Chapter Five

 

I woke to the sound of rain on the windows and the knowledge I was a fool.

The bronze and black Boulle clock on the mantel chimed the hour in silvery dings. Seven o’clock. I jumped out of bed and strode down the hall to the first of our guest rooms, barely sparing a glance for the blank space on the wall where the Louis XVI rococo mirror that had once imprisoned my great-great-great-uncle Arnold had hung. The mirror was now in storage and Great-great-great-uncle Arnold was only the Lady knew where.

The door to the guest room stood open. The bed was made. There was no sign of John.

My heart sank. I didn’t have to check the other guest rooms, didn’t have to go downstairs. I could already feel that emptiness in my chest. John was gone. It was Saturday, and he was not working, but he had gone.

My mouth was dry, my knees nearly giving out when I stumbled into the kitchen. The coffee machine was on, a folded note propped next to it.

I unfolded it with unsteady fingers.

Hope you’re feeling better. I’ll call you later. J. He’d added—squeezing in the words sideways: I love you.

I sank into the nearest chair, close to tears with relief. I had been so afraid of a replay of those terrible days after he’d learned the truth about me, when he had left me. When he had made the decision to end our marriage.

But he had not left me. He loved me. We would talk, and I would try to explain. Or at least we would talk.

The truth was, I was not sure myself what had happened. The nightmare had felt so horrifyingly real that in the panic of the moment, I had assumed it had to be more than key-lime pie on top of a tremendously stressful day. But really, the thing that makes nightmares so frightening is they do feel real. Perhaps my subconscious had bundled up all my anxieties and uncertainties and produced a night terror.

Or perhaps it was something else.

Something I preferred not to consider. Could not bring myself to believe.

Because the thing I did not wish to name would not be a coincidence. It would be a dreadful realigning of fate. And while, yes, Fate rests her hand on each of our shoulders, it is a tenet of the Abracadantès tradition that we control our own destiny.

I remembered the cruelty of John’s face in my nightmare and shuddered. No. It could not be true.

The pet door opened, and Pyewacket slunk in, looking wet and disreputable, and I shook off my dark mood. After all, most times a dream is just a dream.

“Bonjour. So that’s where you’ve been.”

He ignored me, going to his dish and delicately sniffing the contents in disapproval.

“Cat does not live by paté alone.”

Pye’s meow was more like a snarl. He jumped onto the table, the better to glare into my eyes—just in case I had somehow missed the message.

I laughed, bumped my head gently against his, but then remembered Bridget, our housekeeper-cum-double-agent, was due in about half an hour. “Hey. You can tell me my failings later.” I scooped him up, set him on the floor, and grabbed a tea towel—which I remembered was also a no-no, and exchanged for a paper towel.

Pye was not about to settle for being dried off with a common paper towel. He slid out from under my ministrations and circled me, being sure to leave his little muddy footprints everywhere.

“Thanks a lot,” I muttered, swabbing hastily at the floor. “Don’t take your bad temper out on me. I don’t know what you expected. She’s just a cat. Of course she doesn’t understand.”

To which Pye pointed out some uncomfortable comparisons—loudly—and sprang away to disappear upstairs.

I followed him, but it was only to shower and dress. I had been planning to go to a couple of yard sales that morning, but I was guessing that the rain had washed out that possibility. I decided instead to visit my mother, the Duchess.

I’m not being a smart-ass. My mother is Estelle Saville, Duchesse d’Abracadantès. As the favorite niece of the elderly and powerful Laure d’Estrées, she’s next in line for accession to the seat of the Crone, which some would refer to as Queen of Witches.

It’s kind of a misnomer because every tradition has its Queen. In fact, Wiccans use the term too, but, yes, Maman will eventually be the queen of the oldest and most powerful of Craft traditions.

Which presents its complications.

Still, life is complicated. Is it not?

 

 

I found my mother still en déshabillé in the morning room of her Nob Hill mansion, having breakfast with Jinx.

“Cosmo, mon chou. You are just in time. Sit down. Marthe, bring Cosmo coffee and scrambled eggs.”

In that frothy blue nightie, Maman looked just a bit like a she-devil popping her head out of a cloud. I would not say that my mother is beautiful, exactly, given that she looks uncannily like the Disney cartoon version of Maleficent. She is tall and elegantly slender. Her hair is dark and her eyes green. I am told I look like her, though my eyes are gray.

“Just coffee, s’il vous plaît.”

Marthe nodded. She has been with my mother since they were both in their twenties. I knew that in short order I would be eating scrambled eggs for breakfast.

“Hey, Cos,” Jinx greeted me as I took the seat across from her. “Long time no see.”

Jinx wore a man’s red plaid bathrobe and raggedy bunny slippers, which made me think John’s fear my mother might have too much influence on his sister was premature.

“Hello, you.” I can’t deny, the sudden memory of those graphic black-and-white photos made me a tad uncomfortable. Talk about TMI. “What have you been up to?”

“A little of this, a little of that.” Jinx grinned. “I’m helping the Duchess with her book about Françoise-Athénaïs de Rochechouart, Marquise de Montespan. Did you know she has a book deal?”

“She…”

My mother gazed approvingly at Jinx. “She is a useful child, this one.”

“You have a book deal?”

Maman lifted her shoulder negligently. It’s a very French gesture. Very c’est la vie. “Does not everyone?”

Well, no. In fact, my father had been trying to get a book deal for the last two years. Which my mother was well aware of.

My mother sipped her coffee, considered me. “To what do we owe this honor, Cosmo?”

“I need to speak to you privately, Jinx, but first I have to ask your advice, Maman.”

“Divorce him immediately. That is my advice,” my mother replied. “I will pay all your legal expenses.”

Jinx giggled.

“Don’t encourage her,” I told her. I shook my head at my mother. “I’m being serious.”

“Darling boy, so am I.”

Marthe appeared with scrambled eggs seasoned with fresh herbs and truffle, crisp buttery toast, and very strong coffee.

“Ah, Marthe,” I sighed. “You shouldn’t have.”

Marthe smirked.

As I ate my breakfast, I explained Ambrose’s situation to my mother.

“The poor kid,” Jinx said at the end of my recital, although she’s only a few years older than Ambrose.

My mother was frowning. “This is quite a serious situation, Cosmo.”

“You don’t have to tell me.”

“La vieille sorcière does not belong to a tradition?”

“I don’t believe so. The boy does not. He had no training when I took him on. He says the old woman has always been torn between the church and her natural abilities.”

My mother made a sound of disgust. “She has kept this boy in ignorance, leaving him to find his own way. This is like leaving a bomb unattended and hoping it finds a good home.”

“I know.”

Though her eyes rested on my face, she seemed to be looking through me. “The Goddess must have some purpose in leading this boy to you—and to us.”

“I hope so.”

She was thoughtful. “How strong is she? How great are her powers?”

“Stronger than I would have expected in one so old. But there’s a general lack of control, of focus. Elle est folle. I believe she would have killed me if she had been able.”

“Why was she left in charge of the boy? Were there no older relatives who could take some responsibility?”

“It seems not. Ambrose’s mother fell out with the grandmother for reasons unknown to me. There’s an uncle, but he lives outside the States.”

Maman nodded absently.

Jinx muttered, “I can’t believe Ambrose is a witch and I’m…”

Not.

She didn’t finish the thought, but then she didn’t have to.

“The ways of the Goddess are unknowable,” I said.

She gave me a Really? look, for which I couldn’t blame her.

Maman said, “We have not yet determined your abilities, ma petite chérie.” She returned her attention to me. “Cosmo, this is a delicate situation. La vieille sorcière is not Abracadantès. She may belong to another tradition, and your attempts to help may be viewed as trespass. Par contre, the boy is your apprentice and therefore your responsibility.”

“I know.”

“I have no immediate solution for you, but I can provide you with several tinctures that the boy can try. It’s a risky business.”

“The situation is somewhat desperate.”

“Yes. I see that. Très bien. I will put together a…a sampler while you have your conversation with Joan.” She patted her lips with the linen napkin, rose, and left the room. Her Familiar, a geriatric raven by the name of Horatio, flew from his perch to land on her shoulder as she swept out.

As the tall door swung shut, Jinx turned to me. Her eyes were shining. “I love her. I wish she were my mother.”

Having suffered through a number of Friday dinners with Nola, I couldn’t fault her for that. John and I still had at least seven messages from Nola on our home answering machine, all of them to do with Jinx.

“She’s definitely taken to you,” I said.

“So what’s going on? Why are you being so secretive?”

I cleared my throat. “It’s a little awkward. I don’t mean to embarrass you.” I began with the arrival of the compromising photos in the mail. By the end of my story, she was laughing.

“Oh my God. Poor John. He must have just about had a stroke.”

That kind of irritated me, to be honest. “I think he was concerned that you might have feelings for the guy in the photos. Because John’s pretty sure he must be involved.”

Jinx rolled her eyes. “Of course he is. Because he’s totally paranoid. I can guarantee that Eddie is not part of some giant blackmail conspiracy.” She made a disgusted sound.

“That’s good. Are you and Eddie still…?”

“No. That was eons ago.”

“Before John and I met?”

She hesitated, thinking. “No. No, I think it was maybe around the same time?” She brightened. “I remember. It was while you guys were on your honeymoon. I met him at Death Guild. Eddie said he was a friend of a friend of yours.”

“A friend of a friend? What friend?”

She wrinkled her forehead. “Roy? Ray? I can’t remember. I just remember this person was in the hospital in a coma after someone ran them down one night.”

I stared at her. “Rex?”

Jinx smiled. “That was it. Rex. Anyway, he seemed like a nice enough guy. Eddie, I mean.” She shrugged.

I doubted it. But maybe living with John was making me paranoid too.

“It’s definitely over between you?”

“Yes, Cos. He turned out to be just another poser.” She made a face. “You can reassure John that I’m not dating a blackmailer or getting engaged to a petty criminal.”

“What’s his last name?”

“Darksoul. I doubt it’s his real name.”

“Uh, yeah. Eddie Darksoul? Seems unlikely. Do you have any idea where he lives?”

“I know where he lived then. An apartment on Broadway Street. He could have moved. Who knows?” She added, “You could tell John that not every single person who meets me is only trying to get close to him.”

“Just the opposite, I’d think.”

“Exactly.”

“John’s a little overprotective. That’s all. He loves you. He’s concerned for you.”

She curled her lip. “You keep telling yourself that, Cos. One of these days you’re going to figure it out. John’s controlling and domineering and a bully.”

“I don’t think that’s fair.”

“You don’t know him like I know him.”

I was silent for a moment. “John thinks he knows you too. Do you think he sees the whole picture?”

“Of course not. Not even close.”

“Don’t you think it maybe goes both ways?”

“Nope.” She studied me. “Sorry. I know you’re still crazy about him. And I will say, he’s different with you. But people don’t change.”

“I don’t agree. I think if people want to change—”

“No.” She even looked a little sorry for me. “You’re dreaming if you think that. Even if they were to live a million years, people don’t change.”