Gillian overheard and came over to order one, letting Kylie have a sip. “Happy now?” Gillian asked. The martinis at the Black Rabbit were especially dreadful.
Kylie made a face and pushed the glass away. “Why do people drink these?”
“To get drunk,” Gillian said. “There’s no other reason.”
“Do you get the feeling something isn’t right?” Antonia asked their aunt.
Gillian looked past Sally, who was paying for the drinks, to the end of the bar where the aunts were on their second round of whiskeys.
“It all ends,” she said for some reason. There was no point in getting moody, so she shook her head, snapped her fingers, and grinned. “Even a night at the Black Rabbit.”
* * *
By the time they turned onto Magnolia Street, the aunts were tipsy. The magnolias had bloomed early this year, the white and mauve cups of petals high above them in the dark on twisted black branches.
How lucky, Jet thought. How I wish I had all the time in the world.
Franny and Jet walked slowly, their arms linked, taking so long to reach their corner, Sally had a feeling of dread when she turned to look over her shoulder. Her beloved aunts were old. She’d thought they were old when she was a little girl, for back then anyone over forty had seemed ancient. Now she was nearly to the middle of her forties, likely the age the aunts had been when she and Gillian arrived, and Jet and Franny were in their eighties. Franny carried an umbrella these days for she’d be damned if she used a cane and her knee had been bothering her, despite applications of lavender oil. As for Jet, she seemed both exhausted and jittery, a worrisome combination.
“I’ll just have a little rest,” Jet said once they reached home.
“What is wrong with her?” Gillian asked Sally after Jet had retired to her room, the Reverend’s dog at her heels. It was barely seven.
“I don’t know,” Sally said. “I’m worried.” If she had allowed herself to call up the sight, she might have known exactly what was happening, but it had been many years since she’d accessed any magic, and like all things that aren’t used, her talent had begun to waste away.
Franny reached to stroke Sally’s hair, which was not at all like her. She was not the touchy-feely sort. Not one bit. “She just needs some peace and quiet.”
Jet was already behind her locked bedroom door, sitting at her desk, another woman’s spell book open before her, a rare occurrence, for such books were meant to be burned upon the death of the writer, unless there was a family member to inherit the text. Jet understood that the Owens family beginnings were in England, in a rural area they referred to as the first Essex County since they lived in the second, which had been named by the Pilgrims for the home across the sea they had left.
The Book of the Raven had escaped destruction since the time it had been hand-printed in London, in 1615. On the first page, in sloping script, was the name Faith Owens, for Faith had found the volume in a New York City market. It begins at the beginning, had been written on the very first page. Below that line there was a quote from William Shakespeare, who had written of his admiration and desire for Amelia Bassano.
Love’s fire heats water, water cools not love.
How to exact revenge, how to break another’s heart, how to cause a rival to fall ill, how to escape from a cruel man, how to set fires without touching a candle, how to make figures of wax and cloth and blackthorn and scarlet thread that would cause grave results to an intended enemy, how to bring on a curse, and more important, how to end it. Near the end of the book, there was a warning. To end a curse, be prepared to give up everything. There was always a price to pay, one higher than anyone might have imagined. All the same, there would always be women in such dire situations they were willing to yield to the left side, those who had no choice, who had been trapped, chained, reviled, cast aside, cursed.