The Rules of Magic (Practical Magic #2)(6)
“Do you feel something here?” Vincent asked his sisters.
“Mosquitoes?” Franny guessed. She surveyed the muck-laden puddles in the huge vegetable garden. “Probably a good chance of dysentery.”
Vincent made a face and said, “No pain, no gain,” then went to investigate. The garden was so lush and green it made one dizzy. There was a henhouse, where some brown and white clucking chickens pecked at seed tossed on the ground; a potting shed surrounded by plumy weeds that were taller than Vincent; and a padlocked greenhouse, which looked extremely promising as a potential hideaway.
“Over here,” Vincent called after clearing away some of the thorny shrubbery. He had managed to discover a rusted gate that led to a bluestone pathway. His sisters followed to the porch, charging up the steps. Franny was about to knock on the door when it opened of its own accord. All three took a step back.
“It’s just an old door,” Franny said in a measured voice. “That’s all. It’s a hot day and the wood frame expanded.”
“You think so?” Vincent drew himself up to his full height and peered through the shadows. He could feel the current in the air. “There’s a lot more here. Hundreds of years of it.”
Isabelle Owens was in the kitchen, her back to them as she puttered about. She was a formidable woman; her frame might be small, but her attitude was commanding. Her white hair was pinned up haphazardly, and yet despite her age, her complexion was perfect. She had worn black every day of her life and she did so today. Franny stared until their aunt suddenly turned in her direction, then Franny impulsively ducked down behind a potted plant, her heart pounding against her chest. Vincent and Jet followed suit, sinking down beside their sister, holding their hands over their mouths so as not to explode with laughter. They’d never seen Franny so flustered.
“Hush,” she hissed at them.
“I thought you’d all show up, so what’s stopping you from coming inside? Are you rabbits or brave souls?” their aunt called. “A rabbit darts away, thinking it will be safe, and then is picked up by a hawk. A brave soul comes to have dinner with me.”
They did as they were told, even though they had the sense that once they did they would be entering into a different life.
Franny went first, which was only right, as she was the firstborn and the protector. Plus she was curious. The kitchen was enormous, with an ancient pine table long enough to seat a dozen and a huge black stove, the sort that hadn’t been sold for decades. Isabelle had made a vegetable stew and a plum pudding, along with freshly baked rosemary bread. Willowware platters and bowls had been set on the table along with old pewter silverware in need of a shine. The house had no clocks, and there seemed the promise that time would go at a different pace entirely once they stepped over the threshold.
“Thank you for inviting us,” Franny said politely.
One had to say something when one didn’t really know the person with whom one was about to spend an entire summer vacation, especially when she appeared to possess some sort of power it was clearly best to respect.
Isabelle gazed at her. “If you really want to thank me, do something about what’s in the dining room.”
The siblings exchanged a look. Surely, this was one of those tests their mother had warned about.
“All right.” Franny rose to the challenge without even asking what it was. “I will.”
Her brother and sister trailed after her, curious. The house was enormous, with three floors. All the rooms had heavy draperies to keep out the sun, and, despite the dust motes in the air, all contained gleaming woodwork. Fifteen varieties of wood had been used to craft the mantels and the paneling on the walls, including golden oak, silver ash, cherrywood, and some varieties of trees that were now extinct. There were two staircases, one a chilly back stairs that twisted around like a puzzle, the other an elegant stairway, fashioned of mahogany. They stopped to gaze up the carved staircase to where there was a window seat on the landing. Above it was a portrait of a beautiful dark-haired woman wearing blue.
“That’s your ancestor Maria Owens,” their aunt told them as she led them to the dining room.
“She’s staring at us,” Jet whispered to her brother.
Vincent snorted. “Bullshit. Pull yourself together, Jet.”
The dining room was dim, the damask curtains drawn. As it turned out, there was no spirit to dispel, only a small brown bird that had managed to slip in through a half-opened window. Every year on Midsummer’s Eve a sparrow found its way in and had to be chased out with a broom, for any bad luck would follow it when it flew away. Isabelle was about to hand over a broom that would help with the job, but there was no need to do so. The bird came to Franny of its own accord, as the birds in Central Park always did, flitting over to perch on her shoulder, feathers fluffed out.
“That’s a first,” Isabelle said, doing her best not to seem impressed. “No bird has ever done that before.”
Franny took the sparrow into her cupped hands. “Hello,” she said softly. The bird peered at her with its bright eyes, consoled by the sound of her voice. Franny went to the window and let it into the open air. Jet and Vincent came to watch as it disappeared into the branches of a very old tree, one of the few elms in the commonwealth that had survived the blight. Franny turned to their aunt. Something passed between them, an unspoken wave of approval.