Love, Lies, and Hocus Pocus Beginnings Page 5

  “Oh, get over it already. We aren’t doing any harm,” came Sebastian’s absentminded reply. He was busy scoping out the grounds and building before them, making sure there were no guards or passersby.

  It was past midnight, and Lily just wanted to get this over with and get home. She’d swapped her heels for a more sensible pair of chucks—she wisely kept a change of shoes in her car. Unfortunately, she hadn’t seen fit to pack a change of clothes, so she still wore the pencil skirt and blouse that were her normal casual wear. She hadn’t expected to need an “adventure” outfit for this trip.

  “Coast is clear. Come on!” Sebastian rose and ran swiftly, half bent over, across the parking lot and lawn between them and the mansion. Caught off guard, Lily scrambled to catch up, puffing slightly as she joined him by the back door. He’d already gotten busy examining the lock, pulling some slender picks from his pocket.

  “You can pick locks?” Lily hissed. “No wonder your aunt disapproves of your skills.”

  “Hey, don’t hate,” Sebastian said. “When you’re a witch, and you have to deal with a bunch of finicky, cantankerous critters, you generally look for ways to do the little stuff on your own. We don’t have the luxury of waving our hands and making things just do what we want with no price paid.”

  “Excuse me? No price paid? It’s called we spend decades studying, and every time we tap the Source we’re taking our lives into our own hands.”

  “Whatever. You guys still have it good,” Sebastian said, then, “aha!”

  With a click of tumblers, Sebastian turned his picks and pushed on the door. It didn’t budge.

  “Hmm…we may need your Source after all, Lil.”

  “Don’t call me—” Lily began through gritted teeth.

  “Yeah, yeah. I know. Looks like there’s an old-fashioned latch that can only be accessed from the inside. I could probably bust through it, but I don’t want to damage their door.”

  Lily sighed. “Let me take a look.”

  It took some fiddling, but she finally found a spell that would work. With a scrape of metal on wood, the latch lifted and Sebastian was able to open the door.

  “Wait!” Lily whispered. “What about alarms?”

  “There aren’t any. I checked things out when we were here earlier.”

  “Checked things out?” Suddenly, the realization hit her. “You were planning on doing this all along, weren’t you?” she accused him as they crept carefully toward the stairs.

  “Well, not really. I didn’t know if we would need to or not. But I like being prepared, just in case.” He turned and winked at her in the near darkness.

  “I’m going to kill you,” she grumbled, mounting the carpeted stairs behind him. “As soon as we get out of here, I’m going to kill you.”

  With some difficulty—it was a large house and the rooms formed a virtual maze in the darkness—they found their way back to the Witherspoon room. Sebastian made quick work of the lock on the glass case, and Lily gently withdrew the diary. Settling down cross-legged on the floor, she rested the diary on one knee, then drew out a blank, leather-bound book of approximately the same size from her carpetbag. Next, she got out a bottle of ink and unstoppered it, putting it on the floor in front of her. One of the reasons she bothered lugging the bag around was to have certain essential supplies on hand in case of an emergency, and she was glad she did.

  The spell of text transference was one of her favorite spells, and one she was quite good at. All it required was peace and quiet, concentration, and a little time. You didn’t even need light, as the magic did all the copying. Hand-written documents were a bit trickier, since you had to use a different variation of words to get the parameters right, but she had experience in both. She was the curator of an archive of spell books, after all, some of which dated back a thousand years or more, long before printing presses.

  Settling the blank volume on her opposite knee, she laid a hand on each book and took several deep breaths, settling herself. She let the Source well up and flow from her, streaming from one book to another, taking the memory of words with it. It copied the patterns of ink from stained, worn pages to crisp, new ones. The level of ink in her bottle slowly sank as it was used by the spell. Sebastian fidgeted impatiently from time to time, but Lily ignored him, keeping her full attention on guiding the spell. Losing concentration would create errors in the text, and that would make all their efforts useless.

  Finally finished, Lily placed her new copy of Annabelle’s diary in her carpetbag and got up stiffly to return the original to its place. They made their way as swiftly as possible back through the mansion, down the stairs, and out the back door. If it had been up to Lily, they would have run off then and there, but Sebastian reminded her that they had to re-lock the door, so no one would know there had been a break-in. Just as they finished, but before they had a chance to disappear, a sudden sound of footsteps echoed from around the side of the mansion, and a flashlight beam could be seen sweeping back and forth. Someone was coming toward them.

  Without warning, Sebastian pushed Lily back against the wall of the building and kissed her full on the mouth, just as the flashlight beam rounded the corner and illuminated them. Lily dropped her carpetbag in shock and just stood there like an idiot as Sebastian deepened the kiss, wrapping his arms around her and making exaggerated moaning noises into her lips.

  “Hey! What are y’all doing here?” A stern voice called out from behind the blinding flashlight beam.

  At the sound of the voice, Sebastian broke his suction hold of her lips and started up in feigned surprise. “Oh! Sorry, we were just…uh…” he did an excellent impression of a flustered teenager, embarrassed to be caught in the middle of his first kiss with a pretty girl.

  “You two shouldn’t be hanging around here. This is private property.”

  “Okay, okay. We didn’t mean any harm, mister. Just trying to get a moment alone, you know?”

  “Well, go find somewhere else to be alone. This is private property,” the faceless voice repeated.

  “Already on our way. Have a nice night!” Sebastian raised a hand, palm outward in a placating gesture, the other grabbing Lily’s arm and pulling her with him as he made his escape toward the parking lot. She barely had the wits to grab her carpetbag as he towed her away.

  Heart racing, breath coming in quick gasps—more from adrenaline than exertion—Lily trotted awkwardly, legs restrained by her pencil skirt, trying to keep up with Sebastian’s long strides. They crossed the parking lot and turned down the street beyond, heading to where they’d parked Lily’s car.

  Once they were out of sight, and earshot, of the man with the flashlight, Sebastian let loose his suppressed guffaws of laughter. He clutched at a nearby lamppost to stay upright as Lily walked past, pointedly ignoring him.

  “Ah, the old kissing trick,” he said, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, “it works every time. You should’ve seen the look on your face. And that guy swallowed it, hook, line, and si— ”

  He was cut off, mid-sentence, as Lily spun on her heel and slapped him full in the face.

  “How dare you! How dare you kiss me!” she said, hotly. “I did not give you permission to do that. It was extremely rude, not to mention disgusting!”

  Now that she’d gotten over her initial shock, and fear of possibly being caught, she was furious.

  Blinking and rubbing his jaw, Sebastian tried to brush her off. “Ha! Disgusting? I bet you enjoyed every second of it.”

  “I—most—certainly—did—not,” she said indignantly, quite angry without exactly knowing why. She couldn’t decide who made her more upset—Sebastian for kissing her, or herself for doubting her own declaration of disgust.

  Sensing the gathering thunderclouds, Sebastian’s grin faded. “Hey, sorry, Lily. I didn’t mean any harm. I was only trying to get us out of a tight spot. If it upset you that much, I promise I won’t kiss you again without asking first, how’s that?” His grin was back, and he winked a
t her.

  Despite herself, Lily couldn’t help but smile a bit in return. She suppressed it right away, of course, covering it with a stern glare as she poked him in the chest.

  “You had better be sorry. Don’t ever—do—that—again.” With each word, she prodded him harder, emphasizing her point.

  “Okay, okay,” Sebastian said, raising his hands in surrender. “I get it, you hate being kissed. So noted. Now, can we get out of here, please?”

  “Yes, let’s,” she said, suddenly weary beyond belief. “But you’re driving.”

  4

  Ga-arhus-a Ken

  Usually, once she got her hands on a new book, Lily became oblivious to everything else until she’d read it front to back. But this time, she’d had enough excitement for one night. Once home, she stayed awake only long enough to check on Sir Kipling before collapsing into bed. Thus, it was Sunday afternoon, after a light repast of PB&J and Irish Breakfast tea, before she finally sat down at her desk and cracked open the copy of Annabelle Witherspoon’s diary.

  A cursory reading confirmed what she’d suspected: the true text was concealed by magic. To a mundane’s eye, the diary was full of insipid entries describing the boring life of a privileged lady who spent her time buying dresses and complaining about how dull everyone was. Fortunately for Lily, she’d used a few modifications for her spell of transference. Several years ago, after trying to copy text disguised by a basic masking spell from a seventeenth-century personal journal, she’d worked out a way to copy both versions of text intact—the real text as well as the mask. All she had to do was figure out what mask Annabelle had used and how to remove it.

  As was her custom when performing experimental magic, she cast a circle of containment on her living room floor from which to work. The opposite of a shield spell, this spell kept magic in, lest anything get out of hand. Sir Kipling, the tip of his tail twitching with interest, sat just outside the boundary and watched as she spent the next hour fiddling with the diary.

  Having gotten nowhere, Lily threw up her hands in disgust and lowered the circle to go brew more tea. When she returned, she found Sir Kipling sprawled across the open diary as if he owned it.

  “Really, Sir?” she chided, rolling her eyes and bending to pick him up and deposit him on the sofa. “I don’t need cat hair littering my workspace and corrupting my spells.”

  She blew hard on the diary, scattering her cat’s “gift” of hair, then raised the containment circle again. For a while, she just sat and stared blankly at the book, out of ideas.

  Sir Kipling meowed loudly, startling her from her reverie. He was back, sitting just outside her circle and staring at her lazily.

  “You’re no help,” she muttered, then stopped. Maybe he was. An idea had formed, sparked by the vision of cat hair littering the book. She thought for a moment, considering what words would be needed to improvise such a spell.

  Once she was ready, she picked up the diary and “blew” across it again, not with her breath, but with magic. As she blew harder, bits of ink, infused with magic, peeled up and flew off the pages, dissipating into tiny puffs of black as they hit her containment circle. With the inane scrawl of Annabelle’s “fake” writing gone, a much tidier, neater script appeared. Lily’s heartbeat quickened as she recognized Enkinim conjugations and spell formulae crammed into the margins around what seemed to be a dissertation on spell theory.

  It took several minutes, but finally all the masking text had been removed, and Lily held in her hands a true wizard’s diary. Excited, she dispelled her circle and moved to the desk. With her eduba at hand, she began to read and take notes.

  * * *

  Lily straightened from her hunched position at her desk and groaned. The ornate hands of the Gothic clock on her bookshelf indicated it was past two a.m. She would regret this in the morning, but just now her mind was too full of exciting information to be worried about a little thing like sleep.

  Annabelle Witherspoon hadn’t just been a wizard; she’d been a prodigy, a genius. It was clear from her notes that she had a deep, almost intuitive understanding of Enkinim and how it was used to shape the Source. Lily had filled her eduba with notes on the diary, sometimes transferring whole pages straight into her magical archive. Her notes allowed her to highlight and cross-reference throughout the disjointed but brilliantly written text.

  Annabelle had written more than the curse that plagued Francis Jackson. She’d also written scores of other spells, some of which looked decidedly dangerous. A streak of recklessness was evident throughout the girl’s meticulous notes, though perhaps it only appeared reckless to Lily. Despite her youth, Annabelle clearly knew what she was doing. Lily wondered who her teacher had been. He was referenced vaguely a few times at the beginning, but never by name. Apparently, Annabelle’s parents had provided for her tutoring up until a certain age, but then stopped. According to the diary, it was because they thought magic was too dangerous. Since that was why Lily assumed her own mother had hidden her heritage from her, it was a familiar point of view. Though, if she’d had a child as precocious, and reckless, as Annabelle, she might have been more sympathetic. Annabelle, obviously, hadn’t agreed with her parents, and had kept practicing magic on her own.

  She’d kept the diary from 1905 to 1911, about ages sixteen to twenty-two. Except for a few entries near the beginning, Annabelle rarely mentioned her life or anyone in it. Not a word was written about her family’s troubles or financial ruin. Instead, she focused on her study of magic. That is, until 1909—the year she met, fell in love with, and was jilted by Francis. During 1909, there were frequent, dreamy entries about her sweetheart. After 1909, however, her writing dropped off to almost nothing. There were barely fifteen incredibly sparse entries over the last two years of her life, 1909 to 1911, based on Lily’s notes from the exhibit at the museum. Never once was Francis mentioned by name after 1909.

  Lily couldn’t imagine how heartbroken Annabelle must have been when Francis jilted her. Just before the point where her entries dropped off, she’d written:

  * * *

  August 19, 1909

  Francis is such a dear, but he has seemed downcast recently. He does not laugh as he used to and has an exceedingly odd look on his face when he thinks I am not watching. I do hope my moods are not troubling him. He has always laughed them off before. I do not know what I would do without him. He is the only person in the world who has never held them against me. Not even mama and papa accept me the way he does.

  * * *

  The shock and suddenness of his rejection must have hit so hard she wasn’t thinking straight when she’d cast the fated curse. Annabelle herself admitted in her diary when she’d written the spell that its effects were uncertain and untested.

  Though the theory behind the curse was meticulously documented, somehow Lily felt it wouldn’t be enough for her to unmake it. She could formulate a reversal based on the original wording, but that was assuming Annabelle had cast the curse exactly as she’d outlined it. Lily doubted that was the case. Something had gone wrong. Based on Annabelle’s notes, the curse should have only lasted several years, so she must have added or changed something last minute, and consequently it went wrong. Or worse, it went too right. Lily suspected it was that “something” which had contributed to the poor girl’s early death. Several cryptic entries near the end of her diary supported this theory:

  February 11, 1911

  Something is not right. Despite my efforts to release it, the spell is not dissipating. There is still a connection, one I cannot fathom. I am sure I made no error. My wording was very precise, perhaps too precise. “Ga-arhus-a.” Yet, I already have, so why does it remain? If only I could retrieve the anchor. But I cannot face him. Never again. It would destroy me.

  April 14, 1911

  I am so tired. Always tired. What drains me so? I fear I put too much of myself into my revenge. It is sapping my strength. I cannot seem to remember the words the way I used to. Thank the heavens for my
notes.

  September 2, 1911

  It is no use. I am weary with the effort and the burden of it. I want to forgive, to forget. I want it to end. I have forgiven, I am sure of it. But no matter what I do it will not be banished. I know not why, nor have I the strength to care any longer. Perhaps I deserve this unending torment.

  That was one of the last entries, the other few being jumbled scrawls of Enkinim and formulae. The scribbles were so unlike Annabelle’s previously meticulous writing that Lily assumed whatever had plagued her spirit had addled her wits as well.

  Despite the hours spent poring over every scrap of material referencing the curse, she was no closer to discerning how Annabelle had deviated from her own formula. If only she’d said what the anchor had been, the battle would be half over. That was the key.

  But she hadn’t.

  A jaw-splitting yawn interrupted her concentration, and Lily suddenly realized how tired she was. She hated going to sleep with a puzzle left unsolved, but her body would brook no protests. Now armed with a solid understanding of the curse, perhaps she could dig up more detail about the casting from Francis. If he could remember, that is. Succumbing to her body’s demands, she dragged herself to her bedroom and under the covers. She fell asleep with visions of spell pages cluttering her mind, each one impossible to read because of the giant, key-shaped piece missing from their middle.

  * * *

  The week passed slowly, with many of Lily’s colleagues stopping her in the hallways to ask if she were alright, she seemed so distracted. More so than usual, that is. Lily assured them she was fine, and tried not to accidentally set anything on fire as she went about her daily duties, most of her mind preoccupied by Annabelle’s curse. She spent her evenings going over the formula, memorizing it and making a list of words for every possible anchor she could think of.