“No. I’m okay here,” Sarah said, rocking back and forth.
“Hannah O’Neil called again. She’s invited us to her Lughnasadh potluck.” Since our return we’d received a stream of phone calls from members of the Madison coven. Sarah had told the high priestess, Vivian Harrison, that she was perfectly fine and was being well taken care of by family. After that, she refused to talk to anyone.
Sarah ignored my mention of Hannah’s invitation and continued to study the tree. “The ghosts are bound to come back eventually, don’t you think?”
The house had been remarkably free of spectral visitors since our return. Matthew blamed Corra, but Sarah and I knew better. With Em so recently gone, the rest of the ghosts were staying away so that we didn’t pester them with questions about how she was faring.
“Sure,” I said, “but it’s probably going to be a while.”
“The house is so quiet without them. I never saw them like you did, but you could tell they were around.” Sarah rocked with more energy, as if this would somehow bring the ghosts closer.
“Have you decided what to do about the Blasted Tree?” It had been waiting for Matthew and me when we returned from 1591, the gnarled black trunk taking up most of the chimney and its roots and branches extending into the room. Though it seemed devoid of life, the tree did occasionally produce strange fruit: car keys, as well as the image of the chemical wedding that had been torn from Ashmole 782. More recently it had offered up a recipe for rhubarb compote circa 1875 and a pair of false eyelashes circa 1973. Fernando and I thought the tree should be removed, the chimney repaired, and the paneling patched and painted. Sarah and Matthew were less convinced.
“I don’t know,” Sarah said with a sigh. “I’m getting used to it. We can always decorate it for the holidays.”
“The snow is going to blow straight through those cracks come winter,” I said, picking up my purse.
“What did I teach you about magical objects?” Sarah asked, and I heard a trace of her normal sharpness.
“Don’t touch them until you understand them,” I intoned in the voice of a six-year-old.
“Cutting down a magically produced tree certainly qualifies as ‘touching,’ don’t you agree?” Sarah motioned Tabitha away from the hearth, where she was sitting staring at the bark. “We need milk. And eggs. And Fernando wants some kind of fancy rice. He promised to make paella.”
“Milk. Eggs. Rice. Got it.” I gave Sarah one last worried look. “Tell Matthew I won’t be long.”
The floorboards in the front hall creaked out a brief complaint as I crossed to the door. I paused, my foot glued in place. The Bishop house was not an ordinary home and had a history of making its feelings known on a variety of issues, from who had a right to occupy it to whether or not it approved of the new paint color on the shutters.
But there was no further response from the house. Like the ghosts, it was waiting.
Outside, Sarah’s new car was parked by the front door. Her old Honda Civic had met with a mishap during its return from Montreal, where Matthew and I had left it. A de Clermont functionary had been tasked to drive it back to Madison, but the engine had fallen out somewhere between Brockville and Watertown. To console Sarah, Matthew had presented her with a metallic purple Mini Cooper, complete with white racing stripes edged with black and silver and a personalized license plate that said NEW
BROOM. Matthew hoped this witchy message would obviate Sarah’s need to put bumper stickers all over the vehicle, but I feared it was only a matter of time before this car looked like the old one.
In case anyone thought Sarah’s new car and her lack of slogans meant her paganism was wavering, Matthew purchased a witch antenna ball. She had red hair and was wearing a pointy hat and sunglasses.
No matter where Sarah parked, someone stole it. He kept a box of replacements in the mudroom cupboard.