The Rules of Magic (Practical Magic #2)(60)

It was an odd hour, dusk, a dim, murky time no one wanted to claim on the stage. So there he was. A nobody. Vincent and a borrowed guitar. No one knew him; no one cared. He seemed calm if you didn’t look too closely at his beautiful, worried face. When he began people had their backs to him, but the microphone was turned up suddenly, by William’s hand no doubt, and Vincent’s soaring voice drifted over the crowd, as though it were an enchantment. A quiet fell as darkness sifted down from the trees.

When I was yours, who was I then?

I heard your voice, but that was when

I had a heart, I had a harp, I had your love, the knife was sharp.

I walked at night, I longed to fight.

Isn’t that what betrayed is? Isn’t that when fear exists?

When you hide who you are and you take it too far, when you’re a man.

I called on angels when I faced a wall,

but just like Joshua’s, it began to fall.

I cried blood-red tears, despite my fears.

Isn’t that what betrayal is? Isn’t that when fear exists?

I walked at night, I had the sight and still I lost despite the call.

I walk at night, without a fight.

I’ve tried before, I’ve locked the door, I’ve done it wrong, I’ve done it right.

Afterward, there was a moment of silence, then a huge wave of applause. William took Vincent’s arm as they ducked behind the stage.

“Man, you cast a spell,” one of the promoters said to him, but Vincent paid no attention. He was looking beyond those crowding around him. A little girl with gray eyes was standing in the yellow grass. Hadn’t he seen her before?

He left the business of saying good-bye to William, and went over to the child. “I know you,” he said.

“I know you back,” she piped up.

She was Regina Owens, now six years old. Her mother, April, was behind her, her pale hair so long she could sit on it if she pleased, her skin tanned from her time in the desert. She looked like a creature that couldn’t possibly be part of the mortal world.

“My dear cousin,” she said, embracing Vincent. William, never shy, came to introduce himself. April looked at him, then at Vincent. She smiled slyly. “I see who you are now that you’re a man. Let me guess. This was the date for which you couldn’t be late. You certainly had me fooled.”

“I thought no one could do that,” Vincent remarked.

“You always blocked me,” April said with a measure of sadness.

“You’re related,” William said, wanting to break the tension between these two. “I can tell by the eyes.”

“Distantly,” Vincent said as he accepted some daisies Regina had picked. “Several times removed. Probably by hacksaw.” He grinned and April grinned back at him.

“No, by carving knife,” she said prettily. “That’s the way an Owens removes you from his life.”

April and Regina were currently living in Santa Cruz in a small wood-shingled cottage that was provided when April found employment as the gardener and housekeeper on the estate of the owners, wealthy San Franciscans who wanted to be closer to nature, but hardly ever got out of the city. She planned to return to the desert to attend to her research with spiders, but for now Regina needed school and the companionship of other children. “Stay with us tonight,” April insisted. “We so rarely have interesting guests. You’re here, we’re here. Clearly it was meant to be.”

Regina had taken hold of Vincent’s hand. Because of the weight and heat of her small hand in his, he didn’t say no. April had hitchhiked to Monterey with her daughter, so they drove back in the borrowed Mustang, top down. While they sped along the curving highway William slipped a recording he’d made into the tape player.

“You made a tape?” Vincent asked William.

“I wanted to save the moment. And maybe send it to a radio station.”

“No,” Vincent said. He knew where fame would lead him, to the darkest side of himself. It was something he didn’t need.

April leaned forward, her arms on the edges of their seats. She held her hair back from her face with one hand, intent on the song.

Saul went down to the oldest road to meet the Witch of Endor.

She spoke, but he couldn’t hear. She saw his fate, but he had no fear.

No predictions could make him stay. He was told the truth, but still he strayed.

Isn’t that what love makes you do? Go on trying even when you’re through.

Go on even when you’re made of ash, when there’s nothing left inside you but the past?

When I was yours, who was I then?

I heard your voice, but that was when

I had a heart, I had a harp, I had your love, the knife was sharp.

I walked at night, I cared with all my might.

Isn’t that what betrayal is? Isn’t that when fear exists?

Isn’t that what happens when you hide who you are, even love can’t take you that far, when you were a man.

“Who was the Witch of Endor?” Regina asked her mother.

“A wise old woman who could foretell the future.”

“Could she really see a person’s fate?”

“Fate is what you make of it, my aunt always says. You can make the best of it or you can let it make the best of you. My cousin knows that. He loved to get the best of other people.”