Dark Corner Page 6

  I leaped onto the table, rubbing against her and purring. “Mrs. Twiggs, it’s okay.”

  “I could have saved her, Terra, maybe if I would have called the police first or gotten there quicker.”

  “Mrs. Twiggs, she was gone before your premonition was over.”

  “How do you know, Terra? How do you know that?”

  “You haven’t learned yet how to read your visions. The stronger you get, the further in the future you will be able to see.”

  “I felt I was in that room with her, Terra, when she passed.”

  “She reached out to you, Mrs. Twiggs, as she turned from this world to the next.”

  After pulling the scones out of the oven, Abigail sat back down across from Mrs. Twiggs. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Twiggs. I’ve got everything ready for today’s opening.” She paused and then said, “By the way, Charlotte’s sleeping upstairs in the extra bedroom.”

  “Why? What happened?” Mrs. Twiggs asked.

  “She got into a fight with Miss Hartwell and stormed out of the house. She doesn’t know anyone else, so she came here.”

  “Oh dear, that’s a shame. What could they have fought about?”

  Abigail shrugged. “She didn’t really say. I think she wanted to be around someone her own age. We watched a movie, hung out, and I told her to stay over.”

  I ran up the stairs to the second floor until I reached the bedroom. I knocked my head against the door. It was locked. I crouched down to peer under the door but couldn’t see anything from that vantage point. I smelled Charlotte or at least the scent she left. I knocked on the door gently, and then I knocked louder. I don’t know why I felt the need to check to make sure she was in her bed and safe. When she didn’t answer, I shook off the feeling and returned to the kitchen in time to hear Pixel say, “Me help.” He pulled his paw back from the hot scones.

  “It’s time to open the shop. Thanks for all your help, dear.” Mrs. Twiggs smiled at Abigail and then went into the front room where she walked over to the picture of Albert. She raised her fingers to her lips, kissed them, and then held her fingers to his lips. He smiled down at her as she opened the front door. She greeted each customer warmly and many of them with a hug while Abigail took orders for morning tea. Mrs. Twiggs maintained her pleasant spirits during the morning rush, but I could tell Mrs. Lund’s death was on her mind.

  Around lunchtime, Mrs. Loblolly strolled in, wearing a bright daisy sundress. Lately I had noticed all the ladies of the Biltmore Society dressing similarly. They were donned in bright sundresses, flowered hats, and kitten-heeled sandals. Then I remembered it was late April, almost May Day. The ladies were preparing for the Wiccan holiday.

  Mrs. Loblolly hugged Mrs. Twiggs. “How are you, Beatrice? I’m so excited.” She looked around the room and then appeared disappointed. “I don’t see her.”

  “Whom are you talking about, June?”

  “Mrs. Lund. I was to meet her here to talk about my family history during the Civil War.” She held up a family bible. “I brought our history with me.”

  “Oh, June, I didn’t know.” The teacup in Mrs. Twiggs’s hand shook.

  “What are you stammering on about, Beatrice?”

  “Come by the fire.” They sat in the wing-back chairs on either side of the marble-encased fireplace. “Mrs. Lund is dead.”

  “Beatrice, what are you talking about?”

  Mrs. Twiggs hesitated before saying, “She was killed in the storage room of the Biltmore. I was there last night. I saw her.”

  “Oh, Beatrice, this is horrible.” Mrs. Loblolly reached across and took Mrs. Twiggs’s hands in hers. “What happened?”

  Mrs. Twiggs shook her head and pulled out her handkerchief again, dabbing at her eyes.

  The silver bell over the transom tinkled in greeting as Miss Hartwell came in wearing sensible rubber shoes and an inexpensive navy-blue dress. Her mousy brown hair was tied back in a bun. The makeup she wore was applied sparingly to take away from her sunken eyes and crow’s-feet. She looked worse for wear since I had last seen her. I had never seen her in such disarray.

  “Miss Hartwell, thank you for coming,” Mrs. Twiggs said as she rose out of the chair. She gave her a hug. “Please have some tea.” Mrs. Twiggs poured her a cup.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Twiggs. I wanted to check on Charlotte,” Miss Hartwell said.

  “Abigail, go upstairs and see if Charlotte can come down,” Mrs. Twiggs said.

  I followed Abigail up the stairs. Before she could knock on the door, it swung open. Charlotte stood in front of us in the same clothes she had on the day before.

  “What’s up?” she asked.

  “Miss Hartwell is asking about you.”

  Charlotte sighed, shrugged, and said, “She wants me to stay at the estate. I’m not comfortable there. It’s not my style.”

  “Come talk to her,” Abigail said.

  We joined Miss Hartwell, Mrs. Twiggs, and Mrs. Loblolly in the kitchen where Mrs. Twiggs had put out a tray of sandwiches. Mrs. Twiggs stared at Abigail. I wondered too how much Miss Hartwell knew of the secret of the Ladies of the Biltmore Society.

  “Charlotte, I think you should come back to the estate,” Miss Hartwell said. “I need your help in sorting through Mrs. Tangledwood’s things. You might want a memento.”

  Charlotte shrugged.

  “Mr. Bridgestone, your aunt’s attorney, wants to sit down with you to review the conditions of the will,” Miss Hartwell added.

  Abigail nudged her. “Okay,” Charlotte said.

  “He wants to meet early tomorrow. It’s probably best if you stay at the estate,” Miss Hartwell said.

  Charlotte turned to Abigail with an eye roll. “Okay, fine,” she said.

  Mrs. Twiggs escorted them out the door and flipped the closed sign. Abigail grabbed her laptop and plopped down on the sofa in the living room. I jumped on the back of the couch. Abigail appeared to be watching a TV show. “What is this, Abigail?”

  “I’m doing research. It’s called Bewitched. I’ve been binge-watching it,” Abigail said. “Wait, Terra, you’ll like this episode. She goes back to Salem.”

  I was intrigued, so I snuggled down with my head on her shoulder. It did not look like the Salem I remembered. Nor did the people behave as they had in my day. We watched several episodes after that one. I was intrigued by the human portrayal of witches. Abigail twitched her nose, and a Diet Coke flew to her hand from the refrigerator.

  “No, Abigail,” I said. “That’s not how it’s done.”

  “Come on, Terra, lighten up.”

  “Who’s that?” I asked.

  “That’s Samantha’s husband, Darrin.”

  “He doesn’t look like the Darrin from the last episode.”

  “There’s two Darrins.”

  “She has two husbands?” I asked.

  “No, they switched Darrins midseason.”

  “Oh.” Television comedies made no sense to me. I’d only seen them once or twice. If the elders back in Salem Town had seen flying pictures through the air, everyone watching would have been on trial. Then a thought occurred to me. “You could learn from Samantha, Abigail. She’s always getting in trouble performing magic in front of humans.”

  Pixel joined me on the back of the couch. “Grumpy Cat,” he said.

  “No, we’re not watching Grumpy Cat again.”

  “Grumpy Cat, Terra.”

  “After we finish this show, okay?” Sometimes it was best to give in to Pixel.

  “Okay,” he said, but he was fast asleep in seconds. The last episode we watched, Samantha the witch was flying on a broom. Abigail grunted and gave me a dirty look. I let out a meow laugh and fell asleep.

  Chapter 11

  Pixel Makes a Friend

  Agatha Hollows Cabin,

  Black Mountain

  “This is going to work this time. I know it, Terra.” Abigail stirred the potion boiling on the potbellied stove.

  I appreciated her enthusiasm but didn’t share he
r faith. There was only one person who could turn me back to my real self, and Elizabeth was lost to me. I had seen her twice in the past three hundred years, and the second was when she came to protect her great-granddaughter, Abigail. She had come and gone so quickly that my moment was lost. Even if she had the power to turn me back, she was in a different realm of existence. Her powers might not transfer to this world.

  “Try it, Terra.”

  I took a sip and spit it out. The witch hazel was bitter to the tongue.

  Pixel sniffed, grunted, and walked away.

  “Where did you find this potion, Abigail?”

  Abigail ran into the bedroom and retrieved a book. I recognized it as the one she had found under the floorboards.

  “How were you able to translate that potion?”

  Abigail smiled. “I placed the book up to a mirror, and the words unscrambled. I could read the directions in the mirror.”

  The simplest answers are usually the best. I never would have thought of that.

  “It’s a transformation potion Agatha Hollows used to help the dying pass from this world to the next. I thought maybe it would help you return to your true self in this world.”

  “Agatha used that potion to comfort the dying to reaffirm that there was a life after this one.”

  “Did it work?”

  “No, but it provided comfort to them and their families.”

  Pixel’s cries drew us outside. Tracker stood over the orange cat, his mouth around the cat’s neck.

  “Tracker, no,” Abigail scolded. Pixel swatted him on the nose and took off into the woods. I chased him across the stream toward the valley, which was full of spring blooms, irises, and daffodils.

  Pixel rolled about the flowers, giggling. “Tickle. Flowers tickle.” He was remarkably fast for a fluffy cat.

  The mountain laurels were starting to bloom pinks and whites. Pixel jumped and ran into the hollow beyond the valley. Lush green moss ran along the stream that flowed past the cabin and into the French Broad River. He stopped and stared.

  “Pixel, what is it?”

  “Pixel, friend.” He turned his head back to gaze at me. I could see his smile as a pink-and-purple butterfly fluttered over his shoulder.

  On the stream’s shore bloomed fern leaf yarrow, red valerian, cosmos, rosemary, thyme, purple coneflower, pincushion scabiosa, French lavender, and heliotrope. It was a garden. Butterflies danced about, landing from one beautiful flower to another. “Butterflies are beautiful, Pixel.”

  “No, Pixel’s friend.”

  “I’m sure the butterflies like you, Pixel.” I hid my sarcasm. I tried not to deflate Pixel’s enthusiasm.

  The large purple-and-white butterfly landed on his nose. He giggled, trying to stand still. The butterfly flew off and joined the monarchs, the silver-spotted skippers, pipevine swallowtails. Agatha Hollows never would have planted a butterfly garden. Not that she didn’t appreciate their beauty, but she was a practical woman. There was no medicinal property to these flowers. This garden hadn’t been planted with that purpose. We sat for hours, watching the butterflies, mesmerized by their flight and their beauty. My cat instincts screaming at me to catch one, I held back. I held all life sacred even the mice I had to eat when I was starving. I made quick of them to spare their suffering. I hated that part of my life. The more Abigail tried to change me back, the more I hated being a cat. Even the slightest hope brings despair. But I cannot resolve myself to this eternity of this creature’s body. I wish I had the bliss of ignorance like Pixel. He is what he is, and that’s enough for him.

  “Fairy garden?” Pixel asked.

  “Yes, Pixel, like the garden Mrs. Twiggs planted behind the Leaf & Page.” When she arrived in Asheville, Mrs. Twiggs planted a garden for the “wee folk,” complete with stone cottages, a waterfall, and twinkling lights. It was housed in the small yard behind the store. I had never met an actual fairy. Mrs. Twiggs did her best efforts to attract them to her little garden, but I knew better. They had been driven out of this world many years ago. I’d never told Mrs. Twiggs. She enjoyed her fairy garden and her fairy tales.

  We returned to the cabin as the sun was setting. Pixel rushed past me through the door when we smelled the turkey. Abigail’s cooking skills had improved over the past few months, and the air smelled of butter and sage.

  “No mice tonight,” I whispered gratefully. We sat silently at the table enjoying Abigail’s food.

  “Terra, I think I know what went wrong with the potion,” Abigail said, picking up her guitar and strumming it when we were done eating. “You’re not passing through worlds, you’re passing through bodies in this world.”

  Abigail has an inquisitive mind like all witches, a requirement to be a good witch. I didn’t want to inhibit her enthusiasm. “I think you’re right, Abigail. Keep looking. I’m sure you’ll find a way to change me back.”

  Abigail smiled and handed Pixel and Tracker both another piece of turkey. She went into her bedroom and returned wearing a yellow polka-dot sundress. She twirled around as the skirt chased after her. “What do you think? For May Day?”

  “You’re beautiful, Abigail.” She looked so much like Elizabeth, with her long white-blond hair. I remembered Elizabeth warning us about celebrating May Day, but those were different times. Ashevillians celebrated witches in a way that Salem did not. Here the witches and Wiccans were safe.

  “What May Day?” Pixel asked from his spot by the fire.

  “Beltane and Samhain are considered the two turning points of the year. Wiccans believe the veil between the human and supernatural world is at its thinnest, making those two days potent for magic crafting. Beltane mean fires of bel in honor of the Celtic sun god Belenus. Fire has the power to cleanse and purify. They light fires, dance, and feast.”

  “Feast?” Pixel’s ears popped up.

  “They dance around a maypole, which is a spring fertility ritual.”

  “Pixel like feast. Pixel like May Day.” He wound around me, purring and nuzzling me.

  “We’re going to celebrate,” Abigail said. “We’ll tell the ladies.”

  “Yes, I believe it is safe.” It would do the ladies good to have a celebration. It would be relief from the recent darkness.

  “What do you mean safe, Terra?”

  “I’ve seen a lot of magic awakening in Asheville. Celebrating May Day would draw that magic out. We need to control it before it is commanded elsewhere and becomes black magic. We need to find a ninth Wiccan to complete the circle. This could draw her to us.”

  Abigail half listened as she admired her reflection in a copper kettle. I hadn’t thought it possible, but she was becoming more beautiful. Bryson stared at Abigail as she stared at herself. Watchers had deep affections for their watched but never turned that into love. That was dangerous. Bryson loved Abigail. He saw me staring at him and disappeared.

  Chapter 12

  Training Day

  “Right on time,” I said to Abigail as she opened the cabin door. Mrs. Raintree stood on the porch, dressed in an authentic Cherokee medicine woman’s dress and hiking boots. Her dark brown eyes sparkled in the morning sun; her long raven hair with its single silver streak was braided down her back.

  “You are taking this seriously, aren’t you?” Abigail asked.

  “Of course, Abigail. This dress is almost two hundred years old. It’s older than the Trail of Tears. It’s been passed down to the women in my family. I’ve never had an occasion to wear it.”

  Abigail gathered a backpack. She had filled it with beef jerky, trail mix, and bottles of water, none of which we would need for our adventure, the purpose being to teach both Mrs. Raintree and Abigail how to survive in the woods. We headed out down toward the valley, making our way along the ridge that ran halfway up Black Mountain. Pixel and Tracker stayed close to us even while they ran off to chase butterflies. I led the way. We stopped under a willow tree along the stream. Mrs. Raintree bent down, cupped her hand, and took a drink from the stream. A
bigail ran her hand along the bark of the willow tree and pulled it away, leaving her hand full of sticky sap.

  I walked up to Abigail. “Gather mud from the stream bank, Abigail,” I told her. She did as I requested, scooping it into the metal pail she had brought with her. “Cover your hands and arms with the mud.”

  “Why, Terra?”

  Mrs. Raintree watched intensely. “There are dark creatures that hunt at night, not by sight but track you by the heat radiating off your body. They track you by your colors. The mud will contain your body heat.”

  “You mean like in Predator?”

  I didn’t understand the reference. “Yes, predators hunt at night, Abigail.”

  “You don’t mean like vampires, do you?” Mrs. Raintree asked.

  “No, vampires aren’t real.”

  Mrs. Raintree walked in front of me. I studied her gait. “Mrs. Raintree, stop a minute. Put your fingers in your ears.”

  She looked at me with a question mark.

  “Please,” I repeated. “And then start walking.”

  She did as I asked. I ran up to her and stopped her by placing a paw on her leg. She removed her fingers. “Could you hear the thud of your steps as you were walking?” I asked.

  “Yes, Terra.”

  “That’s the sound of wasted energy, traveling through your knees and feet into the ground. You are burning extra calories and creating extra impact on your joints, and you’re making it easy for hunters to find you. Now take your boots off. Try walking now. Notice the impact of the ground is closer to the front of your foot. I want you to land your forefoot first. This impact is absorbed by your body’s natural shock absorber—your forefoot instead of the heel. You see how much quieter you walk now.”

  Mrs. Raintree reached into her backpack and removed a pair of moccasins. I nodded. “Those will mimic your bare feet.”

  We walked for several miles, stopping in a small clearing surrounded by early spring purple phlox and yellow lady slippers. I stared up at the clouds. “Thin, wispy clouds up high,” I said. “If they are still, it means good weather for at least the next day. If they move quickly, it means a change is coming. If those clouds blanket the sky so thin that they give the sun a halo, that means a storm is coming soon. Gray clouds you can expect rain before the end of day. If those gray clouds form at a lower elevation and build becoming thick, that means thunderstorms by afternoon. If that gray blanket is low and has a constant drizzle, there will be no thunder or lightning. Most importantly—” I looked over at Abigail picking flowers. “Abigail,” I yelled.