The Rules of Magic (Practical Magic #2)(86)

And she was. She did not discuss her grief with anyone, but she could share it with the Reverend. But then one Sunday, Jet failed to appear. The Reverend scanned the field, waiting for her to arrive, but she didn’t. It felt strange without her there, not right somehow, so he drove over to Magnolia Street and parked outside the house. He sat there in his idling car, until Franny came outside. The Reverend rolled down his window. He’d never spoken to Franny, he’d only see her walking through town in her black coat, her red hair piled on top of her head. People were afraid of her. They said she was not one to cross. Up close, she was taller than he had expected, and prettier.

“She has pneumonia,” Franny said. “I wouldn’t let her go to the cemetery.”

It was a damp, drizzly day and the Reverend more than understood. He nodded. “Tell her I’ll see her next week.”

“Tell her yourself,” Franny said.

They looked at each other, then the Reverend got out of his car and followed Franny into the house. He noticed that the wisteria was blooming, always the first in town to do so. This was the house that had been built with money his ancestor had given to a woman he had loved, then had called a witch. He wondered how often that had happened both then and now. He carried the burden of his family with him and was weighed down by the wrong they’d done in the world.

The Reverend had arthritis so Franny slowed her usually quick gait. Jet was in the parlor, a blanket around her, drinking tea, reading Sense and Sensibility, which she could happily reread time and again. When she saw the Reverend she was so startled she dropped her book, then quickly bent to retrieve it. She felt fluttery having him in the house, as if something momentous was happening even though everything was so very quiet.

“Sorry to hear you’re not well,” the Reverend said.

“I’ll be better by next week,” Jet said.

“I expect you will be,” the Reverend said. “The weather will be better then, too. So they say.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that, too. No rain.”

“Good,” the Reverend said. He looked around. “The woodwork is nice.”

“Yes. It is. It doesn’t need much care. But I use a little olive oil on the dustcloth every once in a while.”

“Olive oil,” he murmured. “I never would have thought of that.”

“It’s natural. No chemicals,” Jet said.

“I’ll try that sometime,” the Reverend said, even though he hadn’t dusted the woodwork in his house for years.

The next week was sunny and dry, and on Sunday Jet went back to the cemetery. She wore boots and a sweater and woolen slacks. She still had a cough, but she’d had a cup of licorice tea before she left the house that would quiet it. She didn’t want Levi’s father to worry. When he did there was a line across his forehead, the same line that Levi had across his forehead when he was concerned. The Reverend looked relieved when he saw Jet walking across the grass and he waved. Jet thought perhaps she was fine, considering everything that had happened, and that by coming here each week, she had made her own fate. She was a woman a person could depend on, in fair weather and foul.

The sky was very blue and the Reverend said this was because in Massachusetts if you waited a few minutes the weather was sure to change, and she agreed and said that in her experience that had always been true.



On the harshest days of the year Franny could be seen stalking through town on her way to Leech Lake without use of a hat or gloves. She had discovered that the woods circling the lake fell into the pattern of migration of scarlet tanagers. On the grayest days, the nearby bushes were bright red, as if each branch had a heart, and each heart could fly away in an instant. All Franny had to do was hold out her hands, and they came to her. She laughed and fed them seed. She knew they would be far away in no time, to warmer climates near the Mexican border. She herself no longer had the urge to fly away. She was happy to be where she was.

That first winter Franny walked to the library on the day the board convened. There was muffled shock when she arrived. The president of the board shook Franny’s hand and offered her a cup of tea, which she declined. The members of the board didn’t know whether to be flattered or terrified when Franny then stood to announce her intention to serve on the board, and all raised their hands to vote yea to include her.

When Franny’s first request was permission to have the rare book room dedicated to Maria Owens, assuring them that in return she would make a donation to the library, the members of the board were relieved. As that room had been Maria’s jail cell, it was only right that she be remembered here. Pages from Maria’s journal were framed and hung on the wall. Teenage girls, especially those who considered themselves outcasts and were interested in the town’s history of witchcraft, often came to study the pages. They didn’t understand why a brave, independent woman had been so brutally treated. Many of them began to wonder why they themselves often feigned opinions rather than speak their minds, no matter how clever they were, for fear they’d be thought of as difficult. Some of these girls came to stand at the fence so they could gaze into the garden. At dusk, everything looked blue, even the leaves on the lilacs.

When spring came around, and the lilacs bloomed, Franny began to leave blank journals on the bureau in Maria’s room in the library, and every week they were taken home by girls who questioned their worth in the modern world. Walking past Leech Lake, Franny often spied one or two perched on a rock, writing furiously in their journals, clearly convinced that words could save them.