The Rules of Magic (Practical Magic #2)(29)

“Is there more to the story?” Vincent asked.

“There’s more to every story,” his aunt told him.

On the drive, Charlie was pleasant enough, though he barely spoke. He was even older than Aunt Isabelle and had lived in town all his life.

“Do you know the Willards?” Vincent asked him.

“The Willards?”

“Yeah. The Reverend and his son.”

“Did your aunt say I knew them?”

“She didn’t say anything.”

“Well, then, I don’t know anything.”

Clearly, the handyman’s loyalty was to Isabelle. He didn’t utter another word, other than Good night when they got to the hotel. Vincent was glad to have a room to himself. Something didn’t feel right. He felt a chill. He wondered if what people said was true, that no one could hate you more than members of your own family.

He felt an ache, so he propped his foot up on his right knee. The nail was gone. But when he took off his boots and socks, he noticed there was a hole in his left foot. It was a good thing he had gone to his aunt for help. The nail had already drawn blood.



It began to snow toward the end of December, big flakes that stuck to the pavement. Soon the drifts were knee high, and the streets were difficult to navigate. It was the week before Christmas, and the stores were busy with shoppers. Franny was looking for a microscope at a lab warehouse. It would be an ideal gift for Haylin. She had dragged her brother and sister along.

“I thought you didn’t believe in presents,” Vincent said.

“This is different,” Franny said. “It’s practical.”

Vincent and Jet exchanged a look. Their sister without a heart had spent two hours looking for the perfect microscope. On the way to the warehouse they’d stopped at a coffee shop, and when Franny ordered toast, the pats of butter melted as soon as she reached for them.

When at last she was done shopping, and the gift had been chosen and boxed, all three wheeled into the street, where the snow was still swirling down, faster now, like a snow globe, with drifts so high many parked cars were buried. It was already twilight and the world had turned an inky blue. They walked arm in arm, mesmerized by the beauty of the blue-white flakes all around them. Anything seemed possible, even to Vincent, who turned out the streetlights as they walked on.

“Let’s always remember how beautiful tonight is,” Jet said.

“Of course we will,” Franny agreed.

But Vincent would be the one to remember this evening when his sisters had long forgotten how they’d tried and failed to get a cab, then took the subway, singing “This Land Is Your Land,” and how the microscope was so heavy they’d had to take turns carrying it. When they got home, Vincent went to his room and closed the door. He sat on his messy, unmade bed. His clairvoyance was becoming more intense. He experienced the future not as a panoramic vista but as bits and pieces, like a living crazy quilt. It was becoming more difficult for him to deny what he saw. A man standing on a hillside in California in a field of yellow grass. A street in Paris. A girl with gray eyes. A cemetery filled with angels. A door he’d have to open in order to walk through.



One spring day, they knew something out of the ordinary had transpired because their mother had ordered a huge cake, which was set out on the dining room table. She had lit a hundred candles, which shivered with yellow light even though it was no one’s birthday. Fifty candles would have been more than enough. Even more revealing that something was up: their father was putting in an appearance at the dinner table. And what’s more he had actually cooked, fixing Ritz crackers with Brie and red peppers warmed up in a Pyrex dish.

Before a family meeting could commence, Vincent was called out of his room. He came into the dining room brooding, annoyed to be called away from the world of his bedroom, which reeked of smoke and magic. He had found a hanging wicker chair, with a lattice seat, which he had attached to the ceiling with bolts. He often perched there, bat-like, practicing guitar riffs for hours, in no mood to be disturbed.

Once they had all gathered, their parents let loose and roared with pride.

“Congratulations!” James Burke-Owens waved an envelope. “This just arrived from a little college on the banks of the river Charles.” Anyone crossing paths with the doctor would know he went to Harvard, and then Yale, within five minutes of meeting him. He now clasped Franny to him in a bear hug. “You’re a good girl, Frances Owens.”

Franny, always embarrassed by displays of emotion, slipped out of her father’s embrace. She took the envelope from him, barely able to contain her excitement. Inside was her acceptance to Radcliffe, Harvard’s all-female equivalent, created when higher education for women was scandalous.

“You’ve joined the club,” her father boasted.

“We all knew you were the smart one,” Vincent said. “Now don’t screw it up.”

“Very funny,” Franny responded. She knew Vincent to be the most intelligent among them all, albeit the laziest.

The admission to Radcliffe was not in the least bit funny to Jet. College catalogs had been arriving in the mail for some time, and Jet had worried that when Franny went off to Cambridge or New Haven she would be forced to deal with her parents on her own. How would she ever be able to see Levi without Franny to cover for her? She simply could not live without him. That very afternoon they had sat on a park bench kissing until they were dizzy. When it came time to part, they were upset, and they continued to embrace in the Port Authority Bus Terminal while Levi missed one bus after another.