” She pats the cushion next to her, silently indicating I should sit down.
“Why is the police officer here?” I ask.
“I may have lied on the solstice,” Tate confesses, claiming a chair next to Philips. “There wasn’t a silent alarm that night, at least not one a security company would respond about. I picked up on a new energy in the room after Mrs. Howe explained about Lucy being her granddaughter. There was an abrupt shift in her field once she shared that information.”
“I called him, creating an excuse for him to leave the room.” Sarah interrupts. “We needed to end the meeting before more information was shared.”
“Are you saying Mrs. Howe is a spy?” I take a seat on the couch, feeling overwhelmed with each new revelation today.
“Do you remember her knitting?” Sarah asks. “At first I thought it was a seed pattern, but as the evening wore on, I realized it was more a series of dots and dashes.”
“Morse code?” Andrew drops down next to me on the sofa, and then takes my hand again.
“A code of some sort.” Sarah twists her mouth in disappointment.
“She was taking notes of everything being said?” I ask, worried about everything that was shared around the fire.
“It appears that way,” Sarah replies with a sigh. “As soon as Tate told us the police were on the way, Mrs. Howe was the first to decide to leave.”
“Maybe she had more than knitting in her purse.” Philips lifts his eyebrows before clearing his throat. “I’ve known Marjorie Howe for more decades than most of you have been alive. I know she’s loyal to the coven, but her family comes first. If Lucy and her mother are pressuring her, she’s likely to put them above any sworn oath.”
“That’s how Lucy must know about the book.” I pause as another thought comes to mind. “And how she knows about Mildred.”
Andrew’s fingers stop mid-stroke against my wrist. “If she knows, she might be the link between Salem and my father.”
Footsteps on hardwood alert us to the return of Smith, who returns, carrying a proper silver tea tray filled with a teapot and cups, along with a small tower holding an assortment of cookies.
“You make an excellent host. Much better than I could ever manage to be.” From the doorway, another male voice compliments Smith. “I’d apologize for keeping you waiting, but I think everything is more than fine.”
A man in his thirties with pale skin and dark hair that brushes his shirt collar strides across the parlor to greet us, a warm smile on his face and his dark eyes sparkling. “Thanks for coming all the way into the city. Lovely to see you.”
Along with his crisp white shirt, he’s dressed in gray wool dress pants and oxford style brown shoes.
He shakes Philips hand before leaning down to kiss Sarah’s cheek. “As always, a pleasure to be in your company.”
“Geoffrey.” Sarah smiles at him and I swear it’s a little flirtatious. “It’s been too long.”
“Ages.” He returns her smile before facing me. “You must be Madison. I’ve heard so much about you.”
“You have?” Incredulous, I glance at both Sarah and Andrew.
“Of course. It’s an honor to meet you.” He extends his hand and for a brief flash, I can see him bowing at a court or kissing a lady’s hand. He exudes chivalry and charm from another era.
I release Andrew’s hand to shake Geoffrey’s. When our skin touches, a swell of warmth and security travels through me.
Before I can comment, he releases my hand and moves to Andrew, greeting both he and Tate with friendly handshakes.
“And last, but not least, Samantha.” Geoffrey stops in front of Sam’s chair.
“I’m not a witch,” she blurts and then covers her mouth with her hand. “Not the way they are.”
This earns her a chuckle from our host. “Every witch has a unique gift. No two are alike.”
Sarah hums in agreement. “I have faith in Sam. She’s already aces with a Tarot deck. If she isn’t part wind witch, I’ll give up chocolate.”
Andrew snorts. “Right. That will never happen.”
“Then I must not be wrong.” Sarah nods with confidence.
We help ourselves to cookies as Smith pours tea for everyone. Once we’re settled, Geoffrey drags over another wingback, completing the circle.
“Now, how can we help you?” He takes a sip of tea from the delicate cup before replacing it on its saucer and setting both down on a small end table. “I assume this visit is about the book Madison located?”
“We believe it’s the book of our family trees.” Philips shifts in his chair. “The one we’ve thought lost.”
“I don’t understand what’s so important about a book of genealogy. Wouldn’t anyone with access to one of those ancestry sites be able to discover the same information?” Sam asks the question on my mind.
“Of course, but the dates of someone’s birth or death doesn’t explain what magical powers were present during life. Magic descends on the matriarchal lines, often skipping siblings or whole generations. Census data is a rock skipping the surface of the information contained in the book you rediscovered.”
Philips speaks up. “For half a millennium, Puritans and witches have been drawn to each other. Curiosity makes for strange bonds.”
Sarah mumbles, “And even stranger bedmates.”
“It’s a double helix of two parallel worlds, interconnected by marriages and children who carry the DNA of both sides.” Geoffrey continues. “Over the years, other bloodlines have entered the equation, making it more difficult to track the magic.”
“If powers reveal themselves around twenty-one, why does lineage matter?” Sam asks, a slight edge of bitterness to her voice. “Sounds like you either are or aren’t a witch.
Sarah frowns before speaking. “There is a small group who wishes to control all magic power and within that group, there are those who wish to destroy it completely.”
“Isn’t that always the case?” Andrew asks, snark heavy in his voice. “Some power-hungry assholes get greedy and ruin everything?”
Geoffrey chuckles. “In a nutshell. It’s human nature to both fear and want to control what we don’t understand.”
“Witchcraft is all over the place these days. Salem flaunts all things witchy,” Sam says. “Why the need for a secret society?”
Studying her, Geoffrey tents his fingers below his chin. “You’ve answered your own question. As more individuals accept the existence of magic and become more open to powers we can’t explain with science or logic, there will be pushback from those who wish the world to remain the same, or even go back in time to when such things were persecuted. They hold on to a false hope that they can bend the world to their will.”
Sarah’s sigh is more of a groan, which she follows up with a roll of her eyes. “I find it funny in a not-funny-at-all way that the way they are choosing to fight magic is with the darkest forms of it.”
Andrew’s curse and the theft at the farm pop into my thoughts.
“The corpse magic and the bone thieves?” I ask. “Someone stole my ancestors’ bones from the farm.”
“Yes, we’re aware.” Geoffrey sips his tea. “The Society has been following all of the recent developments.”
His lofty tone and tea sipping don’t reassure me.
“Who is behind these events?” I ask, crossing my arms in challenge, thinking I already know the answers.
“Besides my father,” Andrew adds. “What about Lucy Putnam?”
Geoffrey’s gaze flicks to Philips and then to Sarah.
“Speak freely,” Sarah instructs. “We wouldn’t have brought them if we weren’t confident they could handle whatever we learn here today.”
“If you’re sure.” Geoffrey nods. “Yes, Stanford is deeply involved. His private club appears to be a front, as does the charity he’s been supporting with large donations. The Putnams are also members of the club and on the board of the same non-profit.”
Andrew exhales a resigned breath. “Great.”
“Sadly, that’s not surprising information,” Sarah says, sounding resolved but weary. “We need to identify the witch who is helping them.”
“Could it be Mrs. Howe?” Sam asks.
“Not on her own,” Geoffrey answers.
“What about the estranged daughter? No one has mentioned her. The power of three and all that?” I’m grasping at any possibility.
“Mrs. Howe said she hasn’t spoken to her daughter in years and doesn’t know if Lucy’s developed powers,” Andrew reminds me.
“She was lying.” Standing, Tate begins to pace. “That’s the shift in energy. Her tears and sad story about family estrangement were lies meant to cover her tracks.”
Philips sits up straighter in his chair as the hairs on my arms prickle. “How did we let this happen?”
“We saw what we were intended to see,” Sarah speaks softly. “This all makes sense. The intertwined family histories have always been leading us to this moment where we must stand up against the darkness in our shared past.”
A shiver ladders up my spine. My mind begins conjuring an epic battle in the streets of Boston between people dressed as Puritans and women wielding broomsticks as weapons. In my vision, the brooms have lasers and the Puritans are ninjas.
“I have a proposition.” Geoffrey stands and clasps his hands.
“Which is?” Tate asks, leaning against the oversized mantle of the fireplace.
“I’d like the four of you to spend the summer working for the society. Training, but also doing some work for us. A mutually beneficial arrangement that can help us all.”
“Are you offering us internships?” I ask, trying to wrap my head around what kind of training he could provide.
“I think it’s a wonderful idea.” Philips munches on a cookie, and then continues speaking with his mouth half full. “I feel better about this situation already.”
Glad he does, because I’m less sure of anything now.
“What about the book? And the ghosts? And the bones of my dead relatives?”
“With Smith’s additional protection spells and the existing enchantments on the Winthrop and Corey farms, I feel confident it’s safe for now.” Geoffrey gives a curt nod. “As for your ghosts, I can’t wait to find out the extent of your abilities. A spirit witch is a wonderful addition to the Society.”
Spirit witch? Me?
“What if something happens between now and summer?” Sam asks. “I doubt Lucy will just go away and give up.”
“No? What if she gets a last-minute invitation to study abroad in London? With a full scholarship and a stipend?” A wicked spark dances in Geoffrey’s eye. “I doubt she would be able to resist the trip of her dreams for some stuffy old book.”
“You can do that?” I ask, full of both disbelief and awe.
“It’s done. She leaves next week.” Smith hands Geoffrey a rectangular envelope the size of a business card. “As you requested, Mr. Gardener.”
I find Smith’s formality odd. Something about it puts me on edge, and not only because of the hint of a headache I get around him.
“Thank you.” Geoffrey opens the thick envelope and pulls out four flat black cards. From where I sit, they appear blank. “Assuming you won’t reject my offer of an internship, I came prepared. These are your key cards to enter the building. We prefer to come in through the alley rather than the front door. To avoid too much foot traffic and nosey neighbors. The last thing we need is to have someone get curious or gossip about us to the wrong people. As you can understand, secrecy is important to the Society. Don’t mention it to anyone outside of this building. If anyone asks, you’re all interning at the Winthrop family archives for the summer. Impossibly boring and dry.”
“Hey,” Tate exclaims. “We’re not that dull. Oh, wait, yes we are.”
Sam giggles at his words. Working alongside Tate for an entire summer is Christmas and her birthday rolled into one.
“Where will we live?” Sam asks.
“We have rooms upstairs in the former servants’ quarters and a full kitchen staff. You’ll be comfortable and the commute is unbeatable.” Smith explains.
I wonder if he and Geoffrey live on the premise as well. Maybe this house is a Tardis and much larger than it appears on the outside.
“Do we have a deal?” Geoffrey asks the group. “We could use your knowledge and assistance. With your powers, we will have better odds of succeeding against whatever forces Mrs. Howe has gathered.”
His words remind me that there is an enemy outside this building, a traitor among us who wants the book and is willing to lie to the coven to acquire it by any means.
Andrew squeezes my fingers. “Madison?”
A blue light glows near the windows, dragging my attention to the far corner. The woman in the elegant, black dress shimmers into form, not exactly solid but more than a shadow. Meeting my eyes, she taps her finger to her mouth, warning me to remain quiet. I give her the slightest nod and then she winks at me as she begins to fade.
I take comfort in knowing she is here. The wink must be a good sign. I have a feeling she’ll be key to solving our remaining mysteries.
“Everything okay?” Andrew whispers close to my ear, his breath warm on my skin.
Shifting my gaze from the corner to his face, I give him a small smile. “With you by my side, I know it will be. I love you, Andrew.”
He presses a kiss to my temple. “I love you, Madison Bradbury, and I always will.”
Secret societies and new covens are a lot more interesting than hanging out with frog boys at boring off-campus parties. If I’ve learned anything over the past few months, it’s to be careful what I wish for.
Magic is all around us, waiting to be called upon and used.
Words have power and the most powerful word of all is love.