* * *
As soon as the rainstorm lifted, Franny went into the garden, cringing to see the damage. There was a spell of protection over their house and even hurricanes passed by their address, but that wasn’t the case in this dark spring. Leaves had been blasted from the trees by gusts of wet wind, the tomato seedlings had been washed away, the herb garden was flooded with murky pools, flowers that had bloomed had wilted in a matter of minutes. Jet had planted a rare variety in 1978, the Osiria rose, which had both white and red petals, but now the leaves were darkened and spotty, and the scarlet buds had cracked open to reveal that moths had devoured the petals from the inside out.
As Franny gathered several mud-slicked sprigs of mint, she heard a clacking that made her stand up straight. She recognized the deathwatch beetle, and immediately thought her time had come. She looked up through the branches, wondering what might happen next here in the center of the dark spring, where hope was all but impossible to find. But instead of death stalking her, the garden gate swung open and there was Kylie, who had taken the bus from Boston. Kylie’s hair was in knots and her face ashen, so that her freckles stood out as if blood had flecked her pale complexion.
“Tell me what to do,” she begged. Her face was swollen and tearstained. “There has to be a way to stop it.”
The story came out in a rush. Hit by a car. Unresponsive. A declaration of love. Then Franny knew, the beetle was calling for Gideon. It was the curse. She could smell it, the stink of sorrow, and blood, and desperation, all braided together until it became one. “I don’t know the answer,” Franny told her distraught great-niece. “None of us do. Once the curse begins, there’s nothing to stop it.”
Kylie dug her nails into the palms of her hands until beads of burning-hot blood fell to the ground. “It’s not a good enough answer.” She sounded fierce, so much so that she frightened herself. She had no idea that she had risen off the ground until Franny took hold of the sleeve of Gideon’s raincoat and tugged at her. “What is happening to me?” Kylie asked. The magic inside her was surfacing, like it or not, brought on by raw emotion.
“It’s who we are,” Franny said simply, no longer adhering to Sally’s insistence that they keep silent about their heritage. Franny knew what it was like to be raised in a household of secrets; such an upbringing never boded well. Sooner or later you would find out the truth. Usually at the worst possible moment.
“What are you saying?” Kylie asked.
“Darling,” Franny said, for this was never easy. “We have a history of magic.”
Kylie let out a sharp laugh. “We’re not witches.”
Her aunt stared at her, a serious expression crossing her face.
“That’s just what people say,” Kylie insisted.
“Your mother didn’t want you to know,” Franny said. “So we kept quiet.”
“Is that why those women always come here at night?” Kylie asked. As a girl she’d seen neighbors approach the door after dark at a time when they hoped their family or friends wouldn’t spy them in the shadows of the Owenses’ yard. Some had been crying, some carried babies, some brought gifts, baskets of fruit, caged birds, boxes of fancy chocolate; all made certain to latch the garden gate when they left.
“They don’t come here anymore. Not without Jet. We’ve turned off the porch light. They know there’s no one here to help them anymore. Certainly not Sally. Your mother stays away from magic. Always has. She meant the best. She wanted to protect you.”
“But she didn’t, did she?” Hot, black tears brimmed in Kylie’s eyes.
“You should have told us you were in love,” Franny said sadly.
“It wasn’t your business! It was between us!”
It was then Kylie remembered the Grimoire, which she had stumbled upon in the greenhouse one summer. When she’d brought the heavy tome into the kitchen, her mother had pitched a fit and quickly returned it to its proper place, only this time under lock and key.