“I know where he is,” Ian said. “Out at the manor house. He’s been camping out there on and off for years.”
“We should go there now,” Sally said.
“Of course,” Ian answered, ready to do anything she requested. Is this what it felt like? To say yes before he’d even thought it out? To want to please her so? “Let me go on my own. I know him.”
“No.” Franny stopped him. “It has to be someone with bloodline skills.” She patted Ian’s arm. “I’m afraid that’s not you.” She turned to Sally. “If she’s on the left-handed path, she has to come to us. If we go after her, we’ll just chase her further away. Give her a little time.”
“Not more than a few hours,” Sally said. It was Ian she spoke to now. “Then we’ll go.”
* * *
Margaret guessed the visiting Americans her son was bringing by would not have the stomach for many of their local dishes, with recipes hundreds of years old, stewed eels, for instance, considered a delicacy, with ingredients that could be caught in a wire basket in the fens and flavored with parsley grown in the kitchen garden, might be an acquired taste. Pigeon casserole, two plucked gamey birds baked into a coffin of crust, might not be their usual fare. Instead she baked a faux blackbird pie, so they might have a bit of the flavor of their county, replacing the main ingredient with magenta-colored eggplant. She had fixed her ploughman’s pasties, which had vegetable filling stuffed into the crust at one end and jam spooned in at the other, so that it was both a main course and a sweet. She’d made sure to cook Ian’s favorite ginger pudding as well, for that was a dish that brought good fortune to whoever took a bite. It was quite a crowd once everyone arrived, still a bit dazed from Matt Poole’s driving on the rutted, muddy road. The house was small, so they would dine outside.
After everyone was introduced, Sally politely excused herself. “Just a breath of air,” she assured them, but everyone knew when a mother was grieving over her child. Margaret set down the pale blue plates she kept in the cabinet and gave Ian a look. Go to her now or there’ll be no going to her later.
Even though Sally was already out the door and his mother hadn’t said a word, Ian grabbed a pair of high boots from the entryway and went off without another word to anyone, all of whom were tactful enough not to discuss the two who’d gone missing.
“Tea?” Margaret asked Franny. The women were busy sizing one another up, intrigued by what they saw. One had practiced the Nameless Art all her life, the other had been born with magic.
Franny took a muslin sack of tea out of her purse. It was what they all needed most of all. “I’ve brought my own.”
“May I?” When Margaret was given the go-ahead, she sniffed the tea. Currants, vanilla, green tea, thyme. “Lovely.” She knew courage when it was right there in front of her.
“There are no blackbirds in this pie, are there?” Vincent asked, amused as he peered into the wood-heated oven. “My sister has a penchant for crows.”
“Goodness, no,” Margaret responded. “You’re not locals yet.”
Gillian eyed the purple-black vegetables in the old sink where some unused eggplants soaked in a briny salt mixture. There was no running water and jugs had to be carried in from the well house.
Margaret asked Vincent and Franny to bring their tea out to a table set up in a splash of sun near the garden. As Gillian began to follow, Margaret caught her by the sleeve to ask if she might help fix the plates. “I can tell you’re a good cook.”
“Oh, no, I’m dreadful,” Gillian assured her.
Margaret reached for her box of recipes. She’d seen the copy of My Life as a Witch in Gillian’s purse and remembered when she herself had gone to see Cora.
“Seriously, I can’t cook,” Gillian told her. “Any recipes would be wasted on me.”