“I’m glad she was pleased,” I make myself say. “It was a great success. I think most everyone was happy with the results.”

  I do not say I told you so, though I want to. The event speaks for itself. It was crowded. I sold books. Businesses prospered. Why? Because even in the face of magical adversity and discovering my true nature, I’m damn good at my job.

  Skip nods as if I’ve said something profound. He waves merrily at a couple of St. Cyprian residents who pass on the sidewalk—after they stop dead and stare at the two of us.

  “Mother is often pleased and impressed by you,” Skip continues. “For a very long time I let that bother me.”

  “But all of a sudden you’re fine with it?” It certainly doesn’t sound like it.

  He looks off into the distance, and thoughtful Skip is...not better. “There are some things you can fight, Emerson, and some things you can’t. I don’t want to end up like Nicholas Frost up in that mansion on the hill, decaying into dust. I want a say in what happens. If we find a way to have a say together, then I want that.”

  There’s that name again. Nicholas Frost. The traitor. I try to act calm. Casually confused, that’s all. I stop in front of the Lunch House, where I’m meeting Holly, Gil and the ironically named Happy Ambrose Ford. “Nicholas Frost?” I ask, working on a casually vague smile. “I don’t think I know him, which seems odd. I know everyone.”

  Skip frowns. It seems to take a long time, then he frowns even deeper. For some reason I start thinking about the way Muppet faces fold in on themselves, and have to fight off a shudder.

  “He’s...dead. Old. An old dead guy. Ghost story.” Skip shifts on his feet. He clears his throat. Then he gives me that wide smile again and it’s even creepier this time. “Not even that interesting. Just a story.”

  “Is that why I can’t get the house razed?” Because I know the eyesore on the hill. I’ve been petitioning to have it condemned and torn down for years.

  Skip holds up a manly, patriarchal hand that, in the spirit of our new friendship, I do not try to burn with fire. “You don’t have to worry about all that, Emerson. Really. In fact, allow me.”

  “Allow you?”

  “I’ll look into it for you. The building is an eyesore. I’ll see what I can do about it. As mayor, I’m sure I can move something along.”

  I don’t have the slightest idea how to respond to that. He’s spent years fighting me about doing something with the old mansion on the hill, overlooking the town and the river. I don’t want it razed, exactly. The cost of restoring it would be astronomical, but it’s a beautiful old house that could also be a historical monument with a little TLC. Though I haven’t been able to get it on the historical register either. I’ve tried.

  Now that I think about it, that old Victorian mansion is the one place in town where I’m always stopped. Even the people who are usually behind me when it comes to town rejuvenation efforts try to persuade me away from dealing with the house on the hill.

  Nicholas Frost. Who is he? My friends call him a traitor, but clearly he lives here in St. Cyprian anyway. A witch of some kind, I’m guessing. In that old, crumbling house. And people don’t want to boot him out of it.

  Why not?

  Skip is staring at me expectantly. I don’t actually imagine he’ll do anything about the house. But why not pretend I believe he might? “I’d be so appreciative,” I say. “Finally!”

  “I knew it,” he says, clapping his palms together. Like a seal. “You just need a firm hand, don’t you, Em?”

  I want to throw a punch at his weaselly face. But I don’t, because I’m a lady. And more importantly, a Warrior.

  He’s still talking manfully at me. “You just want someone to take the reins for you. That’s what you’ve been looking for. I will take care of the house for you.” He pats my shoulder. “Don’t you worry about a thing,” he says.

  He is enraging. And gross. But at least I recognize this Skip.

  And still everything is so desperately wrong I don’t even lecture him about the very notion of a firm hand, the paternalistic horror that underpins that phrase, or the misogyny that practically drips from him.

  Not to mention, if I did find myself in need of a firm hand, it would not be his.

  It would never be his.

  “I’m so pleased you’ve had this change of heart,” I offer instead.

  My teeth hurt when I speak. I unclench them.

  Skip reaches across the space between us and takes my hand in his. It’s cold and clammy. I want to pull my hand away, but part of me is too shocked to move. Why is he touching me? All I can do is stare at his bony hand. At his flesh touching me, which feels like things crawling all over me.

  “Everything changed yesterday, Emerson,” he tells me in a low voice.

  My instinct is to flinch, but I manage to hold myself still at the last second. I can’t let on that things might have changed for me yesterday. Even if he knows, or guesses, I need to pretend I don’t. On that I can agree with my friends.

  “How?” I ask.

  “I saw the light.” He smiles, and there is a warmth to it, but it creeps me out. “We can’t survive this alone. We need each other.”

  This isn’t Skip. I can’t shake that feeling. Whoever is speaking, whoever is touching me...it isn’t the Skip I know. And he’s speaking of survival, like he knows something bad is coming. Like destruction. Maybe that flood. We can’t survive this alone.

  I clear my throat and try to sound like myself. “That’s a lovely sentiment, Skip. Truly. But what can’t we survive?”

  He keeps staring at me a little blankly.

  “You know what I mean,” he says after a while, still with his small hand on mine. And the sensation of bad touch crawling all over me. “Just general survival. Small towns like ours are always in danger of falling apart and fading away. I didn’t fully realize that until I saw all your hard work come to fruition last night.”

  Which continues to not make sense. Skip has seen dozens and dozens of my plans come to fruition and pay off. Helping St. Cyprian is what I do. Hello.

  What he does is...golf? I think?

  And apparently dabble in the dark arts?

  But as hard as it is for me not to scream, run, or vomit, I know I need to agree with him to keep this odd peace. Because he’s said two interesting things. Nicholas Frost. And that something’s coming we’ll need to survive. Best to agree with him and see what else I might be able to find out.

  “Oh look, there’s Holly,” I say, pointing through the window of the Lunch House, where Holly Bishop is staring at us. She’s obviously here for the meeting. She’s also a little openmouthed, with her phone out like she was taking a picture of Skip holding my hand.

  I want to throw myself through the window and slap that phone from her hand, but I restrain myself.

  Skip lets go and pats his pockets. “I’m getting a call. Might have to skip this meeting after all, but I’ll see you next Friday. For dinner. I’ll pick you up at six.”

  I nod. Too hard. And a little too long, but Skip pulls out his phone and holds it to his ear. He begins to talk, yammering on and walking away.

  I stand where I am, right outside the restaurant, trying to rid myself of the gross, creepy-crawly feeling that’s settled over me. Because I have a meeting to attend and I take my meetings seriously.

  I’ll figure out how to deal with Skip and our gross, fateful dinner later.

  I tell myself a little sticker session with my planners and a liberal application of washi tape will set me to rights. But as I move for the Lunch House’s front door, I look past the shops, past Wilde House, up the length of Main Street and beyond. Up to the top of the hill, where an old, dilapidated Victorian mansion sits. A complete eyesore, lording its dilapidated state over my beautiful town the way it has my whole life.

  It’s a tragedy.

  And, possibly, the source of some answers.

  13

  The rest of the day is mostly normal. I close up the bookstore, Georgie and I head home, and Ellowyn comes over for dinner. They talk to me about magic. They show me how to do what they call everyday spells and teach me all the words. They show me simple charms and glamours. How to wave a hand to do household chores and so on.

  “You don’t really think I mop, do you?” Georgie makes a face.

  “Mopping is meditative,” I retort.

  Ellowyn shakes her head at me while she works a piece of wood with a too-sharp knife. “You’re adorable.”

  I practice the spells they teach me, messing up both more and less than I like, and they answer all my questions.

  Well. Almost. I have questions they can’t answer. Or won’t. But I’m not the kind of woman who gives up after one no. Or even a careful redirect.

  “Who is Nicholas Frost and why is he a traitor?”

  They exchange a glance. Georgie looks pensive. “You know as well as I do that she’ll only go out and try to find her own answers,” she says. To Ellowyn. “And the guys are so touchy about him when really, we don’t know he’s a traitor.”

  Ellowyn’s mouth firms. “You don’t get to be immortal by doing anything good.”

  I clear my throat. “So...he’s immortal, then? An immortal traitor who lives in a falling-down house on the top of a hill overlooking town, kind of like a big fuck you?”

  Ellowyn makes a face that basically says, Yes. That.

  Georgie sighs. “Nicholas Frost is a witch. A very, very ancient witch. A Praeceptor. Like your parents.”

  “A teacher,” I say, remembering.

  “Kind of, but with broader implications.” Georgie sits back in her chair. “In a traditional coven, the Praeceptor takes the coven’s shared knowledge and figures out how to utilize it—meaning, like, how to cast the right spells and build new magic. The Praeceptor would also be responsible for teaching the coven’s followers too. If the coven had followers.”

  The minute she says this, I know who the Joywood’s Praeceptor is.

  “Gil Redd,” I say. “That pompous windbag.”

  Ellowyn nods. “The very one.”

  “Though he’s actually pretty great with lights. In fairness.” He did all the lights for the Redbud Festival. And with minimal lecturing.

  “Nicholas Frost isn’t just a Praeceptor,” Georgie continues. “He’s the Praeceptor. When people aren’t making themselves hysterical over his immortality, he’s widely held to be responsible for the creation and implementation of not only the coven system as we know it—”

  “Responsible?” Ellowyn queries. “Or complicit?”

  Georgie ignores her. “—but a number of witchkind’s most beloved rituals. Like the pubertatum.”

  “The test I failed,” I say. “Except check it out. I’m powerful after all.”

  I try not to sound smug and fail at that too.

  Georgie’s book turns its own pages and she closes it absently with a little wave of two fingers. “He’s become his very own ghost story. No one sees him anymore.”

  “Just that ridiculous raven of his. And the house, of course.” Ellowyn looks aggrieved. “Uglier by the year and no one else’s magic can cover up that kind of glamour.”

  “Why is he immortal?” Or maybe the question is how.

  Georgie shrugs. “No one knows. They just know that he is and there are all kinds of conspiracy theories about it. Something people overlook when you’re actively helping witchkind. Not so much when you’re a mysterious hermit. Who clearly takes pleasure in that monument to himself up there.”

  “How long has he been around?”

  “Too long,” Ellowyn mutters.

  “Forever,” Georgie says at the same time.

  “So...he could have been around since the last big flood? He could have survived that German deal? He could have all the answers from personal experience?”

  “He could.” Georgie says that like it’s never occurred to her before. “I guess.”

  “He could also turn us into insects with a snap of his fingers,” Ellowyn protests. “And would. He’s probably sitting up there waiting for the flood to happen so we’ll all go away and he can do whatever immortals do when the world ends. Party?”

  “Make a new one,” I retort. “What else is there to do?”

  “Emerson Wilde,” Ellowyn says. “The only witch around who would use immortality to work.”

  Georgie is nodding. “There have always been whispers of black magic around Nicholas Frost. He might even be where Skip got the adlets.” She reaches out and pats one of my planners, because it’s closer than my hand. “I know you want answers. We do too. But this is all delicate until we have more information.” She pulls her hand back and waves open her book again. “I’ll find it.”

  But I’m not convinced. I know Georgie believes in her books above all else. Usually I’d agree with her, but she hasn’t found anything yet. She said herself no witch books exist prior to this flood from however many years ago.

  And I get what they’re saying about this guy.

  Yet if we know someone was actually there, or could have been, why tread so carefully? Doesn’t saving the town rank above being cautious?

  I already know my answer.

  “I know that look.” Georgie gives me a stern glare. “Leave Nicholas Frost alone, Emerson. I mean it.”

  I have no intention of leaving such a resource alone. That would be abandoning everything I am and all I stand for. But clearly I can’t get through to them either. I’ll have to handle this my way.

  Still, I make what I hope sounds like an assenting sort of noise.

  “I’ve got to get going,” Ellowyn says a while later, pushing away from the table. “It’s only going to get colder on the walk home.”

  “Why are you walking?” I ask, baffled. “You can fly.”

  “I like to walk,” Ellowyn says as if that was a strange question to ask. She nudges Georgie. “Thanks for dinner.”

  Georgie waves a hand and a stuffed Ziploc bag floats over to Ellowyn, who plucks it out of the air. “Brownies?”

  “You know it.”

  “You’re the best.” Ellowyn glances at me and jerks her chin, a silent signal to follow her.

  I do. Intrigued.

  “Are you sure you should walk home alone?” I ask, following her out of the kitchen toward the front hall.

  “Bricks, Em. Besides, Ruth always has an eye out.” Ruth, her owl. Her familiar. We get to the door. “Here.” Ellowyn hands her piece of wood over to me. It now looks exactly like a wolf, or a dog. Cassie, in fact. A cute little wood knickknack of Cassie.

  “Wynnie.” I’m grinning ear to ear. “It’s beautiful.”

  “You can’t have Cassie here in case someone sees her, but if you’re in trouble and you can’t reach us because you’re blocked, you might be able to reach her with this.”

  I gaze at her. Innocently. “How could I be in trouble when you’re constantly spying on me?”

  “I’m sure you’ll find a way.” She puts her hands on my shoulders, a rare physical gesture. “But I wish you could trust us.”

  “I trust you.”

  “With your life maybe, but not with anything else.”

  I frown, but Ellowyn steps outside and closes the door in my face before I can come up with a retort. I look down at the pretty little figurine she made me, and though it’s got magic in it, clearly, it wasn’t made with magic. There’s something special about that, I think.

  I say good night to Georgie, though she barely lifts her head from her book. I know she’s putting in overtime trying to figure this out. Trying to find answers in the past to help us face the future.

  But why are we putting it all on Georgie and her library collection? Someone who might have been alive for the last big flood might know what this all means. What’s he going to do if I go ask him for some answers? Send some adlets after me?

  Been there, done that.

  Still, Ellowyn’s words frustrate me as I lie in bed. I trust my friends with my life and in all things. It’s just that sometimes they’re a little too willing to go along with the status quo when a spark is what’s needed.

  I’ve always been more than ready to light that spark. Why should this be different?

  I toss and turn, because I can’t help who I am. I’m a doer. Not a wait-and-see-er. Not the sort of person to let everyone else handle it just because they might know more, remember more. I need to act. I always have.

  But I also hope I’m not the too-stupid-to-live heroine in too many of the books I’ve read, who is flatly told to stay away from the haunted house and traipses right into her peril.

  I decide then and there if I wake up before my alarm, before sunrise, it’ll be a sign. An omen. To go talk to Nicholas Frost and see if an immortal witch might answer more questions than regular witches do.

  If I sleep until my alarm, I’ll do as directed by my friends, have a normal morning, and wait for Georgie to find some answers in history.

  I’m up at four.

  It’s a sign. An omen. Who am I to argue?

  I get up and get ready quietly. I write Georgie a note that I’ve gone to the store early, which I certainly plan to do—loaded down with protection crystals, spells and a promise to stay on the bricks. Surely the house on the hill is considered on the bricks.

  I slip out of the house while the world is still dark. The moon shines down on Main, making it look like a silvery river. Parallel to the river it follows, a fourth river of moon. In the distance, the three rivers join together, a black, churning mass.

  I frown a little. Surely that isn’t right. The black and the churning. I feel something inside of me pull tight, as if I’m...drawn to the mess and tangle and weight out there. I even begin to walk to the ferry, instead of up the hill—

  But something stops me. Reminds me. Centers me.

  The hot crystals, the dog figurine in my pocket, Zander’s necklace, my grandmother’s words:

 

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