“What does Sarah say?” Vivian asked.
“Not much. She’s mourning Emily all over again. Sarah sits by the fireplace, watches the tree growing out of the hearth, and waits for the ghosts to come back.”
“And your husband?” Caleb’s eyebrows lifted.
“Matthew’s replacing fence posts.” I pushed a hand through my hair, lifting the damp strands from my neck. If it got any warmer, you’d be able to fry an egg on Sarah’s car.
“A classic example of displaced aggression,” Caleb said thoughtfully, “as well as a need to establish firm boundaries.”
“What kind of magic is that?” I was astonished that he could know so much about Matthew from my few words.
“It’s anthropology.” Caleb grinned.
“Maybe we should talk about this somewhere else.” Vivian smiled warmly at the growing crowd of onlookers in the produce section. The few humans in the store couldn’t help noticing the gathering of four otherworldly creatures, and several were openly listening in on our conversation while pretending to judge the ripeness of cantaloupes and watermelons.
“I’ll meet you back at Sarah’s in twenty minutes,” I said, eager to get away. “The arborio rice is in aisle five,” Caleb said helpfully, handing Grace back to Abby. “It’s the closest thing to paella rice in Hamilton. If that’s not good enough, you can stop by and see Maureen at the health-food store. She’ll special-order some Spanish rice for you. Otherwise you’ll have to drive to Syracuse.”
“Thanks,” I said weakly. There would be no stops at the health-food store, which was the local hangout for witches when they weren’t at the Cost Cutter. I pushed my cart in the direction of aisle five.
“Good idea.”
“Don’t forget the milk!” Abby called after me.
When I got back home, Matthew and Fernando were standing in the field, deep in conversation. I put the groceries away and found the bucket in the sink where I’d left it. My fingers automatically reached for the tap, ready to twist it open so that the water flowed.
“What the hell is wrong with me?” I muttered, pulling the empty bucket out of the sink. I carried it back to the stillroom and let the door swing shut.
This room had seen some of my greatest humiliations as a witch. Even though I understood that my past difficulties with magic had come about because I was a weaver and spellbound to boot, it was still difficult to leave the memories of failure behind.
But it was time to try.
Placing the bucket on the hearth, I felt for the tide that always flowed through me. Thanks to my father, not only was I a weaver, but my blood was full of water. Crouching next to the pail, I directed my hand into the shape of a spout and focused on my desires.
Clean. Fresh. New.
Within moments my hand looked like metal rather than flesh and water poured from my fingers, hitting the plastic with a dull thud. Once the bucket was full, my hand was just a hand again. I smiled and sat back on my heels, pleased that I’d been able to work magic in the Bishop house. All around me the air sparkled with colored threads. It no longer felt thick and heavy but bright and full of potential. A cool breeze blew through the open window. Maybe I couldn’t solve all of our problems with a single knot, but if I were going to find out what Emily and my mother knew, I had to start somewhere.
“With knot of one, the spell’s begun,” I whispered, snagging a silver thread and knotting it securely.
Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed the full skirts and a brightly embroidered bodice that belonged to my ancestor Bridget Bishop. Welcome home, granddaughter, said her ghostly voice.
8
Matthew swung the maul and lowered it onto the head of the wooden post. It landed with a satisfying thwack that reverberated up his arms, across his shoulders, and down his back. He lifted the maul again.