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  She snapped her head around.

  “Most importantly I was saying, low-lying thunderheads with an anvil top. If these puffy clouds get taller, head for shelter.”

  “Terra.” Abigail waved her finger in the air, making a swirling motion. The clouds drifted into a funnel cloud.

  “Where did you learn that, Abigail?”

  “In one of the hundreds of books you made me read.”

  Before I could stop her, lightning struck a tall pine, slicing it in two. Pixel and Tracker ran. A heavy limb fell inches from Abigail’s head as she fell to the ground, covering herself. As quickly as it came, the funnel cloud disappeared.

  I leaped on top of Abigail. “Stupid girl, you could have died.”

  Her eyes turned bright blood red. For the first time, I feared her. In a second her eyes turned back to violet.

  “I’m sorry, Abigail, I didn’t mean to say that. Even the most powerful of witches is a slave to nature. We can suggest to her how to act, but we can’t totally control her.” I stopped. “Lesson learned. This is why you have to learn to live with nature.”

  We reached a branch of the French Broad River, unique because it is one of the only rivers that flows north. I pointed out the deep bend. “Never cross here. The near bend will be calm and shallow while the outside of the bend will be deeper with faster water that you won’t see. And never cross a fast-moving river that is as deep as your chest.”

  We walked along the river, following a stream that branched off toward the deep woods until we reached a springhead. “This water is safe to drink coming from the ground deep inside the mountains. The cleanest springs emerge from vertical ground either a stone face or earth. If you don’t have a stream to follow, follow a dry creek bed. It will lead you to clean, fresh water. Follow it up the mountain as high as you can and then dig two to three feet down, and you will find water.”

  We stopped by a rotting log. Tracker stuck his nose in it. Pixel leaped onto it. I reached down with a claw, pulling out a paw full of termites, eating them quickly. Abigail winced. Tracker and Pixel mimicked me. Tracker spit them out. Pixel scooped another pawful. “There’s more nutrition in an ounce of termites than in a steak.”

  We followed the stream to where it entered a cave. I felt the ancient magic emanating from deep within the mountain. “Do you feel that, Mrs. Raintree?” I asked.

  She placed her hand on the cool, damp wall inside the cave. “I feel something, Terra. It feels like a low electrical current. What is that?”

  “Black and white witches leave behind a trail of magic. Think of it like Hansel and Gretel leaving crumbs behind to find their way home. If you know how to follow those crumbs, it will lead you to their magic.”

  “Cool. Like a scavenger hunt,” Abigail said.

  “Of sorts,” I acknowledged. “You can gather that magic, but be careful to leave the black magic that was left to confuse and harm you.”

  “How do you know the difference?” Mrs. Raintree asked.

  “The current that you feel is in tune with your inherent magic. Do you feel how that current flows into you from the wall through you and back, completing the circuit?”

  “I feel tingly all over.”

  “Feel your pulse.”

  She stood quiet and placed a hand on her wrist. “It’s steady and slow.”

  “That means it was left by a white witch. If it were left by black magic, your body would try to resist it; your heart would beat quickly and irregularly. A fight-or-flight chemical reaction,” I said.

  We journeyed farther into the cave. Abigail ran her hand along the wall, causing the granite to glow with a soft light. A vein of that white light chased us along the wall as we walked until we reached the great cavern. Overhead the stalactites dripped with water and limestone. “Careful,” I said, “Don’t wake the bats.”

  “Not vampire bats?” Mrs. Raintree said.

  We crouched on a ledge, listening to the babble of the water. “You’ve been here before, haven’t you, Terra?”

  “Yes, Agatha Hollows brought me here when I first came to Asheville.”

  Abigail looked around the cavern. The walls were covered in Cherokee drawings. Mrs. Raintree read to us. “This is a holy place, Terra. Only the medicine men and women were allowed here.” She walked to one of the drawings. It was a picture depicting what the humans called an angel floating over the mountains with one wing broken. “This is Agatha Hollows, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I said. “She was a fallen angel, wounded in the ancient war. What the humans call an angel, what witches call one of the old ones, an earth walker. She came down from her star to regain her strength and hide from her enemies.”

  “The cries of my people brought her to rescue us, didn’t it?” Mrs. Raintree asked. She understood the heavens hold many mysteries.

  “Yes,” I said.

  Mrs. Raintree traced her fingers along the drawing. Her body shook. “I can feel her. This was her magic?”

  “Yes, she left a trail for us to follow.”

  Mrs. Raintree sang a Cherokee song for us, a melody I had heard at the cabin, a melody older than the mountain we sat under. “We’ll be safe here tonight,” I said when she was done. “Sleep. This mountain is a dream catcher. Open up your mind and your hearts to it.” I heard a splash. Pixel had tumbled into the stream, trying to catch a fish.

  He mumbled, cursing a cat curse as water spewed from his mouth. He shook his fur. “Pixel no like.”

  Abigail snapped her fingers and lit a fire for Pixel to dry his fur. He rubbed against her. “Pixel, you’re all wet,” she scolded. Abigail shared her beef jerky with Pixel and Tracker.

  Mrs. Raintree sang us to sleep as I caught my dream.

  “My star?”

  “Yes, Terra, on Orion’s belt, see, at the bottom.” Elizabeth pointed up at the Salem night sky. As she stared up, I stared at her. She was seventeen years just weeks from her spirit tree birth. At eighteen years when a witch finds her spirit tree, she joins her blood to her bloodline.

  “Can witches really travel to their witch star, Elizabeth?”

  Elizabeth looked over with her Elizabeth smile. “Yes, Terra.”

  My eyes flew open, my heart pounding. I looked at the sleeping Abigail with jealousy in my heart. “That should be me,” I said.

  In the morning, we continued our walk out of the cave and up to the precipice of the mountain. From there we could see the hollows and the valley below. The morning sky was beautiful, blue with a red lipstick streak as the sun rose. We spent the morning identifying medicinal herbs, roots that could be used in potions, traces of witch magic left behind. Mrs. Raintree was a fast learner. She knew her family history, and more importantly, she believed in it and the power of mother earth, the source of her magic. We came to a clearing and a field of wilted irises.

  “It’s getting late in the season for irises.” She reached down and touched one. It rejuvenated to a beautiful purple. Each one she touched came alive to its early spring glory. She turned and smiled at me. “Terra, I dreamed last night about the hunters. The ones that were tracking Agatha Hollows. I felt their magic in the cave walls also. They are still hunting her.”

  Abigail turned her gaze. “What is she talking about, Terra?”

  Chapter 13

  Tangledwood Estate Sale

  Emma Tangledwood’s estate was substantial. In size, it was slightly smaller than the Biltmore, but it nearly matched it in grandeur and elegance. The line had started early, reaching out to the long line of poplars that stood on either side of the driveway. Today was the estate sale, and all the ladies were on hand to ensure success. Sitting in the grand foyer, Charlotte monitored people filtering through the massive door, imported from a French cathedral, an example of the exquisite taste and limitless wealth of the Tangledwoods. There had been talk about the Tangledwoods’ wealth and how it had been made. Some said cotton, others tobacco, no one seemed sure. Mrs. Tangledwood’s many collections did not convey the taste of the fruga
l woman I knew her to be. She was wont to save a penny where a penny could be saved, but in turn she had an eye for beauty and quality wares. She had spent thousands at the Leaf & Page with Mrs. Twiggs’s help, hunting down first editions and other rare books on magic and the occult.

  Due to her status, the sale was by invitation only meant for only the elite of Asheville with all proceeds being donated to the Biltmore Preservation Foundation. Its past president now also passed, Emma Tangledwood had wanted her beloved collections to stay in Asheville. Mrs. Twiggs walked through each room, sharing information with buyers about the antiques, their values, and their provenance. The rest of the ladies rang up sales, answered questions, and wrapped valuable purchases. Abigail came into the foyer, sitting down next to Charlotte while I enjoyed the sun sneaking in from the stained-glass sidelights.

  “Charlotte, how are you doing?” Abigail asked. “It’s been a lot, huh?”

  “Yes, it has.”

  “What about the rest of your family? Your parents? Are they coming here?”

  “My parents are dead, and even if they were alive, they wouldn’t have come anyway. My aunt wrote them out of her will… bad blood,” Charlotte said.

  Abigail frowned. I could see the pain in her eyes, pain for her own loss. Abigail’s parents had been lost in the floods following Hurricane Katrina. She moved closer to Charlotte. Emma Tangledwood had not been the easiest person to get along with. She had a remarkable passion for philanthropy but strong opinions that she shared with everyone. Although some had been turned off by her prickly exterior, I had appreciated it.

  “You look like you could use a little fun,” Abigail said.

  Charlotte smiled. Abigail pulled Charlotte out of the house. They walked to the end of the crowded long driveway. When the estate had disappeared behind them, Abigail said, “Wait here for a second.” Abigail ran behind the trees, not knowing I was behind her. She closed her eyes and whispered an incantation. The roots of the poplars danced around the ground like delicate fingers, clasped together, picking up dirt and grass molding the shape until it became a motorcycle. Abigail turned and beamed with great pride. “It’s a 1966 Triumph, 750 like my dad had. I pictured it in my mind.” She jumped on the bike, started it, and drove to the road where Charlotte was waiting. “Get on.”

  Charlotte jumped behind Abigail and put her arms around her waist. She took off, leaving me in the dust. Abigail’s youth betrayed her. She put us all at risk, performing magic like that so close to a human. I would have to caution her when she returned.

  I headed back to the estate sale. Mrs. Twiggs greeted me at the front door. “Where is Charlotte? I need her help.”

  I stuttered. “She… she… she and Abigail took off.”

  “Took off? What do you mean?”

  I had no answer.

  “Never mind.” I sensed Mrs. Twiggs shared my frustration with Abigail. “There’s a man here asking about one of Emma’s paintings, but it’s not on the sale list. He’s not on the invitation list either. In her will, Emma specifically stated that the painting should go to Charlotte. It’s locked away with the other Not For Sale items.”

  Intrigued I followed Mrs. Twiggs to the sitting room where an older man with white hair and white beard sat in a cigar chair. He was elegantly dressed in a three-piece suit and tie.

  “I’m sorry,” Mrs. Twiggs said, pausing to look at the man.

  He rose out of the chair and said, “I’m Darren White.”

  “Yes, of course, so sorry, Mr. White. I couldn’t find Charlotte. I’m afraid we can’t sell the painting without checking with her.”

  “Can I at least see the painting? I deal in antiques of the Vanderbilts. I understand that Mrs. Tangledwood shared my interest.” He had an air of old-world gentility and spoke with a Southern charm.

  She thought for a moment. “Let me go get it.” Mrs. Twiggs left and came back a few minutes later, carrying a large oil painting depicting a field of flowers leading to a stone bridge. She placed it against the wall.

  He studied it, hands clasped behind his back. He leaned down and examined the signature with a jeweler’s loupe. “It’s definitely authentic. It’s a very important piece. Are you sure it’s not for sale?”

  “I can’t sell it without consulting with Charlotte, and she’s not here.”

  “Ma’am, that’s a shame. I’ve come a long way. What can I do to convince you?”

  “Really there’s nothing I can do,” Mrs. Twiggs said. His Southern charm turned sour.

  An awkward moment passed as if he was refusing to leave. “Here is my number if she returns and is willing to sell it.” He handed Mrs. Twiggs a card before turning quickly. “Thank you for your time.” Then he left the room.

  I felt a peculiar twinge as he brushed past me. I couldn’t recall where I had felt it before, but it gave me a sense of foreboding. I brushed it off. Maybe it was simply my cat intuition.

  The day flew past, sales brisk, lines of shoppers until the sun started to set. After the last customer had left, the ladies settled in the sitting room. The front door burst open, and Charlotte and Abigail wandered in, giggling.

  “You both look like something the cat dragged in,” Mrs. Stickman said, eying them. Their hair was windblown, their faces weather-burned, and their smiles lopsided.

  I knocked into Mrs. Stickman, resenting her comment. I knew it was a common expression, but I didn’t appreciate it.

  “Doris, why don’t we all go into the kitchen and I’ll make some tea? It’s been a long day. Apparently longer for some.” Mrs. Twiggs ran a pointed eye over Charlotte and Abigail. Abigail attempted to straighten her hair.

  The ladies gathered around the enormous marble island. Mrs. Twiggs ran her hand along the cool marble and let out a deep breath. She missed her old friend.

  Mrs. Stickman sat across from the two girls. “Have you two been into some mischief?”

  “I’ve been showing Charlotte around Asheville,” Abigail said.

  Charlotte smirked.

  I couldn’t draw my gaze away from Charlotte. The sense of foreboding that I had earlier had returned. There was something about Mr. White that gnawed at me in the same way that Pixel was now gnawing the last of the cherry tarts. He reached up the back of Mrs. Twiggs’s leg, begging for more. She had a soft spot for Pixel and obliged him. I yawned and tried to catch a catnap with one eye left open.

  Mrs. Stickman shivered, stood up, and peered out the kitchen window at the distant Blue Ridge Mountains. Lightning struck across the peak. She whispered, “It’s fixing to storm.”

  Mrs. Twiggs set out teacups and poured us her special brew.

  Mrs. Stickman examined the teacup. “These are Emma’s antique Wedgewood.” She read the bottom of the teacup. “Floral Eden.” She set it down. “For a practical woman who counted her pennies, Emma always had exquisite taste.”

  Miss Hartwell came into the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dust towel. “I think Mrs. Tangledwood would have been happy with the sale, don’t you think?”

  Mrs. Twiggs nodded and poured Miss Hartwell a cup of tea. She sat across from Mrs. Twiggs. “The auction company will be here tomorrow to pick up everything that didn’t sell today. Mr. Bridgestone, the attorney, called. He’d like to see you, Charlotte, in his office tomorrow to discuss your aunt’s estate.”

  Charlotte smiled and sipped her tea.

  “Beatrice, tell me where you get this tea. It’s heavenly,” she said.

  Mrs. Twiggs cupped her teacup. “Abigail, speaking of tea. I spoke with Mrs. Owen about that herb you were searching for. She’s going to check with her supplier.”

  Abigail nodded, adding more sugar to her tea.

  “Squirrel?” Pixel muttered, lifting his head up. Squirrel was Mrs. Owen’s familiar—a black-and-white tabby that Pixel was fascinated with. Charlotte reached down and patted Pixel’s head, not understanding his cat noises.

  Mrs. Twiggs pulled cash and a ledger out of her apron pocket.

  Charlotte whispered, �
��How’d she die?”

  Mrs. Twiggs shuddered and placed her teacup on the saucer with a loud clink. A gentle rain began, drops splatting against the kitchen window. Mrs. Stickman wiped her eyes with a handkerchief. I nudged her.

  “I mean I know she was very old,” Charlotte said. “No one said.”

  “Emma had a very large heart. She was a very giving, loving friend, and that heart gave out,” Mrs. Twiggs said.

  A light danced onto the table. I resisted the urge to chase it.

  “Light, Terra.” Pixel bit my ear. “Chase light.”

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Charlotte running a laser light along the wall. Pixel chased it up and down. Not being able to resist, I joined the chase. Charlotte and Abigail laughed.

  Chapter 14

  A Fairy Ring

  Now that the Leaf & Page had reopened and was fit for business, Abigail, Pixel, Tracker, and I returned to the cabin. It gave me time to train Abigail and time for Agatha Hollows’s magic to assimilate into Abigail’s magic. I preferred the peaceful quiet of the cabin to that of the bustle of the village. In earnest, I felt I couldn’t trust Abigail to hide her magic from the humans. Abigail grabbed a basket and opened the front door. We were planning to gather herbs. She went to step over the threshold— I stopped her when I heard the telltale rattle. A large brown-and-black timber rattler was curled up on the wood porch. We froze, then Abigail reached for the walking stick next to the door. She lifted it.