The Rules of Magic (Practical Magic #2)(78)

“We’ll take that chance,” Franny said.

“Then my suggestion is that Vincent must run. He’s already made it clear he won’t serve. He needs a passport and a plane ticket.”

“Pardon me?” Franny said. “He’s in a hospital. He doesn’t have a passport.”

“Then find him one, and get him the hell out of that place,” Mr. Grant told them.

“And then what?” Jet wanted to know.

Mr. Grant smiled and shook his head. “Then, my dear, prepare to never see him again.”

When they left the sun was on the water and everything seemed to gleam as they walked across the wide lawn to the car. They were all saddened by this day, and by knowing what they must do. When they reached the car, they lingered, as if trying to avoid the inevitable return to real life.

“You cannot lose someone you love, even if he is no longer beside you,” William said. “So we’ll do as my father suggests. It’s the only logical choice.”

“Are you willing to?” Franny asked. “No matter the cost?”

Franny had her arm around William’s waist. Jet walked close beside them. They were in this together, this perilous, wonderful business of loving Vincent.

“We’ve already decided we would ruin our lives together,” William said. “So here we go.”



Franny phoned Haylin that same night. When he heard what had happened he left work before his shift was over, something he never did. He was committed to his patients, but this was different. It was urgent, it was Franny, the only one who could give him a feeling of recklessness. He got to Greenwich Avenue in no time, and she was waiting for him. She was so worried and so pale that he lifted her into his arms. They went upstairs, pulled off their clothes, then got under the quilt together. Haylin was too tall for the bed and he always banged his head against the wall. He had such long limbs it seemed he might fall onto the floor at any moment.

Whenever Hay was there, the crow made himself comfortable on the bureau. Otherwise he spent his time in the kitchen, near the radiator. Lewis preferred to stay in the house. Long flights were past him, still he seemed full of cheer when Haylin visited, flapping around joyously before he settled down. Hay always brought Ritz crackers, which were the crow’s favorites.

“I need your help again,” Franny admitted.

“I suppose once you start breaking the law, it gets easier and easier to do,” Hay said. “I could lose my medical license over the asthma incident. Now what?”

“Now we have to get Vincent out of Pilgrim State.”

Hay had always thought Franny smelled like lily of the valley, which grew in wild clutches in the woodlands in Central Park each spring. He missed the past, but now that they were together again, he missed it less. Franny stroked his torso and his broad back, always amazed to find that he was now a man rather than the boy she’d first fallen in love with. But this wasn’t love. They’d agreed to that. It was simply everything else.

“It’s a secure facility,” Haylin said. “Should we think about this?”

“There’s nothing to think about,” Franny said. “We have to get him out.”

“It’s we, is it? But isn’t this when I go to jail?” he asked with a grin.

“It’s when you rescue someone.” Franny entwined her legs with his. She understood why ancient monsters were often made of two creatures, with two hearts and minds. There was strength in such a combination of opposites.

“Not you, I gather,” he murmured. “Because I wouldn’t mind rescuing you.” He held her beautiful red hair in one hand and told himself this wasn’t love. He had to keep reminding himself of that. All the same, he knew he would step blindly forward to do whatever she asked. That had always been the case.

“Before you, I was the Maid of Thorns. I had no heart at all. You already rescued me,” Franny said right before she asked him to risk everything, unaware that she had been asking him to do so ever since they’d first met, and that he had been willing to do whatever she wished him to, even during the time they’d been apart.



In the hospital, Vincent’s thoughts were cloudy, fragile things. They’d shaved off his hair and had him wear a uniform that barely fit his tall frame. He was not allowed a belt or socks, lest he try to commit suicide with them by hanging. He had gone berserk in the dormitory and was then shot up with medication and plunged into a cold bath. Then they tied him up so they could carry him down the hall to this small room. There were mice, he could hear them. He could hear footsteps in the hall. Here were the things to stay away from: metal, ropes, water, fear. He felt himself weakening by the second.

His face was bruised from the altercation in the dormitory, and he had lost a good deal of weight. He was a wraith, a shadowy creature. He was thankful William couldn’t see him, didn’t know what he had become. They continued to feed him medication that caused him to be plodding; it was Thorazine, a wretched pill that made him descend into a woozy state of mind. The Vincent he had been previously had been banished to some distant part of the past, but not completely. He still knew how to play the game, and soon realized he could pretend to swallow the pills, even open his mouth to show they were gone, while keeping them tucked up along his gum. He would then spit them out when the nurse left him alone, then he’d hide them under the radiator. The first clear thought he had was a memory of an interview he had read with Jim Morrison, a singer and poet he admired for his rebellion.