The Price Guide to the Occult(15)
It had been Madge who took care of Nor, Madge who was more mother to her than anyone else in those days, Madge who usually put Nor to bed — making sure she’d brushed her teeth at that sink, that her pajamas were clean. Occasionally it was Vega and his boyfriend Lake, who had a fondness for bedtime stories. Summersong made Nor sleep sachets filled with crushed lavender and rosebuds. Wintersweet liked to serenade her to sleep, plucking chords on a mandolin and singing Spanish love songs in a soft, wavering soprano. Everyone but Fern had delighted in playing mother to Fern’s child. Except when they hadn’t. Listening to the raucous laughter outside her little closet, she sometimes waited for someone to remember she was still there. On those days, Nor was left to put herself to bed.
Though Nor had always gone to sleep alone, she sometimes woke up next to Fern. It was strange for Nor to see her mother asleep — docile and quiet, her blond hair lying limp across the pillow, her dreams fluttering behind purple eyelids.
One night, Nor had opened her eyes to find her mother staring at her. Fern verbally dissected Nor’s face, pointing out the parts that were hers, the parts that were Nor’s father’s.
“This,” she said, pointing to the dimple in Nor’s left cheek or the arch of Nor’s eyebrow, “is mine. And this,” she said, running her finger down the slope of Nor’s nose, “is your father’s.”
Any ugly parts left over came from Judd.
Afterward, Nor had gazed at herself in the mirror, wondering if she’d recognize the parts of her in her father’s face if she ever saw him. That Saturday, she wandered through the farmers’ market, trying to recognize her nose in the faces of the men in the crowd.
Another night, Fern had shaken Nor awake and taken her to the fire escape. They’d lain down on the roof, and Fern had pointed out the constellations, both the real ones she could remember and the ones she made up entirely.
“Don’t you think I should have everything I want?” Fern whispered. “That even the stars should burn a little brighter, Nor? Just for me. Just because I want them to?”
And with a flick of her wrist, the stars had intensified. The night sky became brighter and brighter until it hurt to look up at all. When the roof caught fire, Nor fled from the blaze, tripping over her blanket as her mother laughed — an eerie, high-pitched laugh that echoed over the sleeping street — and held her palms to the flames until they cracked and blistered.
It was there, watching Fern boil her own skin, that Nor had first learned to fear her mother.
The years went by, and eventually a few more of Fern’s devoted followers moved away. First Summersong and then, much to Vega’s dismay, Lake left the island as well. Still, Madge’s store, now called the Witching Hour, continued to grow. Their apothecary section not only carried common herbs like lavender, sage, and thyme, but soon more obscure plants that Madge grew herself. Wormwood and mugwort were good for hexes; anise seed and feverfew for protection spells; mandrake root to bless the home; and calendula to bless the heart. None of their spells ever worked, but people bought them anyway.
The Witching Hour’s popularity soared with the start of their guided walking tours, the first a lantern-lit trip to the cemetery on Halloween. They held festivals celebrating the pagan holidays, and every Sunday morning, the back room that was their home served as a passable space for private palm readings.
Fern’s involvement in the store was sporadic at best. When she was bored, which was often, she got a kick out of tricking customers into purchasing expensive teas she claimed had healing properties. She’d take their hands and stroke their health lines with her ragged nails.
“It’s specially blended,” she’d purr. “Tailored to what I discern an individual needs.” Then she’d go into the back, pour some of Madge’s discarded chamomile tea into a Styrofoam cup, and present it with a flourish to the unsuspecting customer. Sometimes it wouldn’t even be tea at all, but coffee or chicken broth or, once, some Diet Coke. The customer would take a tentative sip and then regard Fern with disbelieving eyes, declaring themselves cured of whatever ailed them: tendinitis, athlete’s foot, heartbreak, loneliness. Of course, they’d believed it because Fern wanted them to. And Fern could get anything she wanted.
Anything but Nor’s father. For reasons Fern couldn’t comprehend, Quinn Sweeney was impervious to her powers.
A descendant of the island’s original port master, Quinn Sweeney was handsome and well-liked for his gentle temperament. He had an aptitude for classical piano, for which he’d received a full scholarship from a reputable music school far away from Anathema Island. While in high school, Quinn had spent Saturdays working alongside his mother at the Sweet and Savory Bakery and Sundays playing the pipe organ for several churches throughout the archipelago. Twice a month, he volunteered to teach music lessons to disadvantaged children.
Nor always wondered what he must have thought when Fern Blackburn suddenly began starring in his dreams at night. Fern Blackburn, the girl who slept in the back of the class. Fern Blackburn, the girl with low-slung jeans and exposed hip bones, whose loose-fitting tank tops barely covered the sides of her breasts. It was only a matter of time before he’d found himself approaching her front door. Had he any idea why he winced at each crunch of gravel beneath his furtive footsteps, or why the back of his neck was slick with sweat? And when she’d greeted him by placing her mouth on his, was he wondering what he was doing there at all?