Fat snowflakes fall from the dense gray clouds, turning the lawns white and settling on the rocky shore like powdered sugar.

I hate the snow.

Snow always reminds me of Geoffrey and our last Christmas together. The first snow in Boston was always my favorite. The gaslights on Beacon Hill flicker with their golden flames, casting warm shadows on the white powder coating the cobblestones. At some point in history, a decision was made that it would be cheaper to keep the gas lamps of Boston lit continually than to pay some guy to light them every evening. When the skies darken with heavy clouds, the lights from the old street lamps brighten.

And nothing is prettier than fresh snow falling in the glow of the old street lamps.

This is why I avoid Beacon Hill and the Wicked Society. Makes me too melancholy.

The crunch of gravel on the driveway alerts me to the arrival of visitors. It’s only been two days since Tate and his friends were at the house. I’ve been lingering here as I’ve mulled over the events of that night and testing my new found abilities to move physical objects. The only thing I’ve been able to lift has been a piece of paper, but I’m feeling optimistic. Like with any new skill, practice will make perfect.

I peer through the second story window. An unfamiliar black Audi parks near the front of the house. Madison and Andrew get out and stare up at the house. Reflexively, I hide behind the curtains. Another vehicle parks near them and Tate exits along with Sam.

I’m too far away to hear their conversation, but they walk toward the front door. Closing my eyes, I switch my location to the foyer in time to see Tate slip inside and turn off the alarm.

When he opens the door again, the rest enter.

“Madison?” Andrew touches her hand.

Boughs of evergreen and boxwood drape every entry and twist like a giant snake up the staircases. White candles provide more light, their flames dancing in the drafts.

“It’s a holiday party,” Madison whispers.

What is she talking about? Spinning around, I’m shocked to find an enormous tree in the center of the foyer. The candles and mercury glass ornaments are the same that were used for the Victorian-themed holiday ball.

Madison cautiously enters the library off the foyer. A fire glows in the hearth below the mantle hung with bows of boxwood and fir.

Books stand in perfect rows on the shelves, but I don’t see anything resembling the gilt leather volumes from my previous vision. She wanders through the room, touching her fingers to the grooves of the molding and under the edges of the shelves at waist level.

She’s looking for something. Something that requires her to conjure the past, specifically the night of the party. While she scans the shelves, I recall the events of my last solstice celebration.

Geoffrey and I kissing. Him sneaking me into the office. The secret room.

Madison’s never going to find the entrance in the library.

If she’s able to recreate the past environment, one she never experienced herself, then maybe she can also be susceptible to a little bit of guidance from me. Or my former self.

Concentrating, I focus on the memory of the holiday ball. Within a few seconds I’m back in the moment when Geoffrey and I snuck out of the ballroom.

Dressed in his tuxedo, with his hair slicked back and tamed, he’s as handsome as I remember him. Glancing down, I see I’m in my favorite vintage black gown. The strapless one I found in a consignment store on Newbury Street in Boston. A few adjustments from the tailor and it looks like it was custom made for me.

“Is your family having a party here tonight?” Madison asks Tate. “I’m suddenly feeling very underdressed.”

“What?” he asks. “The Winthrops don’t believe in holiday cheer.”

“The couple who ran through the foyer, laughing and kissing?” Madison inquires.

“You can see ghosts?” Sam’s voice comes out as a squeak. “I’m out of here.”

“They can’t hurt you, Samantha,” Tate reassures her. “I’ll hold your hand if that’ll make you feel better.”

He’s the sweetest. These guys are making my cold, dead heart flutter with their words. I don’t know how Madison and Sam can handle it.

“Follow them,” Tate instructs Madison.

Scanning the darker interior hallway, I catch a door closing. “This way.”

Instead of following us into the office, she pauses on the other side of the threshold.

“I’m here and I’ll protect you,” Andrew tells her.

“Me too,” Sam agrees without hesitation, and Tate repeats her words.

Finally, she enters the office.

“There’s a hidden door.” Madison points across the room.

My work done, I let the memory fade. I’ve left enough breadcrumbs for her to be able to complete their mission. Back to being invisible, I hang around to find out what they’re trying to find inside of the secret room.

Tate flips a switch and bright light fills the space.

“This is my father’s office. I used to play under his desk when I was an adorable toddler.” Tate walks into the middle of the room. “Pretty sure I’d know if there’s a secret door in here.”

Madison studies the wall behind the portrait. Running her fingers over the mahogany paneling, she pauses and says, “I think I found it.”

“Of course,” Tate laughs. “Jonathan Winthrop, you old dog.”

Tate rubs his hands along the wall and under the chair railing. A soft click sounds when he finds the catch.

The panel swings forward, revealing a small room lined with bookshelves from floor to ceiling. I cringe for a moment, hoping that Madison can’t see Geoffrey and I in all our naked glory in the throes of passion.

Thankfully, she doesn’t appear to be shocked or disgusted. I think I’m safe.

“This must share a wall with the library. I wonder if there’s a door on either side for escape.” Andrew uses the flashlight on his phone to scan the tiny room.

“Is the book in here?” Sam asks

“Up there. In the middle.” Madison points to the top of the bookcase, near the middle.

Andrew reaches up and pulls down the slim, black leatherbound book I first glimpsed all those years ago.

The doorbell chimes from the foyer, causing Sam to scream. She scares the beejebus out of me. Sheesh. She’d make an excellent ghost.

Pressing her hand to her chest, she bends at the waist and chants, “I’m okay. I’m okay. We’re okay.”

Madison pats her back. “It’s all right. Just the doorbell.”

“Expecting anyone?” Andrew asks Tate.

“At this point, nothing will surprise me.” Tate’s the first to step out of the room.

Andrew replaces the book on the shelf. “It’s been safe there. Best to let sleeping books lie.”

Madison pulls a folded, white envelope from her pocket and hands it to him. “Place this on top. For now.”

He sets the paper on top of the book. “Until you need it.”

Once they’ve left the office, I pop up to the top shelf to study the objects they left behind. I really want to peer inside of the envelope, but X-ray vision is not one of my postmortem super powers. However, the object it contains isn’t flat like folded paper. The tingle of electricity proceeds my intention to touch the objects. Only this time, unlike the thousands that have proceeded it, when I think about the feel of the paper and the solid form beneath it my fingertips brush over the smooth surface of the envelope. I jerk my hand away and rub my thumbs over my fingers.

Trying again, I gently nudge the corner of the book.

It moves as if I were pushing it. Because I am.

From beyond the grave.

This is new.

This changes everything.

“It’s your friendly community coven,” a female voice calls out from the other side of the front door.

“We have brownies,” another familiar voice chimes in. “Double-chocolate.”

It’s Sarah Wildes and Martha, from the Black Book, the best coffee house in Salem.

When the door opens, it reveals Sarah pouring a line from a large box of Morton’s Salt.

Sarah grins at the group assembled to greet her. “Extra precaution to keep out the bad energy and any uninvited guests. Salt of the earth and salt of the sea, protect all those who are granted entry.”

One by one the familiar members of Salem’s coven ask Tate for permission to enter. He repeats his welcome to each person before they cross the line of salt.

I haven’t seen most of these faces since my days at Hawthorne. After I met Geoffrey, I transferred to Simmons in Boston to be close to him. Maybe if I stayed in Salem, I wouldn’t have died at twenty-one. Then again, if I stayed, maybe I wouldn’t have spent my last years with my soulmate.

“Andrew, do you mind lighting a fire or two to warm up the old manse?” Tate asks while herding everyone into the library.

Andrew nods and steps close to the fireplace.

The rest of the group shuffles in after them. Mr. Bishop escorts Mrs. Howe to a seat close to the fire, followed by the Wardwells and the Good sisters. The Parker sisters fuss over Sam. No Dr. Philips. Pity. He was always my favorite.

Martha sets a large tray of brownies on the console table below the large library window. “Eat, you must be starved.”

I would if I could, Martha. I miss your brownies more than almost anything.

Sarah takes a brownie and bites into it. “Martha, your baking is pure magic.”

The group laughs at the joke.

“Did you find the book?” Sarah cuts through the polite chatter.

“We did. It’s safe,” Madison states, quietly.

“What’s safe?” the elder Parker sister asks, peeping through her red-colored readers instead of over them, making her eyes appear extra large.

“Our history,” Sarah responds.

“Good, because I was beginning to doubt your prophecy about the Bradbury girl.” Mr. Bishop sneaks two brownies into a napkin and shoves them inside of his tweed jacket.

“Corey-Bradbury,” Madison corrects him.

The voices in the room all go quiet at once.

Well, well, well. Now it makes sense why Stanford Bradford is threatened by her. Martha and Giles Corey are true love personified. The ultimate in relationship goals. Their love is the stuff of legend. If they’re Madison’s ancestors, she’s not only a spirit witch, she has the ability to love with her whole heart. She’s more rare than even the black book.

For a bitter, heartless man like Stanford, they’re everything he’ll never have. Money can’t buy love. Jealousy will never bring happiness. It must eat him up inside that his son has found his soulmate.

“That changes everything, doesn’t it?” Mrs. Howe asks the group. “We’ve all noticed the change, whether we want to admit it or not.” She frowns at Mr. Bishop. “Sarah’s been talking about this prophecy for a decade now. If our magic is fading, the time has come.”

“For what?” Madison asks, sounding nervous.

“The changing of the guard. We’ve maintained peaceful relations for decades. Now dark magic is growing and our ability to shield has weakened. At first, we worried it was all magic ebbing away as the family lines diluted over the generations.” Mrs. Howe assumes the role as group spokeswoman.

My attention snaps to her. Her words could have several different meanings. The whole diluted comment is shady. Then I remember that her daughter is the current Mrs. Putnam, all around mean girl and nothing but bad news.

Others join the conversation as they begin to discuss a new age for the Salem Coven.

“Madison?” Sarah draws my focus to her. “I know it’s been a whirlwind, but this is your birthright.”

“Ghosts and spells and curses and visions and magical books?” She ticks off her list on her fingers.

“Ghosts? That’s delightful,” Mr. Bishop says dryly.

Sam laughs. “What’s in these brownies, Martha? Magical herbs?”

Tate chuckles. When Sam glares at him, he lifts his hands. “Not my doing. Some things are just funny.”

“I think this evening calls for champagne,” Martha suggests.

“What are we celebrating?” Madison asks.

“For one thing, champagne is always a good thing and I suspect the Winthrops have a very nice bottle or two in the wine cellar. Second, we’re toasting to the four of you.”

“Why?” Sam asks, vocalizing my same question.

“You’re the next generation of the Salem coven,” Sarah replies, pride shining in her eyes as she focuses on Andrew, Tate, Sam, and finally, Madison.

Andrew gazes at Madison with his heart in his eyes. “I tried to warn you. Life will never be boring with me. Are you ready for all of this?”

Aww, isn’t he charming?

Wait, did she say coven of four?

Everyone knows a coven needs to be an odd number. Power of three. Power of thirteen.

Four isn’t even a magical number. It’s a bridge game or foursquare.

Unless.

Can a ghost join a coven?

Madison sips her champagne before asking Tate, “Why doesn’t your family decorate the house for the holidays? It’s such a beautiful house. I’d think you’d want to all gather here since there’s room for tons of people.”

“You answered your own question. Too many Winthrops in one place has ended in legitimate wars before.”

Her mouth pops open in shock.

Clearly, she hasn’t read up on our family history. We only decorate for show. If a house is cheerful and there’s no magazine shoot, does it matter? Why bother hanging decorations if no one will be here to photograph them?

Tate continues. “Nothing major. Mostly smaller skirmishes with a few deaths. For the most part.”

He’s hysterical.

“I can’t tell if you’re kidding,” Madison mumbles.

“Unfortunately, I’m not. It’s a long and sordid history, fueled by greed, lust, and jealousies.”

“Sounds like the blurb of a historical romance or saga set in a kingdom long ago and far away.”

“Someday when you’re older, I’ll tell you more.” He sits up straight, pulling his arm away.

“Ha, ha. I’m a year younger than you and an adult.”

“What are you two chatting about?” Andrew slides between Madison and the arm of the couch.

“The Winthrop lack of holiday spirit,” Tate replies, dryly.

“And ghosts of Christmas past,” Madison adds.

“What did they look like?” Tate asks. “Maybe I can figure out which relatives helped us. Could be good to know for future reference.”

Yes! He’s too young to remember meeting me and I doubt the family talks about me on a regular basis. Better to pretend black sheep never existed.

Madison stares at the entrance to the foyer. “They both had dark hair. His was all slicked back from his forehead and hers was twisted into a fancy bun. He wore a tux and she had on a long, black gown.”

“Anything else?” Andrew asks.

“Her perfume. She smelled of tea roses. I know the scent because Gram wears the same thing. Couldn’t be her, because she’s still alive, right?”

I do love tea roses. She doesn’t mention a scent for Geoffrey and I wonder if he doesn’t have one because he’s only part of my memory.

Both guys remain silent.

“It’s not impossible,” Tate speaks first. “We don’t know if they were ghosts or projections.”

Or memories.

“There’s a difference?” Madison asks.

Andrew gives her a soft smile, his expression full of love. “I’ll explain more another time, but yes, there’s a difference.”

Tate clears his throat. “Don’t overwhelm her. Do you remember anything else that could help us place them?”

Madison closes her eyes. “The house didn’t have electricity. Gas lighting outside. Candles everywhere, even on the tree, which seems like a major fire hazard.”

“Ahh, so that puts us early nineteenth century.” Sarah approaches our little group.

I sigh. If we were playing the warmer, colder, hot game, she just shoved us into a freezer. Wrong, wrong, wrong!

“I don’t think her dress was that old. Definitely more twentieth century, modern.” Madison opens her eyes.

There’s my girl.

Tate taps his finger against his lips. “The Winthrops like tradition. It’s possible they resisted all that new-fangled, alternating current malarkey their neighbors were getting. Let me check when the house was electrified.”

It shouldn’t be that hard to find out about the Victorian-themed parties. Hopefully he’ll make the connection sooner rather than later.

If I’m right about Mrs. Howe and her daughter, we’re running out of time.