Four
Snowflakes dapple Andrew’s shirt and dark hair when he finally comes back inside after ten minutes.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“It’s snowing,” he replies, brushing the moisture from his hair and shoulders.
The weather isn’t the answer I’m expecting.
“I love a fresh solstice snow.” Gram peers out the window in front of the sink. Light from the kitchen illuminates the small snowflakes. “Grow, little ones, coat the ground with your white and bring on the holiday delight.”
I swear the snow swirls in response as fat flakes appear.
Andrew’s eyes widen, but he replaces his shock with his normal calm expression in a blink.
“You can make snow angels if it gets deep enough. Madison, you loved making them when you were a kid. The entire lawn would be covered in angel shadows.” Gram’s voice softens with the long ago memory of younger me.
“I’d love to see that,” Andrew says, stepping beside me at the counter.
“You’ll be right beside me making your own, mister.” Somehow I can’t imagine Andrew doings something as silly as making snow angels. Then again, stranger things have happened.
Tate walks into the room and I realize I never saw him wander off. Again, he and Andrew have a silent conversation with their eyes. I’m beginning to wonder if they can read each other’s minds.
“Mrs. Bradbury?” Tate says.
“Celeste.”
“Celeste,” Tate continues, “if I’m not prying, what was your maiden name?”
Gram’s eyes flash with surprise but she answers him, “Corey.”
Sam’s gasp from across the room is audible. “As in Giles Corey?”
Gram nods, but keeps her eyes on Andrew. “Imagine being pressed to death over a period of several days by having heavy stones laid on your body. At least hanging is over in seconds.”
The two stare at one another, and it feels like she’s almost challenging him to imagine such horrible ways of dying.
“How did I not know this?” Sam gets up from the couch and joins the group at the counter. “You have Salem witches on both sides of your family, Madison. How many people can say that?”
“We never talk about it,” I say.
“No point in digging up old history. Let the bones of the dead return to the earth.” Gram busies herself by stacking cookies on a glass cake stand.
“See?” I ask rhetorically.
“It’s clear where you get your reticence,” Andrew remarks.
“Halloween was almost two months ago. If we’re going to talk about magical beings, let’s focus on Santa.” Gram sets the glass dome over the cookies.
“Taciturn is a good word, too,” Andrew says for only me to hear.
“Persistent,” I echo his teasing.
“Unlike witches and magic, we all can agree Santa doesn’t really exist,” Sam says.
“All this standing around is making my ankles swell,” Gram states. “If we’re going to chat about nonsense, let’s sit and be comfortable.”
Her ankles have never swollen that I know of. I think she’s trying to divert the topic. After removing her apron and hanging it on the hook in the pantry, Gram sits in the red velvet wingback chair to the left of the fireplace.
We call it her throne. Never more has she looked like a queen than in this moment with the fire throwing golden light across her face.
“Tell me what it’s like being a witch, Andrew.” Gram catapults over pretense and directly into the delicate matter of his magic.
Beside Tate on the other sofa, Sam chokes and sprays cocoa down her sweater as she coughs and laughs.
Andrew and I glance at each other. Sliding his hand over mine, he gives me a squeeze.
Tate hands Sam a cloth napkin from the tray of snacks. No one speaks while she blots the chocolate and composes herself.
“Celeste, you’re hysterical. His mom might be Wiccan, but that doesn’t mean Andrew’s a witch,” Sam happily explains. “There’s no transfer of power through the bloodlines. If anyone is going to be called a witch, it should probably be me. I’ve been studying.”
Gram’s worried dark blue eyes meet mine. “Madison?”
I definitely feel like I’m in trouble. Unsure if I should spill everything to my grandmother first or continue to protect Sam, I remain quiet.
“Sam’s a hundred percent correct.” Andrew shifts next to me and releases my hand. With his elbows on his knees, he faces his body directly at Sam. “And wrong.”
She narrows her eyes at him. “Which part?”
“Witch,” I say.
“That’s what I asked,” Sam says.
“Apparently, we’re not all on the same page or even in the same book,” Gram speaks up. “Samantha, dear, it would appear your friends have been keeping a secret from you. Normally, I wouldn’t insert myself into the drama of youth, but it would seem the decision isn’t mine. Time is pressing.”
Sam’s eyes grow as large as the plate on the tray. “Madison doesn’t believe in magic. At all.”
I correct her, “Didn’t.”
She juts out her chin. “Since when?”
“Samantha dear, the less you know, the better.” Gram dismisses her.
“No, no, no. Madison?” Sam sits up straighter. “What is she talking about?”
Andrew opens his mouth to speak, but I rush to get the words out ahead of him. “I didn’t want you to find out this way. I should’ve told you right after Halloween, but I couldn’t.”
“Tell me what?” Sam’s voice is barely a squeak and red splotches dot her face. From across the table, her chest rises and falls with her rapid breath. She’s about to hyperventilate.
“Don’t completely freak out.” I keep my voice even and soothing like I’m talking to a skittish cat. I feel terrible for lying to my best friend.
“Too late,” she whispers, her gaze bouncing between the four of us. “Does everyone know but me?”
I study my grandmother’s familiar face. She nods.
With a soft, but firm tone, she explains, “Samantha, magic exists. The spells and curses and herbs are the surface, but there’s more. So much more.”
Andrew speaks when she finishes. “You were right about the families.”
“At least for the Wildes,” I add for clarification, earning me a surprised expression from Gram.
Tears pool along Sam’s lower eyelids. “And you all knew this, but me? I’m the one who’s been studying magic for years and you didn’t think to tell me?”
“It’s complicated,” Tate responds for the group. Frowning, he leans against the opposite arm of the couch and stretches out his long legs, resting the toe of one shoe on the edge of the wood coffee table. When Gram scowls at him, he drops his foot with a soft, “Sorry.”
“Between Harry Potter and Practical Magic, what are we talking about?” Sam asks, her voice hesitant.
“Magic exists on a whole other level than we ever knew,” I say softly.
Andrew pointedly stares at my grandmother. “Except for here.”
My brow crinkles in confusion. “What does that mean?”
“I’m not sure.” Andrew stands. He paces around the back of the couches to the fireplace where he pokes the fire and adds another log. “But neither Tate nor I can feel our usual powers since we arrived.”
“Powers?” Sam asks, giving him a sidelong glance.
“Isn’t that interesting?” Gram forces an innocent expression on her face, all wide eyes and soft mouth.
“Spill, Gram.” I sound like a parent talking to a guilty toddler with chocolate on her face and a story about how someone else ate the entire pan of brownies. After everything, my grandmother performing magic doesn’t seem to faze me. I glance at Tate, who won’t meet my eyes. He needs to focus his chill energy on Sam, not me.
“Protection.” Gram directs her answer to Andrew.
“For or against?” Tate asks.
“Will someone take pity on the new girl to this secret society?” Sam’s moving past shock and grief into anger.
“We can explain more details later,” I console her. “What you need to know now is that Sarah’s the most powerful witch in Salem, Andrew’s father put a hex on him to keep him from finding love, and Tate is an empath on overdrive.”
“Oh.” Her eyes bug out. And we’re back to shock.
“And Andrew can start fires with his hands,” I add, because it’s cool. “Among other things.”
“Okay, sure. This is all perfectly fizzing normal.” Sam never swears so I translate the f word in my head to another one.
“For some of us, it is,” Andrew says.
“Oh sherbet-pants. I’m the Muggle, aren’t I?” Sam’s tears of disappointment spill down her cheeks.
“I’m not magical either. Neither is Gram.” I cast a glance at my grandmother, who turns her head to avoid my eyes. “Right, Gram?”
“Nothing good comes from magic,” she says. “Better to be ignorant than to invite evil to the dining table.”
“Not all magic is dark or negative,” Andrew speaks up from his spot opposite her.
“Tell that to Giles Corey who was pressed to death. Or his wife, Martha, who was hanged.” Gram uses her stern teacher voice. “Caught in a net of panic and hate.”
“Unfortunate, but they lived long, productive lives, didn’t they?” Tate sits up.
Gram’s expression at the comment could pickle cucumbers.
“Um,” I speak, but have no idea what to say next.
“Only one thing good came out of the Coreys being ensnared in the hysteria,” Gram continues, not answering Tate. “Their children had enough sense to get the hell out of Salem and move to this area to build a house and clear the land for a farm.”
“The Corey descendants? I thought this was the Bradbury farm.” Andrew scratches his cheek, leaving behind a sooty trail of ash from the poker.
“No, my husband moved in with my family after we married. We’re of the generation when a woman took her husband’s name, so I can understand your confusion. Ask the current locals about the Corey farm and you’ll get a blank stare, but this is my family’s land.”
“Well this is all very interesting, but the question I want answered is if Madison is witch.” Sam returns to her obsession. She’s a cat with a laser light on the floor.
“You want to say I told you so,” I mutter.
She hums as she studies my face. “Something about you is different. Maybe I have an intuition about magic, even if I don’t have my own powers.”
“I’m with Sam,” Andrew says from beside me.
“Me too,” Tate concurs.
“Traitors,” I grumble. “If words are spells and I’m a witch, you should all be afraid of the thoughts I’m not sharing right now.”
My friends chuckle at my expense. All of them. But Gram.
“I think this is a topic for the bright light of morning.” She pats the padded arms of her chair. “Instead of all this talk of witches and magic, we should play cards or something before dinner. I’m not making anything fancy. Grilled cheese and homemade soup with the last of the season’s tomatoes.”
“Always my favorite,” I say, standing. “Thank you.”
In my head, I’m grateful she’s changed the subject. It makes my heart ache seeing the hurt in Sam’s eyes. I’ve betrayed my best friend.
“It’s tradition. Now if you don’t mind, take Andrew into the cellar and pull a couple of jars. My knees hate those narrow steps.” Gram leaves no room for argument, rubbing her perfectly good kneecaps to emphasis her story.
I’ve always hated the basement here.
As a kid I refused to go downstairs after one of the cats closed the door at the top of the stairs behind me. The small windows only allow enough light to outline the monsters and ghosts lurking in the corners. Complete with two bare bulbs that stretch shadows rather than chase them away, the cellar is the creepiest room in the house.
Beside the attic, aka the room where disturbing dolls go to die.
Luckily nothing of importance, like tomato soup, is stored up there and I can pretend it doesn’t exist.
A shudder passes through me when I open the basement door and click the ancient switch to illuminate the bulbs. When I inhale, dank, fungal air fills my nostrils. I wonder if I can still hold my breath long enough to retrieve the soup.
In contrast to the chill that rises from the gloom, Andrew’s body warmth feels hot against my back.
“Is it as creepy once you get down there?” he asks softly near my ear.
“More so. When I was younger I’d hold my breath, run to the chest freezer, and back up the stairs before exhaling. All while trying not to touch anything and hopping across the rough floor like it was lava.”
“So she sends you down here to challenge you.” His voice holds admiration and a touch of nerves.
“Definitely. She kept the popsicles and ice cream down here on purpose.” The old wood squeaks when I hit the third step. Same as always. “Nothing to fear but fear itself.”
Thankfully, nothing scurries or slithers into the shadows when our feet hit the floor. Not that I look closely. I cross the small room with the low beamed ceiling as quickly as possible.
Bowed shelves line the far wall, each struggling to support the weight of all of the glass jars. Some hold sliced peaches and raspberry jams in pints. Larger quarts of beans, tomatoes, pickles, and asparagus rest on the bottom shelves. Soups and sauces take up the top of the case.
Stepping closer, I scan the labels. In the gloom, it’s difficult to differentiate the colors or read Gram’s scratchy lettering.
“Is this the original cellar?” Andrew stomps his foot and toes the packed earth floor with his boot.
“I’ve never asked, but the dirt and stones would say yes,” I answer without facing him. “Minestrone, navy bean, carrot … I’m not sure she even has tomato. This might be a trick. Why would she send us for soup if she knows she doesn’t even have it? Is carrot soup even a thing?” I peer at the lettering, trying to transform the word into tomato.
Warm arms wrap around my waist. His voice is low and impossibly sexy when he murmurs against my hair, “Or maybe she knew how badly I wanted to get you alone.”
Andrew’s scent envelops me as he places soft kisses on my neck. At the contact, I lean back to keep myself from turning into jelly.
Between pecks, he continues, “I don’t know the woman well, but you’re more than capable of carrying a couple of jars.”
“Hmm,” I hum with pleasure as his hands slowly turn me to face him.
“Probably the least romantic place imaginable, but I’m dying to kiss you right now.” Even in the darkness, his crystal eyes are visible enough for me to see his desire. His tongue peeks out and licks his full bottom lip.
Placing my hands on the soft wool of his sweater, I arch up to press my mouth against his. With my eyes closed, I forget about the cellar around us for the moment and lose myself in Andrew. The spark between us I always feel when we kiss or touch grows. With each tangle of our tongues and press of lips, I imagine it illuminating the room in beautiful soft blue light like a good fairy in a cartoon.
Curious, I open my eyes, and gasp.