By a Charm and a Curse(61)
“I’d muck Spots McGee’s stall for a month,” Duncan says.
“I’d clean the fat traps.”
“I’d kiss a Moretti.”
“Gross,” Pia says. “You win.”
“You two are insane!” Emma says. The wind from the open windows makes her hair flutter around her face like a dark halo, and laughter lights up her eyes. She’s stunning, and I have to force my eyes back to the road.
As we get closer, Duncan leans in between the front seats to direct me. A quick turn off the main road nearly hidden by overgrown brush, and there the house sits at the end of a one-lane road, a white beacon shining between columns of massive oaks dripping with Spanish moss. All the windows glow golden on the first floor and are black fathomless holes on the second. The house is intimidating, but as soon as the car stops, the twins are pushing my seat forward to clamber out of the car.
Emma and I follow a few paces behind. Without even knocking, Duncan opens the door and yells into the house. “Grandmama, we’re here!” He disappears into the first room off the entryway, Pia right behind him. The entryway alone is amazing. It’s open to the second floor and a polished staircase swoops off to the side right in front of us. A chandelier with more than a few cobwebs draped among the glistening crystals gives the room a dusky glow. Oil paintings of soft, round-cheeked women who bear more than a passing resemblance to Pia sit in gilt frames that catch the light. The kitchen must be nearby, because the scents of cloves and apples are heavy. There’s a mirror off to the side, and I see Emma and myself standing around awkwardly, like children waiting to be reprimanded by a teacher. I tug Emma into the room the twins entered and find them talking the ear off an older lady who must be their grandmother.
I can’t quite tell her age. She wears a slip, yoga pants, and an old maroon smoking jacket. A collection of beaded necklaces in jet and jade and a deep yellow stone hang from her thin neck. I’m not sure if her crazy clothing choices make her seem slightly mad or very charming. Her hair is white and wispy, like strands of colorless cotton candy, and it floats long and loose down her back. Her light brown skin seems papery but is unlined except for a few creases at the corners of her eyes and mouth. Her eyes are the palest shade of gray I’ve ever seen.
“How are things, darlings? Was the carnival able to find grounds?” she asks, ignoring us again in favor of her grandchildren.
“No,” Pia says, delivering the bad news in a cheerful voice. I’m hoping that the happiness is just because she’s there with her grandmother and not because of the poor luck we’re having. “We had to park in some camping grounds down the road. Leslie is pissed.”
The old woman pushes Pia’s curls out of her eyes in a sweetly doting kind of way.
“Well you tell Leslie that she can set up on my land here. There will be fewer permits to worry about. And I think I feel like performing. Let her know she can circulate that old poster of me, the one where I look like Eartha Kitt.” At that, she turns to where Emma and I stand in the doorway.
“So nice to meet you in person, darling.” Her voice is clearly the voice I heard coming from Duncan’s and Pia’s mouths back in the tent, and it’s more than a little unnerving. She gestures to the space between Emma and me. “You don’t have to be nervous, dearies. Come and have a seat now, won’t you?”
I glance down to see what she’s gesturing toward and notice that Emma and I are gripping each other’s hands. I didn’t even realize that we’d done that, and, more than that, I couldn’t tell you who is holding on to whom. We sit on the old fainting couch by a fireplace filled with unlit candles.
“My name is Katarina, darlings,” she says grandly. Her eyes are clear and her delicate brows are set in an inquisitive arch. She leans forward, her necklaces clacking as they shift, and takes our clasped hands in hers. I can’t help but notice how warm, how fiercely alive her hands are.
Her eyes flit from Emma to me and back again. “Tell me everything.”
And so Emma relives her story, starting with the way Sidney duped her and going over all the accidents and the work we’ve been doing to try to find a way to break the curse.
Katarina gives us a sly smile that just barely picks up the corners of her mouth. The few spidery lines at the corners of her eyes multiply with genuine happiness. “And you,” she says to me, “you’ve been helping her?”
I don’t know why I find this woman so unnerving, but I do. I push up my glasses with my free hand and nod.
“And you’re going to continue to help her, yes?”
I frown. “Of course.”
“And I’m going to hazard a guess and say the closer you’ve become the more frequent the accidents, am I right?”
Everything—my breath, my heart, the words on the edge of my lips—stutters as I think on what she just asked. Is it true? The night I cleaned up the wagon for Emma, I cut my hand. And when Emma told me she wanted to kiss me, Whiskey fell off the merry-go-round horse. Gin was hit with a knife the night Emma and I went on our date. Katarina’s gaze locks onto mine the moment the truth of her question comes into focus in my mind.
“Yes,” I say.
She makes a contented noise and leans back in her seat, surrounded by plump velvet cushions. “My grandchildren”—she points to each in turn—“don’t fully understand their duties. Or they have grossly misunderstood them.”