Once a Witch (4 page)

“What do you think of Gabriel?” she asks. I know if I hesitate or blush or do anything else besides answer immediately, Rowena will latch onto it, so I say as normally as possible,

“He's okay, I guess. Seems like the same old Gabriel.”

“Really?” Rowena considers me as if I'm some kind of odd insect she's never seen before.

“I think he's totally changed. So handsome now. I mean”–she waves one hand through the air—“if you like that look.” I can't help myself.

“What look?” She smiles.

“You know. The scruffy musician look.”

“He's a musician?”

“Didn't you know? He's going to Juilliard this semester. So now you'll both be in the city” She adjusts her necklace, her fingers gliding over the polished pearls.

“You know,” she says thoughtfully,

“Uncle Chester and Aunt Rennie are going to be away for most of the fall. You could live at theirhouse instead of in your dorm room” The way she says dorm room makes it sound more like leper colony.

“I have to live in the dorms. It's a rule” The happiest moment of my life was when I got the acceptance letter from New Hyde Prep. The second happiest moment was when I read through one of the several slick and glossy school pamphlets and learned that all students have to live in the dorms.

“And I like the dorms.” A delicate shudder crosses my sister's face.

“Why?” she says, the word infused with scorn.

“Why would you want to live there among…”

“Among what? Among who?” I ask quietly. The cigarette bites into my fingertips and I drop it into a glass of water on my night table, watching it extinguish instantly.

“Among people who don't know what you are” My sister picks her words with care, dropping them like so many stones between us. I stare at her.

“Rowena. In school, I am not a freak. I don't stand out. I blend in. You can't imagine how wonderful that is–to blend in.”

“I wouldn't want to,” my sister says stiffly, straightening up. I look at the cigarette butt bobbing in the glass of water.

“Of course you wouldn't. You don't need to,” I say quietly. One of the conditions of letting me go to school in New York City was that I would live with Uncle Chester and Aunt Rennie in their century-old townhouse on Washington Square Park. But when I informed my mother that I couldn't live there because of the school rule, it set off the worst argument we've ever had. Okay, the second worst argument. The worst one was the one we had about my going away to school in the first place. We both screamed until the sky turned the color of a rotten plum and an odd combination of rain and hail began to smash into the ground. A few minutes later a fierce wind rose and rattled the windowpanes and doors as if determined to find a way in. Finally, my father entered the kitchen and explained in a serene voice that the weather would continue to worsen until we stopped arguing. Even then my mother seemed prepared to continue, until my grandmother walked into the kitchen and said simply, Enough. Let her go. I remember feeling simultaneously grateful and sad.

Grateful that my mother would now have to let me go and sad that my grandmother obviously didn't seem to care all that much about where I went.

Then again, having me around was probably a constantly chafing reminder that she had been wrong once.

“Just because you don't have any Talent doesn't mean you're one of them,” my sister says, and all of a sudden I'm exhausted.

“Seriously, Ro, can you go back to your party now and leave me to pollute my lungs in peace?” My sister moves toward the door.

“I know you said you just changed, but I'd reconsider if I were you. That T-shirt really isn't that flattering.” Even though Rowena doesn't have our mother's gift of moving at lightning speed, she can still move pretty fast. Especially when I've just hurled the contents of the water glass, cigarette butt and all, at her. Water splashes against the empty door frame, running in dirty rivulets down the grooves of painted wood.

“Brat!” My sister's shriek, a distinctly unmelodious sound, comes from somewhere farther down the hallway. I slam my door closed in response. I can't help smiling.

I dawdle as long as I can but finally emerge from my room wearing my American Airlines 1960s flight attendant dress. It's a white zip-up sheath dress with red and blue piping around the hem, and there's something so cheerful about the stitched logo on the front chest pocket. Needless to say I love it, and I'm pretty sure I'll be the only one here who does. With the possible exception of Gabriel. Pausing on the now empty landing, I catch sight of Rowena's perfectly coifed blond head studiously turned away from me. She's standing next to James, one hand lightly resting on his arm, not that he needs this anchor. James watches my sister like a child watches a night-light in a darkened room. He seems afraid that at any moment she'll flit awayfrom him and blow out. It would drive me crazy, all that besotted staring, but Rowena seems to accept it gracefully, naturally, like everything else that falls into her lap. At this point even some of Uncle Chester's homemade wine is starting to sound good. But before I can find any, I see my grandmother in the corner of the room seated in the massive blue velvet chair. This is where she prefers to sit during any of the family gatherings. Relatives ebb and flow past her, paying their respects. At ninety-three she is the official head of the family. I make my way toward her, waiting until Aunt Linnie has kissed her papery cheek and fluttered away, sparks of light dancing from the tips of her fingers as they do whenever she gets excited.

“Tamsin,” my grandmother says. Her deep, rich voice issuing from her narrow body never fails to surprise me. At any given moment, she would have to raise it only a half degree to command the attention of the room.

“Grandmother,” I say, bending to kiss her. She smells like the tinctures and poultices she's forever making, a mix of something sharp and sweet, like the first breath of spring. Tonight she's dressed all in white, diamond clips skewering the silvery bundle of hair piled atop her head. But despite the obvious effort, I can't help but notice that her skin has the yellowing sheen of old satin and her eyes seem to have sunk deeper into the hollows of her face.

“Sit beside me,” she bids, and I sink to my knees. Surreptitiously, I touch the fringed hem of my dress, focusing only on the feel of the suede between my fingers, emptying my mind of everything else. My grandmother can walk through people's minds like the smallest and lightest of spiders on their skin. They will almost never feel the impact. The last time she did it to me was when I was six. My cousin Jerom had recently discovered his Talent of slowing down or speeding up his motions, so I'd convinced him we should try to “fly” (or actually fall really slowly) off the roof. I think my added weight on Jerom's back messed up his calculations, because one broken ankle later, I found myself blabbering that this wasn't my idea to my grandmother and mother, who had come running at the sound of Jerom's wails. My mother was hovering over Jerom, calling for Uncle Chester, and I was watching her, when suddenly there was the lightest touch inside me, like the first drops of rain.

A rush tumbled over me, and my vision darkened and then suddenly sharpened again. My grandmother shook her head at me, and I felt as if I had swallowed mouthfuls of dirt. Anyway, I don't think that she's done it to me since then, but just in case she tries, I am always on guard.

My eyes skip over the room, coming to rest on Gabriel, who is talking to Rowena. She's smiling that cool half smile that makes her look as though she knows a delicious secret, and her face is inclined down, only half turned to his.

This is one of Rowena's favorite poses, doubtlessly because it allows people to drink in the beauty of her flawless profile. I bite my lip. I can't watch this, so I look down at my hands.

“You've met Gabriel again, I see,” my grandmother says, and I start.

“Yeah. I kind of… ran over him. With my bike.

“My grandmother looks at me, then closes her right eye briefly. It's unnerving the way she can close one eye completely while the other remains wide open, unblinking.

“Why ever would you do that?”

“Not on purpose,” I protest before I realize she's laughing.

“How was the bookshop? Any customers?”

“A few,” I answer, briefly considering Alistair Callum. Tell her, tell her now! Then I let my mind go blank.

“I didn't get to re-price those poetry books for you.” One eyebrow twitches upward, sending a ripple effect of wrinkles across her forehead.

“I'll do it tomorrow,” I add hastily. The eyebrow slowly relaxes.

“You work hard,” she says at last, her voice gruff.

“Yeah. I… thanks.”

A shattering sound makes me look up. Uncle Chester has opened the china cabinet and is hurling plates to the floor and then grinding the shards underneath his shoes for good measure. I watch him do this until the cabinet is empty. Then he runs his hands over the shards and hands whole plates back to his audience of rapt children. From his elaborate hand gestures, I can only surmise that he's encouraging them to smash the plates so the fun can start all over again.

Suddenly, my mother catapults into view, snatching plates left and right out of the children's hands. Her face has this tight look on it and I'm expecting her to start breaking plates over Uncle Chester's head any second now. But just then the front door opens. My father has arrived, straight from the greenhouse from the looks of him. Still cradling plates, my mother vanishes from Uncle Chester's side to rematerialize next to my father. She leans toward him, her lips moving rapidly. No doubt she's furious that he's late and covered in dirt.

Later we all troop out to the backyard where the stone altar resides. There is no hint of the rain that slashed down earlier in the evening or the humidity that's been lingering all summer. Instead the sky is clear and the stars bright, and a soft breeze scented by night-blooming jasmine is blowing across the yard, catching lightly at skirts and shirts and hair alike. But I'm unable to enjoy my father's best efforts at weather-induced good cheer. I'm too aware of Gabriel and how he hasn't looked at me beyond a quick glance as we all filed through the back doors. Okay, so yes, I pushed him away before, but that doesn't mean that he has to stay away. I'm sure Agatha would have a ball analyzing this one. Before I can even think about smiling at him, Rowena and Gwyneth link arms with him and swing him away. So instead, I walk next to Aunt Beatrice, who keeps stopping to stare at the tips of her gold shoes as if she can't understand how these apparatus have found their way onto her feet. And even when we form a great circle around the stone altar, still, still I keep hoping that Gabriel will look my way, wink at me, something. To distract myself, I study the massive block of the altar, the blue-gray veins running through the dark stone, the thickly strewn summer flower petals, and the eight unlit candles made from the creamy beeswax of my father's hives.

“Greetings,” my mother says, and on cue the breeze vanishes and her voice rings out in the clear and beautiful silence.

“Well met tonight as on all nights.”

“Well met,” everyone choruses back. Except for me. I'm not in the mood.

“Tonight is special,” my mother continues, diverging slightly from the usual opening blah blah blah of these ceremonies during which I always tune right out.

“Tonight we celebrate the union of two beloved people, Rowena and James”

My mother pauses and beams in their general direction, as does everyone else.

My eyes skip over faces in a distracted blur.

“We also give thanks that two members of our family have finally returned home: Lydia and Gabriel. To honor them tonight, I ask them to light the eight candles.” A soft murmur breaks through the air. I blink. This is an honor. I've never seen anyone besides my mother and grandmother light the tapers unless it's an Initiation Rite. Fascinated, I study Rowena and the slight flush rising in her cheeks.

Then there's a general shuffle as everyone joins hands. Aunt Beatrice's hand finds its way into my own and I hold it lightly, afraid that too much pressure will crush her tiny bird bones. On my other side, my cousin Jerom envelops my hand with his much larger and unfortunately sweaty one.

“Ow, not so tight,” I hiss, wishing I could pull my hand free and wipe it down the side of my dress. Of course I get the quelling glance from my mother, who holds my grandmother's hand on one side and my father's on the other. As Gabriel and his mother step into the circle and approach the altar to the four elements, my grandmother begins the ritual prayer, her voice rich and full despite her wizened appearance.

“Earth my Body, Water my Blood.” I wonder if I'm the only one to note the hitch in her breathing. Everyone echoes her, Rowena's voice rising clear and true above the murmured responses. Gracefully, Lydia takes the first taper and lights West and South, then turns and hands the flame to Gabriel. I study his face closely, but he looks calm, relaxed, as if this is the most natural occasion, and with a sudden jolt I realize that for him it is. He's truly home now, in a way that I'll never be. I rest my eyes on alone dandelion head that's been crushed in the grass next to my left foot. The sparkles on Aunt Beatrice's shoes blur as my eyes fill.

“Fire my Soul and Air my Spirit,” my grandmother says as Gabriel lights East and North. My lips move automatically in the shape of the words, but no sound can force its way past the block in my throat.

“And now Rowena,” my mother says. My sister steps forward as Gabriel and Lydia melt back into the circle. Rowena comes to stand before the altar, then pauses. The circle around me fills with a frisson of yearning. She opens her pretty bow-shaped mouth and begins to sing the words of thanks to the stars and heavens above us. With seemingly no effort, her voice lifts and carries, circling and spreading throughout the yard, the notes pure and sweet, the way a harp made of clouds and moonlight must sound. Everyone else's eyes are closed, but I stare at my sister's face as she sings on and on and on. And all the while her earlier words keep biting into my skin. Just because you don't have any Talent . .