Dark Corner Page 5

  The meeting began. “Today’s agenda is the Civil War exhibit. I know many of you ladies have artifacts from family members who served on either side. The Biltmore would appreciate your loaning them for the exhibit.” She swallowed before continuing, “To help curate the exhibit is our special guest, Professor Lund from Richmond University. She’s an expert on North Carolina’s history during the Civil War.”

  Seated next to Mrs. Twiggs was a woman of some age, her gray hair pulled back in a bun, her thick black glasses required after years of reading textbooks. She was dressed in a modest gray suit. She looked like a history professor should. She stood and greeted the ladies. “Thank you, all, for the warm welcome. I’m eager to hear more about each of your family histories especially yours, Mrs. Loblolly.” She smiled at Mrs. Loblolly, who nodded graciously. “I’ve read extensive reports on your four-times-removed grandfather, Colonel Odysseus Loblolly of the Seventh Carolina.”

  Mrs. Loblolly raised her teacup. She was very proud of her heritage. She motioned to the large bag on the floor next to her. “I’ve brought some swords, uniforms, and journals to share with you.”

  As Professor Lund spoke, my eyes grew heavy. The warm tea and even hotter room made it difficult to stay awake. My ears perked up when I heard Professor Lund speak of the Asheville Trail. She continued, “Many Northern sympathizers and Confederate deserters crossed the border to South Carolina across the trail. Asheville was a transportation hub in the early 1860s for the war.”

  My eyes drifted closed again. I dreamed. I could hear the wagon wheels churning up the red mud as they crossed the border. Its occupants ever on the lookout for the gray coats. Agatha greeted the travelers and chose to ride with them, hoping there was safety in numbers. I leaped into the back of the wagon by the children—five of early ages. Agatha sat on the driver’s bench with the man and woman. I smelled the herbs that Agatha had brought with her. It was a comforting smell, and then I smelled something else, alcohol. I rummaged through the sacks to find brass tubing and a mason jar. Agatha Hollows had a still of her own by the cabin for medicinal purposes, so I knew what this was. I heard the driver say they were headed to Packs Mountain. We stopped for the night and made camp. The travelers shared their beans and fatback with Agatha, who in turned shared with me. She sat next to the fire, poking it with a stick. The young girl rocking in her mother’s arms coughed repeatedly. Agatha stood up and went over to the girl. The mother gazed up protectively but then handed the child to Agatha, who sat back down by the fire cross-legged with the child on her lap. She listened to her chest. “This girl has consumption.” She reached into her pack and pulled out a jar with some herbs, crumbling them in her hands. Then she spit into the leaves and made a paste. She rubbed it on the child’s chest, whispered in her ear, and then the coughing stopped. Her mother rushed over, beaming. “She’s been coughing for almost a week.”

  Agatha put the paste into a jar, handed it to the mother. “Put this on her every night. She’ll be fine in a few days.”

  The children’s father watched, smoking a pipe from his seat across the other side of the fire. We drifted off in front of the fire, the long day’s travel exhausting us.

  By next day’s end, we reached a ridge. “Packs Mountain Ridge,” I heard the man say.

  We headed up. The evening air cooled the ground, sending up a mist. The path was a razorback of granite and red earth. No more than a couple hundred feet across, dropping off sharply on both sides. A very defendable fortress. As we climbed, I saw the far Appalachian Mountains of Tennessee to the south and Glassy Mountain to the north. We settled at the top. The man unloaded the still and began constructing his livelihood. The woman settled the children and started a fire. Agatha and I watched as she made supper. “Agatha, we should leave,” I said.

  “Terra, they know not what they do,” she replied.

  The woman saw Agatha rubbing her arthritic hands and brought her a jar of moonshine. Agatha smiled and then sniffed it. Then she poured it out on the ground. “You took this too early. The first five percent is poison. The next thirty percent you pull is the head, smells strong, burns your nose, but drinkable if needed. Wait for the heart, that’s the next thirty percent, that’ll smell sweet, brings you the best price.”

  The man ran over and slapped Agatha hard across the face. She swayed back from the impact. “Old woman, that was good shine you spilled.” He then turned to his wife and with a closed fist punched her in the eye. She fell to her knees.

  After the man left, Agatha placed a compress of herbs on the woman’s eye. She then handed her a small vial. “If it gets to be more than you can stand, put this in his drink.”

  The woman looked back at the man, then smiled at Agatha and took the vial. When we woke, the man was gone. Agatha gathered her things. “Wait, where are you going? You can ride with us,” the mother said, balancing the sick girl on her hip.

  Agatha shook her head, knowing better. We thanked her and left.

  We made it deep into South Carolina when the gray coat hunters led by the man reached us. Thirty pieces of silver, I thought, the going price for betrayal.

  My eyes half-open, I could see Mrs. Twiggs talking to Mrs. Lund. When I woke, Mrs. Branchworthy was raising her voice. “It was a hundred and fifty years ago.”

  Mrs. Branchworthy’s family had fought on opposite sides of the war than Mrs. Loblolly’s, and the two had been in conflict for years. As Mrs. Branchworthy spoke, I saw a puff of gray smoke circling around her. Mrs. Twiggs rushed to calm her. I didn’t think Mrs. Lund had noticed. She seemed embarrassed over the ladies’ argument. Pulling herself together, Mrs. Branchworthy sat back down, her hands leaving a scorch mark on the walnut table. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Lund,” she said.

  Mrs. Lund smiled.

  Mrs. Twiggs stood up, gathered her purse, and said her goodbyes. I followed her out of the front entrance, past the tourists gazing at the large structure. We entered the garden, the tulips in full bloom. Pixel chased butterflies. Mrs. Twiggs and I sat down on a bench overlooking the bass pond. “Terra, aren’t the tulips beautiful?”

  Tulips, I thought. I remembered Agatha warming them up and placing them on insect bites to take away the sting.

  “Terra, how do we keep the secret? The ladies couldn’t keep a secret before they became Wiccans. How do you expect them to keep it now? And how do we keep people from finding out?”

  “People see what they want to see. Humans don’t believe in magic. That’s why they can’t see that it is all around them.”

  Mrs. Twiggs hesitated. “But what if Mrs. Branchworthy had started a fire? What if she burned the Biltmore to the ground?”

  “We’ll work on her control and her temper,” I assured her.

  Chapter 7

  A Premonition

  Pixel and I lay in the bed next to Mrs. Twiggs. The tiny bedroom above the Leaf & Page was cozy and warm. As of late, Pixel and I had taken to sharing the double bed with Mrs. Twiggs. I believe she felt it as comforting as we did. In the corner the rocking chair rocked slowly. Albert sat watching her sleep as he had for the past ten years since his passing. I could see the sadness and feel his love. Even though now after her turning Mrs. Twiggs could see Albert, she couldn’t feel his caress or tender kiss. Albert was not a watcher like the others. He was not assigned to his Wiccan. His was a deeper calling—true love. As it is when all beings cross over to the next plain, he achieved enlightenment. He knew before her what she was and what she was capable of. Mrs. Twiggs was a very powerful Wiccan, more powerful than I had ever met. And Albert knew with that power came risk. For Albert would have given his life for her when he was alive, and now he watched over her with even more to lose. Black magic could extinguish his true light, sending him to an eternity of nothingness, but Albert stood fast in death as he did in life. His beloved Beatrice would come to no harm on his watch. Pixel glanced up, staring at the chair. It stopped rocking. He looked at me, pulling back his orange pointy ears. He flipped onto his back and fell a
sleep.

  Mrs. Twiggs’s gentle snoring sung me into slumber.

  I knew I was dreaming. We can move between dreams in and out of the waking world. Because Elizabeth is standing in front of me, I knew it was a dream. I had spent the past centuries searching for her only to catch a glimpse of her in the waking world. In my dreams she stepped into my memories. I was dreaming of May Day in Salem before the secret was told. Elizabeth was warning my coven, “Hide well your cheer, my sisters. Hide your folly and your young girl’s nonsense. May Day is a time of great celebration and hope, but also it brings with it great risk. Do not expose yourself. The humans forbid this celebration and will not look kindly on your dancing nor any other frivolity.”

  We sat under the great oak on the outskirts of Salem Town. I could feel the grass between my fingers… fingers. I have not felt fingers in three hundred years. I smelled Elizabeth’s perfume of peonies and gardenia.

  Sitting next to me, Prudence whispered, “We’re meeting in the woods tonight as the clock strikes midnight and the May Day arrives. We will greet it with song and dance.”

  “Prudence, have you not heard a word that Elizabeth has spoken?”

  “Elizabeth won’t find out. I’ve spoken with the others. They agree. Elizabeth worries too much of her reputation and her fiancé.”

  I knew better than to try to convince Prudence of anything. She was as stubborn as she was powerful. It was she who should have been the witch’s apprentice not I, but neither one of us questioned Elizabeth as she had chosen me. Her bloodline ran too deep to be challenged.

  “Prudence,” Elizabeth scolded.

  Prudence turned to attention.

  “Do I distract you?”

  “No, of course not, Elizabeth. I’m sorry.”

  As I gazed at my sisters, my heart ached, knowing the fate that awaited them. Unlike them, I would remain in this world but not in my true form. Elizabeth waved her hands, signaling the meeting was adjourned. I wanted to tell her what Prudence had told me, but I couldn’t. Cat got your tongue? I scolded my dream self. As the night approached, I found myself in the woods. I could see the other lanterns darting through the thickets like playful fireflies as my sisters gathered in the clearing at the far side of Master Johnson’s farm. Prudence was wearing daisies in her long dark hair. She lifted her skirt to reveal her silver buckles to me that reflected the moonlight. She smiled with her beautiful Prudence smile. I thought how much I loved her, more than even the others. We had been more than best friends since childhood. She was my confidante and my true sister. Though not by blood but by love and circumstance. We all joined hands and completed the circle as we danced under the full moon.

  Prudence led the choir in song. “Bring this day, bring this day a new plentiful harvest. Come this May to bring us joy. Your flowers and promises we rejoice in.”

  We danced until I was dizzy, and we all fell to the ground, laughing. I stared up at the stars. I could name the constellations, both the human and the witch stars. Like our spirit trees, witches have their own star. Mine was in the constellation Orion. Elizabeth had traveled to her star or so she had told me. I never knew if that was the truth or a story she told to excite a young girl’s imagination.

  Prudence reached into her cloak and retrieved a leather pouch. She whispered, “Hogweed from a shallow grave.”

  I shook my head. “No, Prudence.”

  The buzzing grew louder. When I woke, Mrs. Twiggs was levitating over her bed, her eyes wide-open and milky white. It was three a.m. “Terra, it’s Mrs. Lund. She needs us to come to the Biltmore immediately.”

  Chapter 8

  A Body in the Biltmore

  I followed Mrs. Twiggs into the basement of the Biltmore through the Halloween room, its garishly painted stone walls casting an eerie glow. When not filled with tourists, the dimly lit corridors echoed. The urgency of the premonition made Mrs. Twiggs hurry through the corridor. The Edison bulbs overhead flickered. This part of the Biltmore Estate had not been updated. Even without my acute cat senses, I would have smelled the sulfur. A rush of cold air blew past me. I could feel a presence. Even ghosts have an aura around them. This presence had no light, no color, no presence. Or maybe it was my imagination.

  “Me scared, Terra.” Pixel clung to my back.

  “It’s okay, Pixel.”

  Mrs. Twiggs took the skeleton key from her pocket. She jiggled it in the door lock. “It’s not opening, Terra.” Mrs. Twiggs placed both her hands on the old oak door. She took a piece of chalk from her sundress pocket and drew a doorknob above the existing one. She whispered the incantation I had taught her, and then she twisted the chalk doorknob. The door crept open with a moan. Mrs. Twiggs lit her flashlight, shining it around the storage room. In the heart of the room, two mannequins stood in Confederate gray uniforms, the third lay on top of Mrs. Lund with an outstretched arm brandishing a Confederate saber thrust through her heart.

  Mrs. Twiggs gasped, taking a step back.

  Chapter 9

  Detective Willows, I presume

  We stood outside as we waited for the detective to finish his preliminary investigation. The large man in an ill-fitting brown suit brandishing a detective’s badge, Detective Willows, came out, peeling off his gloves. “And what were you doing here this late at night?” Detective Willows asked Mrs. Twiggs.

  “I had a feeling.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A premonition.”

  “About Mrs. Lund?”

  “Yes.” Mrs. Twiggs slid down to the ground, out cold. She had fainted. I stepped close to her mouth, pushing my breath into hers.

  Detective Willows lifted her up and carried her into the nearby kitchen. He placed her on a chair. “Mrs. Twiggs, Mrs. Twiggs?” He caressed her cheeks, trying to rouse her. “Mrs. Twiggs. Mrs. Twiggs,” the detective repeated.

  She opened her eyes with a flutter. “What happened?”

  “You fainted.”

  Mrs. Twiggs gazed around the kitchen and realized the detective had carried her in. Her face turned a bright red.

  I’ve known Detective Willows for years, as he is a frequent visitor of the Leaf & Page. He is a kind man. A forty-year veteran of the Asheville police department. His wife had begged him for years to retire, but he couldn’t. He loved his job and the people he protected. After his wife died, Detective Willows decided it was time to retire. Until he received the call about the body in the Biltmore.

  He smiled at Mrs. Twiggs, which made her blush even more. “Let’s get you a cup of tea and then we can talk.”

  I watched Mrs. Twiggs’s aura change colors. She had become quite close to Detective Willows since his wife’s passing. Detective Willows held the delicate teacup and saucer; they looked like a child’s play set in his large hands. He carried his girth with ease and grace. For a man of his size, he was a remarkable dancer, having won many dance contests at the annual Asheville dance competition.

  “Beatrice, take a sip.”

  Mrs. Twiggs sipped slowly, her eyes popping open at the first taste.

  “I’ve fortified it.”

  Mrs. Twiggs finished the tea.

  “Beatrice, there must be some reason aside from your premonition that you were here today. It doesn’t sound good. Premonition? Vision?” Detective Willows shared the skepticism that many police officers felt for mystical events in Asheville.

  “Butch, I’ve always had a sense of foreshadowing, but it’s been stronger as of late. I can’t explain it. I see things before they happen.”

  “Next time you see something, call me first. We’ll keep it between us. Let’s get you home. We can discuss this more tomorrow.”

  Detective Willows helped Mrs. Twiggs up, leading her to the door. EMTs carried the body, Mrs. Lund, out on a gurney as police investigators roped off the room with yellow caution tape. I stayed close to Mrs. Twiggs, lost in my thoughts. Why would someone want to harm Mrs. Lund? Who was she? We knew little about her. All we knew is that she was a known Civil War expert fr
om the University of Richmond in Virginia and that she was dead.

  Chapter 10

  A Twitch of the Nose

  It was almost dawn when Mrs. Twiggs and I made it back to the Leaf & Page where Abigail and Tracker were waiting. We found them in the kitchen, which showed battle scars of white flour and yellow eggs.

  “Sorry, I got into a fight with the mixer,” Abigail said, taking off her batter-stained apron. She appeared as if she had lost the battle. “But I got the scones in the oven. I followed your recipe exactly, Mrs. Twiggs.”

  Pixel bounded into the kitchen. “Mm. Me smell blueberry.” He gave a sigh of relief. All was right in Pixel’s world. He leaped onto the kitchen counter to make sure Abigail hadn’t forgotten any ingredients.

  “You don’t look so good,” Abigail said to Mrs. Twiggs, who sank down at the kitchen table, her head in her hands.

  “I’m fine, dear.”

  “Where have you been?” Abigail placed a teacup in front of Mrs. Twiggs.

  “There’s been some trouble at the Biltmore.” Mrs. Twiggs paused. “Actually, there’s been a tragedy. Mrs. Lund is dead.”

  “The woman from Richmond University? The woman you met yesterday?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened?” Abigail asked, sitting down across from Mrs. Twiggs.

  “I had a premonition she was in grave danger. It told me to go to the storage room.” Mrs. Twiggs teared up. She took a lace handkerchief from her sundress pocket and dabbed her eyes. “We found her dead, a sword through her heart.” And then she started to cry, her shoulders shaking.