Talking to Trees

Book 1

The Fern Witches Trilogy

Published by Joanna MacOwl

At Smashwords

Copyright 2011 Joanna MacOwl

This book is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to places, events, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover art by Josi Chosi

This book is available in print at most online retailers.

jmacowl@gmail.com

http://jmacowl.wordpress.com

Acknowledgments

Many thanks to those who read this book and provided valuable feedback.

* * *

To magic, wherever it’s found.

Chapter 1

Dana Quinn sat at the seventh farewell party thrown in her honor in her years as an adjunct. It might be the eighth or ninth. She’d lost count. She fiddled with the talisman that lay under her shirt and she looked at her friends and colleagues without seeing them. In her head, she’d already left Southern California and she was zipping along the interstate to New Hampshire. These goodbye affairs had become a bit embarrassing, a reminder that she had wings, no roots. That would change.

A woman on the sofa, a friend of a friend, asked Dana if she would be making the trip solo or with someone else, a partner? It was the first question of the evening from the deck of Noah’s Ark.

“I’ll be—”

“Dana doesn’t do anything long-term,” Bea said. “She’s going alone.”

The woman could sniff out a weak spot and pounce like a puma, preferably in front of an audience, with bonus points if she left you tongue-tied. If she made you blush, leave the room in tears, and fall headlong over a hassock on your way out, it was a fruitful night.

Honing her skills at Dana’s party was that much juicier. Some time ago, Dana had cooled on their friendship when Bea had screamed at a waiter for serving her mashed instead of a baked.

“Not true,” Dana said with a smile. “I’ve had dozens of long-term relationships.”

The women on the sofa laughed, which flustered Bea and egged her on. “You flit. It’s part of your charm. You’re a flitter.” She enunciated the last word with bite.

Dana smirked and glanced at the other women, who’d been watching the exchange as if they were at Wimbledon. One of them rolled her eyes, and the other raised an eyebrow and shook her head.

Dana raised her gin-and-tonic to Bea.

“Well, here’s to you finally finding someone, or you’d be even more of an insufferable bit—”

“Hey, you look like my hot gym teacher from high school,” a familiar voice said in Dana’s ear, followed by a deafening laugh. She bent down again and whispered, “Down, girl.”

“Scarlett, you made it,” Dana said, turning to Rachel and giving her a mock up-and-down. Dana grinned. “Victoria’s Secret. Very nice.”

They laughed as Rachel dropped back over the arm of the chair and landed on Dana’s lap.

“Scarlett?” Bea said.

“Private joke,” Rachel said, glaring and batting her eyelashes.

Rachel was a drama professor, known for her granola getups in the classroom, but at night she preferred a more sophisticated style. Layers of delicate silver chains twinkled on her chest. She was the fashionista of the English department, and proud of the title.

Her sleek look contrasted with Dana’s casual wardrobe and wash-and-wear sandy hair. Dana had a runner’s build without having to do the deed, even at thirty-seven. She was more likely to hit the local gym on a whim, or go for a hike. Her hazel eyes and long eyelashes were striking, she’d been told, and some said she resembled the crime writer, what’s-her-name, to which she always replied, “It’s the hair.” She would describe herself as an outdoorsy nerd.

Bea went in search of new blood.

“Did you smack the Bea?” Rachel asked. “The Victorian lit queen wants us all to go back in time.”

“She’s not a fan.”

“No kidding.” They laughed, and Rachel hugged her, letting her long, dark hair fall over them like a curtain. “Sorry I’m so late. I’m getting a drink, want anything?”

“No, thanks,” Dana said. “Glad you’re here.” She leaned her head back and patted her hand over her heart as she watched Rachel walk away. After a spurt of polite catcalls for Rachel and Dana, the party returned to a moderate hum. Rachel greeted everyone with her usual pizzazz as she meandered toward the kitchen.

Gen Thomas watched from the other side of the room. She glanced at Rachel, then at Dana, and she turned away. They were gathered at Gen’s, the head of the English department, who’d taken Dana under her wing when Dana had arrived for duty three years ago. She’d encouraged Dana to finish her dissertation and replace the ABD with a PhD, and had all but promised her a tenure-track position if she made it happen.

There’d been an instant affinity between them and they’d become friends, to a point. Gen was undoubtedly a top, and she operated her connections with people like a deft surgeon. Dana had seen her wield the scalpel.

They were a tight group, she’d discovered back then, but she’d assimilated in no time. In spite of the personal pitfalls of this teaching gig, she was lucky to have landed in their midst. She felt better about leaving them knowing she could return.

She was about to get up and mingle when she felt a slow rocking sensation, like a buffeting wind.

Come hide away.

She heard the words clearly, as if in a tunnel, reverberating in the air around her. Not again. She sat up straight on the edge of the chair and she rubbed her forehead. She scanned the room and turned her head, feeling her movements in slow motion. A gentle swell of energy swept through her from head to toe, and she was dizzy. She pushed out of the chair and tried to control her breathing, aiming for a calm demeanor.

Gen came to her side and took her arm. She walked Dana down the hall and into her bedroom.

“You okay?” Gen asked.

“Yeah, just the excitement, I’m fine.”

“I’ll make coffee. Use my bathroom, splash some water, whatever you need.” She took Dana’s hands. “I hate that you’re leaving and that’s all I’ll say.”

“Say what you want. Now’s a good time.”

“You know.” She smiled and squeezed Dana’s hands, then she left the room.

No, she didn’t know. She sat on the edge of the bed, wondering what the voice and the strange sensations had been about. The same damn thing had happened a month ago, same words, same everything. It was the day she’d decided to go to the cabin, that morning, when she was just out of the shower and walking into the kitchen. And one other time, a week ago.

Whatever the weirdness was, it was gone by the time she entered the kitchen and saw Rachel standing near the sink, adding a cupful of crushed ice to a pale pink concoction in a tall glass shaker. Dana snaked her arms around her waist and pressed her mouth against her ear, resisting the urge to make a loud sucking noise to pay her back.

“You want me to go with you, don’t you?” Rachel asked in her best Scarlett.

“Frankly, my dear…”

“You’re an ass for leaving,” Rachel said. She dabbed her eyes with a paper towel, then she slapped Dana’s arm.

“It’s temporary. One year, that’s nothing.”

“Want one of these?” Rachel asked before she hit the button on the blender.

“No, coffee.”

“I have to go soon. Stuff with Maria,” Rachel said. “I want to come to your place tomorrow afternoon. Let’s go out. It’s your last day, right?”

“Yeah, I’d love that. It’s my last free day. Let’s go out for a late lunch and back to my place.”

“You got it,” Rachel said. “Around two?”

Dana found a mug in the first cupboard door she opened, and she stole some coffee mid-brew. She blew on it gently and she and Rachel looked at each other. Strain showed on Rachel’s face from the recent rockiness of her situation at home. Dana asked her if she wanted to talk, and Rachel said it could wait until tomorrow.

Chapter 2

You’re supposed to be magical, or at least good luck. Dana held up the gold scarab she’d pulled from under her wet shirt by its long chain. She couldn’t really blame the innocent talisman for her hit-and-miss life since she’d been in California. There’d been a string of flings—she would need an extra hand to count them—but her desire to sustain anything was as robust as the thrashed umbrella behind her car seat.

And just now, when she was shopping, Rachel had called to postpone until tomorrow, and when she left the store she was greeted by a downpour. She’d run to her car, slipped on a patch of filthy oil, and dropped two bags into the muck. She was soaked by the time she threw them onto a towel in the back deck of her RAV and sat behind the wheel.

Perfect. The last half hour was a microcosm of the last three years’ missteps, misconnections, and a sense that the universe was picking a fight. She had one toe hovering over the low rung of a ladder that was reserved for paparazzi, or singles pushing forty, who skittered along the edges of other people’s lives.

And lately, that voice and the rushes.

Never mind. She would hit the reset button and life would be different when she returned.

She dropped the scarab down her tee shirt and it tumbled into her bra. She pinched wet fabric away from her midriff and held it for a moment, then she blotted her face with a wad of napkins from the passenger’s seat. The rain beat down so hard that shimmery sheets of water slid down the windshield, clearing her visibility.

She started the car and flicked on the wipers as she ran through a mental to-do list. She’d had her hair trimmed, dropped cartons off at Goodwill, had the car checked, and picked up trip supplies. There was enough food at home to take her through the weekend.

It didn’t matter what day she saw Rachel, she supposed, or if she saw her at all. Yes, she did want to see her. Rachel was her closest friend here. Dana was too tempted to ask questions, though, and to give advice. At the moment, she wasn’t qualified to do that. She would just listen, that’s what she would do, no matter what.

She reached behind her seat for the useless brown umbrella, its broken skeleton pressing at the nylon folds as if trying to escape, and she forced it into the full trash bag on the floor. She got a secret thrill from throwing away, in general, the way some might get their kicks from hoarding. She jammed it in further to steady the bag. She would buy a new one—that big, bright one with a curved wooden handle at Target.

After a short drive home and a practiced maneuver into her narrow carport space, she hauled the soggy plastic bags from the back. She lobbed the bloated trash bag into the city dumpster when she passed the pristine fence that hid it. She sprinted down the slick sidewalk, dodging mud and worms, and she ran up the stairs and into her apartment. She leaned against the door and surveyed the organized chaos.

Hauling had recently taken over her life: carting boxes from her tiny, shared office at the university, carrying boxes from room to room at home, packing, stacking, and getting rid of anything she didn’t use. She was amazed at all the junk. The downside to her transiency was the ton of work that preceded that blissful moment when the moving truck pulled away with her belongings tucked inside. At least this time the movers would deliver her things down the street to a storage unit, not to another city or state.

After she toweled off and changed, she put away the groceries and uncorked a chilled bottle of Chablis that she’d bought for this occasion, when she could finally sit with her road maps. She pulled a takeout Caesar salad from the refrigerator and set up her dinner on the coffee table.

She was as attached to her laptop and phone as anyone, but she had no use for electronic maps or navigation systems. She was loyal to the old paper ones that sat in her glove box until she needed them. A personal preference more than rigidity, she told herself, as she looked for the hundredth time at the faded handwritten note over the Mojave Desert, courtesy of AAA, that read “No Facilities for 100 Miles.” Poring over the rumpled, coffee-stained maps was the ritual that signaled the end of moving drudgery and the start of another adventure.

She had long planned to take a year off to write her dissertation before she hit forty, and she was about two years shy. She’d started a savings account solely for that purpose when she was thirty, and hadn’t touched it. Though she had known for some time that this was the year, she hadn’t settled on a location until a month ago—May 1, to be exact, Beltane—when she’d thought of the perfect location. She’d sent an e-mail that day to her Uncle Brian in Boston to see if the family cabin in Fern was available. He’d promptly responded that it would be ready, and all hers for the year.

She had hazy memories of the summers she’d spent at the cabin when she was a kid, but she hadn’t given it much thought since then. Now she wouldn’t consider going anywhere else.

Her cell phone played a tinny version of “Tell Me Something Good” and displayed Rebecca, her sister. Dana eyed her salad, one hand resting against her rumbling stomach. Dana greeted her and told her to get a glass of wine to toast her year off.

“Lucky you, a year alone in paradise doing your egghead thing while I’m stuck in Bee-Eff North Dakota with four teenagers. Marshall says—”

“You love it. Tell you what, next summer we’ll trade places and I’ll watch the kids for a month.”

“Yeah, you say that. You know I’d go crazy with that much quiet. Hey, Uncle Brian made me promise not to tell you about the changes at the cabin. He’s happy you’re staying there.”

“He’s been great. I am so ready for this.”

“If you run into any trouble, promise you’ll call him.”

“Yes, dear, I will.”

“And call me when you get settled in and watch out for bears, Dane. Keep your cell with you. Oh, and he said to tell you to walk up the hill.” She whispered, “There’s a new resident, and it’s not Mr. Hatch. That’s all I know.”

They laughed at the mention of Mr. Hatch, the one-eyed ghost who drove his phantom car past the cabin and up the hill to his creepy, haunted mansion—a story told to keep them inside the cabin at night and out of the woods. It was the one eye that had gotten to them more than the ghost.

“I’ll definitely check that out, during the day,” Dana said.

“And one teeny tiny detail. What about when there’s four or five feet of snow on the ground and it’s, like, zero degrees? Marshall thinks—”

“Rent skis? Dress in layers?”

“Dana.”

“Don’t worry,” Dana said, “not knowing is the fun part.”

They wished each other well: Dana with her trip and Rebecca with her family. Each of the Quinns had claimed a region of the country and it never occurred to them to live near one another. They’d had enough of that growing up. One of her brothers lived in Florida, the other in Oregon. Their mother had died several years ago, and Rebecca made sure she kept in touch with them. She had no interest in managing their lives but she liked to have a pulse on them, and that included Dana, the youngest.

She sat cross-legged on the sofa and snapped off the clear plastic lid on the salad. She was confident that she could get everything done by Monday. She and Rachel would get together tomorrow. She had met some old friends from Silver Lake for lunch last Thursday. Yesterday, before the party, she’d forced herself to shop for clothes.

Two more days, a week on the road, then an entire year to research, write, read, and truly wander before starting the second leg of her working life. The dissertation was the first brick she would lay on the way to the new life she would construct. She rested her head on her arm and absently played with the talisman as she drifted thousands of miles away to quiet, solitude, the brook, the woods, and one glorious year of grading no one’s writing but her own.

“Where’s Maria today while you’re out gallivanting?” Dana asked. They’d ordered wine and a plate of zucchini parmagiana. Rachel buttered a round slice of warm sourdough bread.

“Nice place,” Rachel said. She glanced at the other diners while she chewed, and she finally came back to Dana. Her face lit up and they both laughed. “Gallivanting? You’re such a teacher.” She sighed with a flourish. “She went to a family thing at her brother’s in Huntington Beach. I want to be here with you, so don’t give me advice.”

Dana held up her hands in peace. “Just curious. I wouldn’t advise you in that area, believe me.” Dana read the menu. She sensed Rachel staring at her because she was silent.

“What,” Dana said, smiling at Rachel’s serious expression.

“Sorry I had to cancel yesterday. Let’s not talk about Maria. The blazer looks great on you, by the way.” She wiggled her eyebrows.

Dana sat back and sipped her wine. “I want the best for you, that’s all. Seriously, Rach, you’re gorgeous, smart, funny, and even with all your spectacular drama, you’re grounded. Make sure she’s good to you.”

“You’re sweet.” She held the white napkin to her mouth and her eyes went from warm to mischievous. “While we’re on quality of life, let’s talk about you. I think you should—”

“Aw, here comes the waiter,” Dana said, making a sad face. “Remind me where we were, though, so we can recap the vast wasteland of my life.”

Laughter was the thing that had sealed their friendship from the start. Dana thought about Maria, Rachel’s partner of eight years, and wondered if their relationship would survive them screwing around on each other. It had become their norm, according to Rachel. Dana supposed the situation could turn itself around and they might stay together. It could happen. More often, though, she’d seen couples go on and on like that until one of them fell for someone else.

As for herself, she was completely faithful in each of her relationships, which never extended past the length of each job. Until this one. She wasn’t interested in getting anything going that she’d have to leave, and leaving was something she’d perfected. Her most recent fiasco had fizzled in February, after which she’d made a firm decision to leave well enough alone and start mapping out a life.

They both ordered baked halibut and rice, and Rachel worked her way through the appetizer and bread.

“Since you asked,” Rachel said, covering her mouthful of food, “I think you should teach while you do your project and stay in one place. Like here.”

“Tapeworm?” Dana smiled and shook Rachel’s arm. “I need the piece of paper first. I finally got through the proposal, set up a committee, and I have a grip on the research.” She raised her glass. “Here’s to finishing it in the White Mountains.”

“Ah, so that’s it.”

“That’s what? No, with or without the degree, I’ve been happy going from place to place, but it’s wearing. I want a cat or a dog, you know, a place of my own. I want all of it.”

“Wow, really. Dana Quinn with a four-bedroom, Saturday mornings at Home Depot. Good for you, babe. That rolling stone stuff, Jesus, it’s old. You’re better than that.” She squeezed Dana’s hand. “But you’ll miss us, admit it.”

“I will, but I need to get this done. It won’t happen any other way. I’ve given it my best shot, many times, but I always get sidetracked.” Dana shifted in her seat and brushed the front of her blazer. “Now, about you…”

“Stay safe and come back to us.” Rachel twirled her wine glass at the stem and pointed a finger at her. “And don’t worry about my love life. I’m on it.”

“I have no doubt. And just remember, when Maria is driving you crazy, and you want to throw it all away and start fresh with someone new…”

“Oh, what.” She laughed.

“There’s always Bea.”

Chapter 3

Dana followed the moving truck to her storage unit at ten a.m. on Monday, earlier than she expected. She snapped on two Steele padlocks, signed some papers, and took the 15 Freeway north toward Las Vegas, where she would spend her first night. The move had been quick and painless—four hours, start to finish. She owned just enough furniture and trappings to turn an apartment into a home.

While the guys had loaded the truck, she’d packed her car. On the back seat, she put her trip suitcase and a soft leather case that held her laptop and papers. Snacks and bottles of water sat within reach on the floor of the passenger’s side. In the back deck, which would be undisturbed until she arrived in Fern, she wedged her Mr. Coffee, shoes, books, sheets, and towels around a large suitcase that held, among many other things, the Book of Shadows she’d inherited from her grandmother. She wanted it with her.

On her first full day of driving she breezed through the rest of Nevada and all of Utah. She stopped at a hotel off Interstate 80 just past Salt Lake City on the second night. For the third night, she’d timed her trip to put her in Cheyenne, Wyoming, where she’d booked a room at the Finnegan Hotel & Resort. Her affection for the Finnegan went beyond its great rooms and superb food.

A decade ago she’d traveled this same stretch of I-80 in eastern Wyoming, co-opting the smoother passing lane because there were no other travelers in sight. After an hour of cruising through the mesmerizing terrain with the music turned up, lost in her thoughts, she’d glanced in her rear-view mirror to find a black F-150 truck glued to her bumper, and not another car in sight. She froze. Horror stories about slashers on deserted highways loomed. She didn’t know whether to speed up, slow down, or move to the right lane because she didn’t know if the driver was psychotic or just a jerk. She slowed slightly and made a show of putting her cell phone to her ear and opening the glove box. The driver pulled into the right lane and sped away, but she was shaken. Half an hour later she’d exited the highway and found the Finnegan less than a block away—her oasis—and she’d fallen for the place on sight.

Dana stayed in the right lane this time around, shooting for an uneventful day. She pulled into the hotel at two in the afternoon, leaving plenty of time to check in, drop off her bags, eat, explore, and swim. When she stopped her car under the wide portico in front of the lobby of the Finnegan, the furthest thing from her mind was a spectral complication.

“Reservation for Quinn, one night, a queen suite,” Dana said. She fished for her wallet while the desk clerk worked the computer. Dana handed her a credit card.

“All right, Ms. Quinn, Room 117, first floor. It’s straight across,” she said, pointing over Dana’s shoulder, “about halfway down. You’ll use the middle entrance and go to the right.” She returned the credit card along with a receipt, a tiny map, and a brochure that held the key card.

“I haven’t been here in a while, but I do remember the great food. Anything new?” Dana asked. She slid the key card into the front pocket of her shorts and stuffed the other papers into her tote.

“Yes,” she said, clicking on her keyboard. She took a deep breath. “Welcome back. Quite a few changes, actually, we have a new building with a rec room of sorts with sofas and game tables, a better fitness center, a billiards room with two standard tables, a small coffee bar, and a regular bar. Oh, and the restaurant you probably visited before is now our coffee shop. We added a fancy restaurant called The Oasis. It’s all in the brochure I gave you, but please feel free to call the front desk if you have questions.”

“Thanks, I will,” Dana said, smiling. Outside, she walked to the rear of the freestanding lobby to see the new building touted by the clerk. At its center was a small rotunda with buildings sprouting from it like spokes, the largest ones, she guessed, being the new restaurant and the rec room. She walked to her car, lifted her face to the sun, and felt herself relax into the trip. It helped that the weather was perfect and she was spending the night in a somewhat familiar haunt.

Dana was the only mid-afternoon diner in a row of five booths that ran the length of the windowed front of the coffee shop.

A young blonde bounced toward her, ponytail swinging.

“Hi there, may I get you something to drink?” she asked. She placed the menu on the table. Her wholesome appearance was drowned out by a heavy floral perfume.

“Hi, yes, I know what I want,” Dana said. She sneezed twice into her napkin. “Sorry, a large salad with raspberry vinaigrette, and a large iced tea with a lot of ice. Plain iced tea, please, not the flavored kind.”

She nodded and grinned, picked up the menu, and hop-skipped away.

Dana located the interstate in the middle distance by the occasional truck rolling by, and she looked beyond at the expanse of undeveloped land. She was always struck by the sprawling open space west of the Mississippi, mile after mile, state after state, yet people gathered at the very edges of the country and crammed themselves into a few choice spots. She wished that everyone would spread out already, especially having just experienced the sheer density of Southern California.

She pulled out her Kindle and clicked on Macbeth, one of the works that figured in her paper on evolving depictions of the witch in literature from the Renaissance to… she didn’t know when, yet, but probably through recent times, since the revival of the Old Religion and paganism had blossomed in the last century. Luckily, her proposal and synopsis were flexible. She considered broadening her scope to encompass the supernatural—ghosts, magical realism, visionaries. She skimmed random acts of the play that she’d read and taught dozens of times, and she asked herself the sophomoric questions that had led her to a thesis many times before: What do you want to say? What’s your point?

The waitress placed her salad and iced tea on the table. Dana spooned up a little dressing to see if it was as delicious as she remembered. Yes. She sweetened her tea and poured dressing onto an impressive array of greens, tomatoes, crumbled white and yellow cheese, and herbed croutons.

Her loaded fork was halfway to her mouth when she saw a woman in the next booth who hadn’t been there a moment ago. What the hell, Dana thought, mildly amused, the whole place is empty and she appears in the next booth, facing me, staring?

Dana nodded and smiled, and the woman did the same. She remembered an afternoon when she and a friend sat in an empty movie theater and a very tall couple had walked in, scoped out the seating situation, and sat directly in front of them. They’d laughed so hard at the suburban legend come to life that they’d run gasping to the bathroom.

This was like that, but not as funny and much more provocative. She could think of worse things than sitting across from a blue-eyed vision who’d materialized like the ghost of Hamlet’s father. Dana glanced at her. She was sure she would have noticed the woman walking up to the table or sitting down. And why wasn’t anyone waiting on her?

She returned to her reader and food. Her eyes fell upon familiar lines: Double, double, toil and trouble; / Fire burn, and cauldron bubble. She clicked ahead to one of her favorite monologues, Hecate’s rhyming chastisement of the witches. She flipped through the rest of the play and switched off the reader. She could read any of his tragedies a thousand times and never tire of them. They were always new.

Dana’s eyes met hers, and for a split second her field of vision sparkled like optical fireworks. The sun on the woman’s face washed out her eyes to ice blue. Her lips were full, her pale skin flawless and natural. She seemed translucent. Her head was in a fixed position, gazing directly at Dana, and her body was still. Strands of dark hair touched her eyebrows, accentuating her eyes. She smiled with closed lips.

Dana blinked slowly and tried to keep an even expression. She returned to her salad, and thought about the mountain of research and writing in her future. She was excited about getting lost in it and finessing a streamlined paper. This was a book-length endeavor, but the premise was the same. She needed more on Miller’s The Crucible and Hawthorne’s and Poe’s works and definitely Sarah Orne Jewett’s, and possibly throw in a section with a Harry Potter book and some other popular fiction if it fit at the end… screw it, I’m talking to her.

She was gone.

Dana looked around. She caught the waitress’s attention and waved her over.

“Did you see that woman sitting there a few minutes ago? Dark hair, blue tee shirt. You walked right past her.”

“Uh-uh, I didn’t see anyone. Just you.” She glanced around the empty room, and shrugged.

Dana asked for the check and peered outside, up and down the sidewalk. She walked to the dining room section on the other end of the coffee shop, where an older couple sat at one table and a family at another. She checked the women’s bathroom, then she went out and paid her bill.

When she walked back to her room, she would’ve bet her hiatus fund that she was being watched.

Chapter 4

After a quick shower, she dressed in dark blue shorts and a white tank top, and she sat on the bed to pull on short cotton socks and Nikes. She bent forward and shook her wet hair, flipped back up, and pulled loose strands into place. With her key card in her pocket and her wallet in hand, she left the room.

The fitness center was spacious and the equipment was brand new. She changed the tension on the step-monster to medium and worked for twenty minutes until her thighs burned and her mouth was dry. She stretched her back, neck, and shoulders, and touched her toes straight-legged. Her hair was almost dry and she finger-brushed it one more time. She wet a corner of a fresh towel at the drinking fountain and patted her face and neck while she considered where to go next. If the crowds here and at the coffee shop were any indication, she would have a pool table to herself.

She left the way she came in and entered the rotunda, whose skylight threw prisms over the thick blue carpet. She ordered an iced mocha at the coffee bar and walked while she sipped, checking out the layout of the new building. She peeked into The Oasis and skimmed the menu posted at the entrance.

Cold, citrusy air hit her face when she pulled hard on the heavy oak door to the billiards room. The door whooshed shut behind her. In the center of the dimly lit, windowless room were two illuminated, red-topped pool tables with ample space all around. Lights under long, multicolored shades hung over each table. Small bar tables and padded chairs were scattered around the edges of the room.

She was alone. She’d noticed a light switch near the door, but she liked the way the smooth red felt floated in the dark.

She hadn’t played since Austin, where they’d had a favorite bar equipped with pool, music, and a good dance floor. She remembered her introduction to Austin philosophy: work hard and play harder. Don’t mess with Texas, Allie had drawled when she beat Dana at pool. Allie was diagnosed with cancer a month before Dana left Texas for California, and she’d cut all ties with Dana after that. She’d died a year ago, a friend told her, right around the time Dana was starting her umpteenth affair.

She saw the parade of people who’d passed through her life, their gestures, phrases, and expressions. She sucked up the last of her drink and threw it away.

Transition anxiety, not loneliness. Not guilt.

Rachel’s words arose as if in argument: You’re better than that.

She racked up the balls, and whipped the cue ball so hard that it jumped off the bumper and sped back to her. She picked it up and chose a stick from the wall. She chalked up and walked to the end of the table nearest the door, preparing to break. The heft of the cue stick felt good in her hands.

She zeroed in on the cue ball using a slight back and forth motion. She drew back and popped it squarely into the head. The balls scattered and clicked, and two of them slipped into separate corner pockets. She walked to the other end of the table for an easy shot. She’d forgotten how much she liked the game.

She breathed in through her nose, held it, then blew it out.

The door opened and she saw a brief shard of light. She finished her shot before she peered in that direction and straightened up. There was a shift in the room as if it were stripped of air and sound. She sensed her before she saw her.

“May I join you?” She drifted down the center of the room.

Dana propped her stick against the table and watched her. “If you don’t mind playing an amateur.”

“Not at all,” the woman said. She stood next to Dana with a drink in each hand.

“I’m Dana.” She extended her hand and the woman put a drink in it. Dana raised her eyebrows at the slice of lime perched on the rim of the glass.

“Carla,” she said, reaching out. Dana switched the glass to her other hand, wiped water on her shorts, and clasped her slender hand. They held it for an hour, it seemed, and Dana let go.

Carla tasted her drink, her eyes fixed on Dana, then she set the glass on a table. She walked to the wall for a cue stick. Her back was to Dana, and she gave Dana ample time to look. Mid-thirties, Dana guessed, around five-six, slim yet curvaceous, with dark, shoulder-length hair, a tousled style with light streaks near the front. She wore a sleeveless, gathered beige top that almost met the waist of her matching shorts. The neutral tone veered to brown against her pale skin.

Dana sipped her drink slowly and closed her eyes to break the spell, or prolong it, she wasn’t sure. Her previous twinge of anxiety had vanished.

“You were in the coffee shop,” Dana said, stirring with her finger, watching her. She squeezed the lime and dropped the mashed wedge on top of the ice.

“Yes,” Carla said. “I apologize for staring. You look like someone I knew a long time ago.” She freed a cue stick from its slot and walked to the other side of the table. They faced each other. “She was unforgettable.”

“Who was she?” Dana asked. She felt a crazy physical reaction that felt perfectly natural, and so bizarre.

“A friend.” She paused. Her lips parted as if she wanted to say more, but only a small sound escaped, maybe a sigh. “Shall we?”

She spoke so softly that Dana could barely hear her, with a faint echo in her voice. When she moved, her form repeated almost imperceptibly, like special effects. She was wispy.

Dana placed the rack on the table and gathered the balls.

“You break,” Carla said, placing the cue ball.

Dana hit the sweet spot and the balls scattered. A yellow stripe fell into a corner pocket. She missed her next shot and pointed her cue stick in Carla’s direction.

Carla studied the table. She walked to the other side and positioned herself in front of Dana. She leaned over the table and the back of her shirt rose to reveal an inch of tattoo above her shorts. It was a symbol, but hard to see in shadow.

Dana traced the edge of the tattoo with a fingernail.

Carla finished her shot and turned to face Dana. They were eye to eye. Dana smelled faint soap and sage.

Carla leaned into her, then she pushed away. “I like having the room to ourselves, and seeing you again.” She walked to the end of the table for her next shot.

“Where are you going, east or west?” Dana asked. The everyday question wafted in the air like smoke. The woman was not about traveler small talk.

“East. An old friend.”

“I’ll be in New Hampshire for a year.”

“Yes.” Carla flashed a radiant smile.

“Have you ever been there?”

“Yes.”

They finished the game in silence. The energy in the room reached a zenith that made chit-chat absurd. They finished the game and returned the sticks to the wall rack, neither of them caring a whit about pool.

Dana leaned against the table. She held out her hand and Carla moved closer.

“Don’t go yet,” Dana said.

Carla laid her ghost-white hand on Dana’s face, and moved her fingers down the side of her neck and across her upper chest. She pinched the gold chain and pulled slowly until the scarab emerged from its hiding place.

“Yes,” Carla whispered. She examined it and turned it over to feel the hieroglyphs with her thumb.

Dana floated. Her hands rested on Carla’s hips.

Holding the scarab between her thumb and forefinger, Carla laid it on the outside of Dana’s shirt. She covered it with her hand.

“Wait, we can—” Dana said.

“We’ll meet again.” Carla kissed her, turned, and walked away.

Within seconds the room breathed and the air lightened as if the woman had gathered the energy like gossamer and swept it away. Dana’s head cleared. She felt the scarab’s shape and she peered across the room.

The woman was gone, but no light had pierced the dim room through an opened door.

Dana walked out to the rotunda and glanced at the clock on the wall. Only five minutes had passed since she’d entered the billiards room with the iced mocha in her hand.

She woke in the dark that night from an intense, erotic dream that she resented leaving, and tried to return to, but her bladder had other plans. She switched on the bedside light, threw the covers aside, and got up. She felt hung over and rubbed her forehead, vaguely remembering only one drink. And she’d only finished half of it.

She stopped at the bathroom door and looked down. She was naked. She never slept that way when she was alone at a hotel, not ever. Her legs trembled slightly, the way they did after a vigorous workout. She was wet. Her fingers were smooth and dry. She felt her inner thighs.

She sat on the toilet and ran through events from the day before. After the pool room incident, she’d come back here to change for a swim, back here again to shower and dress for The Oasis, had watched television until midnight, and slept.

This is nuts. She switched off the bathroom light.

She glanced at the bed and around the room. Her gray knit shorts and white tee shirt were folded and placed together on the dresser in front of the mirror. Something yellow sat on top of them. She stood still and stared. She pressed the inner corners of her eyes. She ran her hands through her hair.

No.

She walked to the dresser and found an oval jade stone and a yellow tulip. She picked up the stone and rolled it over and over in her hand. It was etched in black with a knot symbol on one side, and she thought of the one on the woman’s skin. She flicked the symbol with her thumbnail. She set it down and gazed at the flower. She wanted her dream back.

She touched a drop of water on a velvety yellow petal with her middle finger, brought it to her tongue, and smiled at herself in the mirror.

Chapter 5

Nebraska, Iowa, Illinois: fields and dreary weather. By the time Dana was halfway through Indiana, events in Cheyenne—the woman, the intensity, and the dream—were but a glimmer, and she’d worked at exorcising them. She used her time on the road to create a manageable scenario: the woman was a hotel employee who’d spiked her drink, entered her hotel room, had some fun, left a flower and a stone on her clothes, end of story.

She pressed her foot on the gas pedal. She put away Chopin, pushed in Ani DiFranco’s Dilate, and cranked it up.

When the woman seemed to materialize and vanish? Her own inattentiveness. The fact that she was lucid all evening and ate, swam, watched the news and weather, and dressed for bed?

Forget it, she didn’t want to know. No drama.

She had a plan, a destination, a cabin to set up, exploring, writing. No detours, no distractions no matter how provocative and mysterious. Still, something about her played around the edges of Dana’s mind. It teased, refused to surface—like a riddle, and right now she hated riddles.

Dana absently rubbed the gold scarab like a worry stone. It was the size of a woman’s thumbprint, and heavy. The beetle on the front was detailed, as were the symbols—an eye, a moon, a fish, and others—on the back. It had been a gift from her grandmother when Dana was a girl. The necklace had come down through at least three generations of Quinn women, as far as her grandmother knew, and she’d only asked that Dana pass it on to someone who would “see the unseeable.” At the time, Dana hadn’t understood the serious tone with which her grandmother had bestowed the gift, but she remembered her eyes and her voice.

Dana had worn the necklace that whole summer when she was twelve years old, her last one in New England before they’d moved to the Midwest. After that, she stored it away in an old trinket box and had forgotten about it until she came across it three years ago, before she left Texas for California. She was sorting and throwing away, the way she did every time she moved, but the necklace had caught her attention; had, in an odd way, demanded it.

Now she wore it under her shirt like a companion. Its weight and chill felt good against her skin.

Fifteen years ago, her grandmother had also given Dana her Book of Shadows, right before she died. She told Dana to open it when she was ready—had said that Dana would know the right time. She’d never included Dana or the others in her proclivities, but she hadn’t hidden them either. Knowing her, she’d believed that if Dana picked up on it, then the child was attuned. No harm done.

Dana’s idea of magic, if she had to say, had little to do with spells, rituals, or covens—though she was familiar with the ceremonial aspects—and everything to do with what was in front of her face every day. She had no need to dissect it or verbalize it, or even describe it as spiritual. She let it unfold. It was private. She took for granted the occasions when she could see the unseeable or make things happen by will, and she believed everyone could do the same.

She’d grown up in a small town in Massachusetts in a house surrounded by acres of woods, where she remembered feeling magic well before she could name it. She’d sensed fragility, strength, and connection, all at once, in the smallest bud and towering tree. It was in blown dandelion seeds or a gelatinous mass of polliwogs. It was in the old library down the street and in the books she read sitting cross-legged on its creaky wooden floor.

Magic was as simple for her now as it was for her then. It was in a big orange moon at four in the morning on Winter Solstice when she drove through Nebraska, trying to beat a snowstorm. It was there at midnight in the Mojave Desert under a full moon that transformed the day’s flat expanse into an otherworldly dune-scape, or standing on the shore of the Atlantic Ocean before a winter storm and breathing the depth and power of the dark sea.

It was in wind, trees, mountains, epiphanies, the perfect word, and unlikely connections. And always, for Dana, magic had been a calm certainty that anything was possible.

Her grandmother’s Book of Shadows might complicate the simplicity of it all, so it stayed within its tasseled black velvet bag. It was from another time.

Dana exited the interstate and stopped to gas up, eat, and use a bathroom. She carried a large cup of coffee to the car and stretched before she got in. The sun was finally out and the air was drier.

She pushed it. The drive was becoming far too long and she felt a new urgency to reach her destination. She sailed through Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania, and stopped for the night in New York, in a hotel near Lake Erie.

On her final, twelve-hour day of driving she made it to Nashua, New Hampshire, for her last night in a hotel. She was several hours south of Fern.

She woke the next morning out of a dream. The woman was standing in front of a mansion’s double doors, holding something out with both hands as Dana approached on a long stone path that curved through a field of waist-high grass. She was far away from her one moment, close the next. Dana kept walking as she brushed at the long, feathery grass that waved across her path. It felt like spider webs. The dream seemed to play all night.

Dana yanked the covers up to see if she still had her clothes on. She smiled and got up to make coffee. The clock radio showed 7:03 and she wanted to hit the road by eight.

A mere week had passed since the movers had knocked on the door of her apartment. Her three years in California seemed like another lifetime. She picked up her phone from the nightstand and pecked a note to Rachel and Gen, as she had every morning on the road. This time she typed “almost there!” She sent it with a bit of joy at having the long drive, and the ghosts, behind her.

Route 3 was a scenic two-lane road that led north to Fern, and ran right past the dirt road to the cabin. The blacktop wound through thick forest peppered with boulders and slabs of granite. The dashboard lights came on in deeply shadowed stretches where the high foliage meshed, and suddenly the sun would burst through openings and flicker like a thousand strobe lights. It was cool and humid and lush.

She hung her elbow out the window and relaxed back against the seat, enjoying the sights and sounds instead of whizzing by them at eighty miles an hour. The trees murmured when she passed them—like music—the swishing rise and fall of a mellifluous serenade that could be heard with a shift of the senses.

She passed through several small towns and started to see signs for Plymouth, a medium-sized city ten miles south of Fern. She had to stop there before she finished her drive. She left Route 3 and found the furniture store that her uncle had recommended, where she would set up delivery of a full-sized bed, a nightstand, and a five-drawer chest. She remembered the musty mattresses from the old days, and that was where she drew the line on rustic living.

Ten minutes later, an older salesman with shaggy, shiny gray hair, wearing a dark green dress shirt tucked into khaki pants, followed her through the furniture department. She interrupted his speech on mattress quality and pointed out the items she wanted. He asked if she wanted a headboard and footboard, and she declined. He scribbled numbers in a notebook and led her to the checkout area.

“I’ll need delivery as soon as possible,” Dana said.

“And the address?”

“It’s, uh, 2 Broomstick Lane in Fern.”

His head jerked up. “I live in Fern. You’re on Broomstick, you must know Liz and—”

“No, I’m new, or, I haven’t been here in ages. I’ll be staying in the little cabin there.”

“Nooo, you know Brian?” He grinned. “I know the place and I run into him now and then at the auction. He’s good people. Every Saturday, by the way, the auctions. Lots of fun and you’ll meet the Fern folks. How’s tomorrow afternoon for delivery?”

“Perfect, yes. Brian’s my uncle. Who’s Liz?”

“You’ll meet her. She owns the whole area there in the foothills around Old Branch Brook, except for the couple of acres your place is on.” He studied her as she read the bill of sale. “Yep, you’ll meet Liz Abbott.”

“I don’t have to tell you to bring my stuff up in the smallest truck possible, right? If memory serves, that bridge is narrow.”

“We’ve been up there many times, deliveries for Mrs. Abbott. We’ll take care of it, Mrs. Quinn. I’m Art Hanson, by the way, the owner.”

They shook hands.

“Call me Dana. I’m sure I’ll see you in town.”

From a distance, the rolling mountains were blue-green, unlike the scrubby, hard-edged ranges in the West. Each had its own beauty, but the White Mountains felt soulful and more mysterious, as if they kept age-old secrets.

She was getting excited about seeing the old place. While she drove, she pictured the way it used to look. The simple square layout included one big room that took up two-thirds of the space, and two small bedrooms behind it that faced downhill. There was no plumbing or electricity. A dining set sat under the window that faced the road, and a dry-sink-and-counter unit and a potbellied stove took up the opposite end of the room. An overstuffed, forest green sofa sat against the inner wall, centered between the doorless entries to the bedrooms. Hung high above the sofa was a long, handmade shelf that held a mantle clock and anything that the adults wanted to keep out of reach. The ceiling was open-beamed and the walls were thin, so there was little privacy. A wicker rocking chair with a thick cushion had sat in the middle of the big room, and to the left, just inside the door, was an antique mahogany Victrola record player with carved feet. Her mother and aunt had played the scratchy old 78s that were stored in the slotted cabinet below.

The floor was soft wood. When the kids ran in and out of the cabin all day, someone—an uncle, an aunt, her mother—continually swept the big room and the short flagstone walk outside the door. They would take turns hauling buckets of water from a clear spring that was covered with a sheet of tin, not far up the road. They used kerosene lamps in the evening. They threw wood into the potbellied stove early in the morning when it was cold, and they cooked bacon and eggs in heavy iron skillets on top. They’d taken a path into the woods to use the outhouse, or pulled the chamber pot from under the sofa in the middle of the night.

She remembered the auctions that Art mentioned. Her mother had often taken them, and they’d also been carted to every antique store in the area.

She looked around as she got closer. She might not recognize changes to the town itself, but the landscape was familiar, the fluttering vibrant greens close to the sides of the winding road.

She soon spotted a square white sign that showed two pine trees flanking blue script: Welcome to Fern, Population: 393. She passed a Days Inn, a restaurant called Fern Feast, and a Mobil station. She slowed to look down several side streets and she saw some shops. She was familiar enough with the old Fern to know that it was all fairly new.

Within half a mile she saw a roughhewn wooden sign for Broomstick on the right side of the road, half hidden by leafy branches, and she hooked a left onto the dirt road. Broomstick. She loved the name. She wondered if that Liz woman had chosen it, since she had the real estate clout in Fern. She’d either bought the white house at the bottom or she’d built at the top of the hill.

She passed through a sparse grove of maple trees next to the main road and entered the cool cave of the forest. Several hundred feet in, she slowed to a stop in front of the only other house on the dirt road, which had belonged to a woman who’d kept raccoons as pets in large chicken-wired hutches in her back yard. She forgot her name, but Dana had played with her kids—a girl and a boy.

She looked to the right at the gabled, three-story white clapboard structure and its wide, railed porch. It was lived in, well-kept. She squinted. Someone stood at a downstairs window, she thought, but the house was set back from the road and it was hard to tell. She saw motion—a curtain moving or a hand against the glass.

She looked ahead. The distance from Route 3 up to the cabin was about half a mile, she remembered, and midway sat a simply constructed wooden bridge that sat high over a twist in the same brook that flowed near the cabin.

She continued up the gentle incline, went around a slight bend, and stopped right before the bridge. She got out and walked halfway across it, looking left and right at the brook, then down through the slivers of space between the broad wooden planks. The spring water was high and clear as it rushed over the rocks.

They’d played a game here on the bridge that had something to do with trolls hiding under it—Dana, her brothers and sister, and the raccoon lady’s kids. She could see them navigating the big boulders, clambering up the mossy, muddy bank on all fours, and back onto the bridge. The boy was younger, and blonde, John or Tom or some other common name. She and the girl, Kit, were the same age. They’d been best friends, Dana recalled, closer than any friends Dana had had in her home town.

Kit. They’d been more than friends that last summer. Dana smiled as the memories played in her head. God, they were young. Kit had just turned thirteen and Dana was a few months behind her.

She inspected the bridge and saw that it was newer and sturdier, as her uncle had said. The old rickety one, she remembered, had to be crossed at a snail’s pace. She sat on the edge facing upbrook, dangling her legs over the water. The ferns on the bank to her right brushed against one another. She heard ghosts of laughter and constant chatter. They’d been in motion all day long back then, and they’d gotten excited about the smallest things.

Kit. Dana recalled how heartbroken she’d been at leaving her and she was hit with a torrent of memories. From the time they were four years old, Kit waited for Dana to come to the cabin on summer weekends. She would see Dana’s family drive by on their way up the hill, Dana would try to catch a glimpse of Kit at the white house, and they would run to meet each other on the bridge.

They’d been as close as moss on rock—running through the woods, collecting unusual stones and bits of mica, and hiking barefoot up and down the brook, holding hands, and steadying each other on the slippery boulders. They picked berries. They invited witches and warlocks and wizards to their rituals, and invented another cast of characters for other games. They shared one of the old twin beds when Kit spent the night at the cabin, and they fell asleep with their arms and legs entwined.

It was as natural as sunrise that they went from forest fantasies to a fumbling exploration of each other in their secret hideaway, which had consisted of no more than a flat bed of granite hidden by thick growth and a rock outcropping. They’d sworn it was magic.

It was the best summer, they’d agreed, and it was their last.

The hideaway… she would inquire about Kit, see if she was still in the area. Why would anyone leave? It was breathtaking, the broad silence made quieter by the lazy rustling of leaves, water rushing over rocks, and the echo of the woods that sounded both full and hollow. The water sparkled in the distance where there was an opening in the trees.

She ran her hand over the gritty plank. She breathed in the damp air and the mossy, woody scents. It did look the same, but it felt different, charged somehow. Maybe it was her.

The incline of the road sharpened after the bridge and the cabin was over the crest, just beyond the farthest point she could see. She wanted to stay on the bridge, but she stood and brushed the back of her legs. She returned to her car and shook her head at the familiar resistance to committing to the last bit of her trip.

She drove up the hill and glanced at the bright yellow tulip on the passenger’s seat, as luscious now as the moment she’d first seen it. She rubbed the talismans together through her shirt and she heard the soft click of the jade stone with the gold scarab.

Chapter 6

Red trim winked through the trees and her stomach lurched. When she approached the crest, she saw its back first: the same gray-lavender shingles, the sturdy leveling posts that propped the rear of the cabin and provided storage space below it. She passed the side that was near the road. She looked sharply right when she was adjacent to the front, which faced uphill.

She pulled into a cleared area beyond the small patio. She was at home before she even went inside. She liked settling into a new place, and she couldn’t think of a better place to do that than here. She lifted her bag from the front seat. She found the door key from a deep pocket in her bag and she wound it onto her key ring as she surveyed the trees and took in the light sounds.

She crossed the road and walked down a wide dirt path, several paces to the brook. It was sunny where she stood, but up and down the brook the trees made a canopy over the water, and as far as she could see it was more heavily bouldered. She couldn’t believe she was standing there. On the far bank, twenty feet away, the gradient was steep and the brush was thick and tangled.

She walked back to the front of the cabin. The flagstone patio was big enough to hold the picnic table and a barbecue grill. A short flagstone path connected the patio to the door.

Dana propped the screen door open and unlocked the red one. She turned the knob and had to push.

She dropped her bag on a captain’s chair and walked around the big room with her mouth open. In the back, a tiny bathroom with a toilet, sink, and shower stall now shared the space with one good-sized bedroom. A picture window between two movable windows replaced the old ones, and the downhill forest view was spectacular.

Her uncle’s note was on the oak pedestal dining table. He listed phone numbers and other information about Fern, the cabin, and some items and services that required a trip to Plymouth. He added a note at the bottom that he’d cleared the bedroom, except for the armoire, and had stored the furniture at a friend’s place in Fern.

She smelled cinnamon. She almost kissed the refrigerator, microwave, and small stove. She switched lights on and off. She slid her hands over the grayish-rose counters and ran water into the sink. The pot-bellied stove was in the same place and it still functioned as the cabin’s heating system; a hod overflowing with wood sat beside it. She looked up at the open-beamed ceiling, the long shelf over the sofa, and the Victrola, which had been moved further from the door. The same soft floor had been restored, and dark-brown and red area rugs were thrown about. A newer wicker rocking chair sat in the usual place.

She opened the refrigerator and the corner cabinet unit. There were sodas, bottled water, wine, and basics in the fridge, and staples in the cupboards.

She tested the gold-and-red plaid sofa, where she would sleep that night, and she rested against a nest of red throw pillows, as content as a cat. She’d expected at least a day’s worth of cleaning and de-spidering to make it livable, and here it was clean and new and stocked with whatever she would immediately need.

She breathed a sigh of relief and closed her eyes. She would think of a way to thank her uncle for getting it ready for her and letting her use it for so long.

She dozed.

Gray. Mrs. Gray was the raccoon lady’s name.

She got up and took a few long pulls from a bottle of water and she checked the freezer while she stood there. She was set for a few days.

She unloaded the car in no time, and collected cups, crumpled napkins, and wrappers that had accumulated in corners or rolled under the seats. She locked her up and promised her an oil change and a thorough cleaning the next time she was in Plymouth. More than three-thousand miles and she’d run like a champ.

She dropped her suitcases on the round red braided rug in the bedroom. She opened the tall, light-oak armoire and was greeted with the scent of cedar, her favorite, and she saw blocks of it in a corner at the bottom. A clear-glass table lamp with a fluted white shade was in there, too, and she set it up on the floor near an outlet.

She used the handful of plastic hangers for her dressier clothes, and swatted at the wrinkles. The bottom drawers of the armoire were perfect for the Book of Shadows and her other books, as well as thick folders of research material.

In the kitchen area, she plugged in Mr. Coffee on the counter. She found a cut-crystal bud vase in the lower cabinet of a hutch. She filled it halfway with water, placed the yellow tulip in it, and set it in the window that faced the road.

She paced the big room. It was surreal. Events from another lifetime flitted through her head: playing cards at night by hissing lamps, telling ghost stories about Mr. Hatch, and all of them eavesdropping on the adult conversations in the big room when they thought the kids were asleep. They were forbidden to rock the rocking chair if no one was sitting in it because it would bring bad luck. She looked at the long shelf above the sofa where her aunt had hidden candy and doled it out to them in small portions, which Dana had considered plain evil. The outhouse was gone. Some memories were best left untapped.

She remembered another reason why they’d loved it up here, and why they hated to leave for home. Her father had never come up here, not once, and Dana couldn’t recall ever asking her parents why. He was a tense man, that much she remembered, and he’d died young, right after she’d graduated high school. Later, she realized that the time they’d spent at the cabin with their mother was her parents’ version of a time-out.

When Dana was twelve, they’d divorced. Her mother remarried the following year and they were all whisked off to Chicago, where her stepfather had requested a job transfer. It had been a whirlwind move and a monumental adjustment for all of them. Dana had been far too overwhelmed to mourn the past, so she’d obliterated it.

She gazed at the sunny break in the trees where the brook had claimed its space. A flood of memories battered one another for space in her head, not the least of which involved Kit. How could Dana have forgotten her? They hadn’t even had a chance to say goodbye.

She had to walk. The clock on the shelf showed a little after three. She grabbed her phone and a bottle of water, pushed the screen door, and let it slam behind her. She walked into the woods, past the empty space where the outhouse had been, and she returned to the road near the cabin.

She called Gen.

“Dana, where are you?”

“Hey, I’m here, already settled in and I wanted to try the phone. God, it’s beautiful here.”

“I’m so glad you called. I’ll tell everyone you’re safe and sound. You are, right?”

“Yeah, long trip, but I’m fine. It’s good to hear your voice.”

“I miss you already, come back.” She sighed. “I know, I know, give a girl some space.”

“I miss you, too.” Dana looked up the hill.

“Want me to call Rachel and tell her you’re there?”

“Would you, yeah. I know she’s busy with a summer class, and she and Maria…”

“Of course I’ll let her know. She wanted me to call if I talked to you.”

“Thanks.”

“Listen, Dana, you’re out there alone. Call me any time, day or night, even if it’s just to say hi. And I’m here any time you want to talk about your research, anything. Call me.”

“Gen…” She searched the treetops.

“Do what you have to do there, I get it. I’ll be here.”

They talked about work for a few minutes, then Dana pocketed the phone. She had dozens of numbers saved and there was no one else she wanted to call. She’d resisted asking for Gen’s reassurance that the job would be hers in a year, that that life would be waiting for her. It wasn’t crucial yet.

She was at the front end of a year in paradise.

Chapter 7

She’d slept with the windows open. She stared at the ceiling and listened—no freeway sounds, no leaf blowers, no thumping music, not a peep except for the rustling leaves. She leaned away from the sofa to see the clock on the shelf. It was almost ten. She rose and put on a pot of coffee and boiled a cup of water in the microwave for oatmeal.

She set up her desk on the oak table while she drank coffee. She pulled her research material from the drawer in the armoire and spread out her notes beside the laptop.

She searched “Hawthorne” on Amazon and sent The Great Stone Face and Other Tales to her reader. The first three stories were written about the White Mountains region, though none were relevant to her research. Hawthorne had hung out in this very area, and it made her like the writer and the place even more. She read the three stories and searched again. She returned to her project, jotting down notes and reviewing what she already had. She answered emails, showered, and dressed.

The furniture delivery was early, and though she’d been there less than a day when the truck pulled up, it felt like an invasion of her tranquil space. She showed the men where to put the furniture and they assembled the bed. After they left, she made it up with her favorite purple flannel sheets, a white electric blanket, and a rose-and-sage-print comforter that she’d brought with her. She repositioned the bed across from the picture window so that she could wake up to the view. The small lamp went on the nightstand. She filled the chest with the clothes left in her suitcases.

Lazy, wavering circles of sunlight on the road beckoned, and she thought about the new resident at the top of the hill who wasn’t Mr. Hatch. She couldn’t start working on her first day. She closed her laptop. She would navigate the brook and make her way up there.

She changed into jeans and Nikes, locked up, and went to the back of the cabin to see what was underneath in the storage area. It was about four feet high at the mouth and narrowed to nothing about halfway across the cabin’s bottom. She scooched down and peered between the posts. She saw two huge toolboxes, shovels, and a long, covered rack filled with cut wood for the stove. She wouldn’t have to worry about playing lumberjack for a while. She didn’t have a clue how to chop wood.

She climbed over some short bushes, crossed the road, and went down the short slope to the brook. She stepped from one boulder to another when she could, and she jumped to the bank when they blocked her way. Farther up, it was too overgrown with brush and foliage for her to get through, so she crossed over to the road.

She pictured the endless field ahead, or so it had seemed back then, where they’d picked blueberries and waved away bees. She reached the crest and stopped short.

The land was cleared and leveled, as if the field had been shaved. The forest that rimmed it was untouched.

She stepped onto a wide, red stone driveway that encircled an expanse of lawn and led to a log-and-glass house off to the left. The forest skirted the outer edges of the circular driveway with a wide swath of mown grass between the driveway and the trees.

She stepped and stopped and turned. It was a mini-mansion. When she reached the front, she hopped up the wide porch steps. She went to the recessed double doors and stood on a maroon welcome mat in a spacious entryway. A Jacobean bench abutted the wall to her left, and a long wooden boot bar sat low on the right.

She knocked and rang the bell, listened, and she walked back to the front of the porch. Two white gliders sat in front of the windows, and redwood chairs and tables in the corners. Large stone pots overflowing with ferns and flowers hung at intervals over the redwood railing. She looked out at the immaculate grounds and glanced back at the doors. It was as quiet as a tomb.

She left the porch and went to the right side of the house. A log-rail fence ran parallel to a broad pebbled walk that led to the back yard. The fence stopped at a miniature log house that appeared to be a storage shed. She stood near the fence and looked at the verdant hills that rose beyond the house and cupped its circle of land.

“Who are you?”

Dana jumped and turned and braced herself against the fence. “Jesus, woman… I, uh, knocked on the front door and I was just—”

“Oh, are you staying at the cabin? Brian’s niece?” She pressed her lips together and tried not to laugh at Dana’s reaction.

“Yes, sorry for snooping, but I had to see it. This used to be a big field where we played and now here’s this… it’s amazing.”

She smiled. “Thanks. I’m Liz Abbott, and you are?”

“Dana Quinn. Again, sorry. I can go.” She hooked her thumb toward the dirt road.

“No, come in, I’ll show you around.”

“Great, yeah, I’m surprised…” She followed Liz down the walk to the back of the house. It resembled a posh Montana hotel she’d seen on the Travel Channel—a twenty-first-century log cabin.

Dana studied her as she followed her. If she had to pick out a stereotypical Irish woman, it would be Liz Abbott, with her unruly red wavy hair to the middle of her back, green eyes, and freckles. She looked a bit like the photo of Stevie Nicks on her Timespace CD. Liz gathered her hair into a tail with both hands and let it drop. It had a life of its own. She was pale and thin.

“How long will you be here, Dana?” They crossed a massive redwood deck in the back and Liz held open the door to the kitchen. The back yard was level and manicured for a short distance, and wild where the land sloped up to another hill.

“A year. This seemed like the perfect place.”

“Yes, I like the isolation, but it does get too quiet sometimes. What can I get you?” She motioned Dana to a breakfast bar on the far side of the kitchen. “Coffee, iced coffee, tea, wine, Pepsi?” She glanced over her shoulder. “Oh, have a glass of wine with me. It’s well after noon.”

“Sure, any wine is fine.” Dana sat at the bar. The clock on the microwave showed twelve-ten. The kitchen was magazine-beautiful. “How long have you been here?”

“No, let me see, I’m good at this.” Liz walked up to the bar and studied Dana. “You like a white wine, not sweet. You like it bone dry, yes?”

“You’re good.” She’d pictured Liz Abbott as a dowager land baron. Not quite.

“I’ve been here for five years now. My husband and I used to come up here most Octobers for the foliage, and when he died I decided to build up here. Always loved it.” She poured the wine and placed a glass in front of Dana. “Still do.”

“You live here alone?”

“Yes. I know, my friends and family in Boston think I’m crazy, that I should come out of hiding and meet someone and live happily ever after. No, thank you.” She set out a plate of cut vegetables and crackers with a green bowl of peach-colored dip. “What about you? Are you here alone? Brian said you were coming from California.”

“Yes, I’m alone and I was in California, teaching. I’ll be researching, writing, or hiking. Great place for hiking.”

“A hiking writing teacher, interesting.” Liz watched her and chewed a baby carrot. “Have you met anyone else in Fern yet?”

“No, just got here yesterday and I wanted to explore a little before I dig in. Turns out I’m a trespasser.” They laughed. Dana considered asking about the white house, hesitated, and went for it. “Who lives in the house down the hill?”

“Don’t get me started.” Liz averted her eyes. “You’ll meet her. Come on, I’ll show you the place. Bring your wine.”

They left the kitchen and walked into the open, high-ceilinged area near the front double doors. The only interruption to the center third of the house was the wide, open-step stairway. Dana followed her up.

“I’m in love with this loft,” Dana said when she reached the top of the stairs and saw the view out the wall of window. It was decorated for total comfort in three groupings: two reading areas, each with an oversized chair, table, and floor lamp, and in the center, a teak game table and four tan wing chairs. The end walls were built-in carved cherry bookcases. The books shared the glossy shelves with strategically placed sculptures and a collection of bookends.

“I used muted tones so’s not to take away from the fall colors.”

“You must live up here.”

“I rarely use it. The kitchen is my room. Let me show you the shower I just added to the guest room, or, I should say it’s between two adjoining guest rooms. Actually, your uncle recommended the contractor and they did a fabulous job.”

They walked through a large rustic-styled bedroom next to the loft and through two more doors into a long, exquisitely tiled hallway. A solid glass wall stood between them and the panorama of mountains. It took Dana a moment to realize that she was in a shower.

“Oh, this is… but what if…” She circled an eye with her thumb and forefinger.

Liz laughed and put her hand on Dana’s arm. “No one can see in. It’s one-way glass. Every upstairs room in the back has it.”

Dana noticed the three showerheads, each a foot in diameter, that curved away from the tiled wall. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Promise me I can shower in here just once while I’m here.”

“The adjoining bedroom is that way, in the corner, but let’s go this way.”

They walked back to the hallway and toward the front of the house. Dana peered over the railing to the entryway below. A column of window the width of the double doors rose almost to the ceiling. They passed two more rooms before Liz led the way into her master bedroom at the front corner. The layout repeated itself on the other side of the house, except for the shower, with a total of six bedrooms, three full baths, and the loft in the center.

Downstairs, at the front of the house, on either side of the entryway, were two living rooms with fireplaces. There was a baby grand piano in one, and a harp in the other. Dana had never seen a harp up close. She ran her hand along the neck and touched the ornate carving at the front. Liz told her to try it, and Dana sat down and plucked the strings.

“Do you play?” Dana asked.

“Piano, not harp,” Liz said. “I’ll play for you sometime. I was in a minor orchestra for theater in Boston, long time ago.”

“Piano’s my favorite. I’d love it.”

They went to the back, where the kitchen, pantry, and dining room were on the rear right, and a study, full bathroom, and laundry room were on the left. Whoever had designed the house had taken orders, probably from Liz, to make a sense of space and serenity top priorities.

They returned to the kitchen and Dana set her glass on the counter.

“I should go. Thank you for the wine. Your home is unbelievable.”

“My pleasure. Come with me to the auction Saturday. It’s over at an open lot near the school. Pick you up around one o’clock?”

Dana tried to work for an hour while she ate lunch. She thought about Liz and the auction and wondered exactly how sociable she was, and how straight, because there was a ghost of a vibe, and if and how she would interfere with her work. And what was up with Liz’s reaction to the “her” in the white house? Dana liked her, and that amazing hair. She decided that the occasional interruption would be welcome, and the auction would be fun.

She couldn’t concentrate. She dropped her phone into her bag and locked up the cabin. She wanted to see the shops in the town center before she shifted her focus to the supernatural in literature. And there was no chocolate in the cabin. That wouldn’t do.

Half an hour later, she approached the bridge and decided to sit for a few minutes where she’d sat the day before. It was her spot now. She dropped her bag and saw a three-inch white sphere there as if it were saving her place. She picked up the smooth rock, brushed it off, and dropped it into her bag. She glanced in the direction of the white house. She checked the time on her phone and it was after three. She wanted to be back before dark so she trotted down the hill.

She was almost past the white house when she glanced over and saw someone in the back yard, a woman. Dana waved, but she disappeared behind the house. She crossed the front yard and walked up the porch steps. The slatted porch swing moved slightly. She saw parted white eyelet curtains in the windows on either side of the door. The same style curtains hung closed in the door’s window. There was a mail slot below.

She rang the bell, waited, and knocked.

Apparently, people don’t answer their doors in these parts. She resisted the urge to go around to the back of the house. Not twice in one day, and her first day, at that. She looked around the porch. Plants and flowers in large earthenware pots sat in each corner. A spicy aroma mingled with sweet. On one end, out of the way, trays of small herb plants sat on a low wooden table with spindle legs. A decorative plaque hung above the door with the words “Merry Meet” in the middle of a wreath of flowers.

She waited half a minute more and turned to leave. She grabbed the railing and sat down hard on the top step when her head whirled. She closed her eyes for a minute and listened to the silence. She opened them and it was gone, as if it had never happened.

She pulled the white rock from her bag and placed it on the swing. When she reached the road, she looked back at the house. She saw movement at an upstairs window, obviously someone who didn’t want company. She turned and finished the short walk to the main road. She would try again.

Chapter 8

On Route 3, she picked her gas-station sunglasses out of her bag and slid them on. To the left, she saw a convenience store up the road, beyond two houses that barely showed through the leaves. She turned right and walked on the rocky shoulder toward the shops, wondering what the hell was going on—the draw of the white house and the weird sensations and the woman in Wyoming, and the Book of Shadows that would’ve been perfectly fine in her storage unit. In isolation, each one was no big deal. Lumped together, they concerned her, and intrigued her. Maybe she should see a doctor, but her gut told her that it wasn’t physical. She adjusted her warped sunglasses, pushed them further up on her nose, and decided that it was all harmless.

At the town center, she turned down the first side street, Oak Lane, and walked past a candy store, a bakery, two antique shops, and a Chock O Latte, which she couldn’t resist. She ordered a large iced mocha and bought two boxes of chocolate-raspberry truffles. She sat at one of the tiny tables to check her phone, and she answered a text message from her sister. Across the street she saw a shop called Swirly’s with a maniacal image of a top-hatted dancing ice cream cone in the window.

The next street was Jadestone Lane. She wrinkled her nose and stared at the sign for a few moments. She passed a used-goods store and another antique shop. She was thrilled to see a bookstore called The Red Hen, which carried new and used stock. She would go in there after she’d made some progress on her work. She was more interested in the store next door.

At the end of the short street, and closest to Route 3, a carved wooden sign swung from a curlicued wrought iron hanger. The words Triple Goddess curved around a triple moon symbol with a small “the” on top. A silver-stenciled “Tarot Readings” filled the left window, and the right one displayed flowing, satin-lined cloaks—blood red, rich purple, and black—on wireform mannequins. At the bottom of the display near the cloaks’ hems, two handmade books were propped against pewter stands.

She peered at the book on the left, then she went inside the shop. A bell tinkled.

Her eyes adjusted to the dim light and she saw an array of merchandise that would take a week to go through. The limited space was artfully arranged with everything from mystical-themed framed prints and extravagant swords on the walls, to vintage display cases for jewelry, oils, tarot decks, and stones. A long Plexiglas cube on the wall showcased crystal balls of all sizes and gemstone type. Another one held figurines.

A short rack of cloaks stood to her right. She touched the fabric on each one and read the various tags that were sewn inside: Wisdom, Love, Creativity, Intuition. She was about to try on a dark purple one when she heard a “hello” from the back of the narrow shop.

A young guy walked around the glass counter and strode toward her, flipping his brown hair away from his eyes.

“Yes, I’d like to see the Book of Shadows in the window, the one on the left, well, the right, the one nearest the door. Are those the only two you have?”

“I’ll get that for you. Yeah, just these two. They’re made by the owner and she replaces them as they’re sold. Lot of work in them.” He reached around the red cloak and picked up the book. “Come over here in the light, get a good look.”

At the back counter she ran her hand over the smooth wooden cover, about an eighth of an inch thick. The pages were thin, durable parchment in variegated cream. The book was two inches thick and she guessed the dimensions at ten by twelve inches. It was made for her. She opened it wide and smelled the paper. Cedar.

“It’s beautiful. And a set of Reed Witches’ Tarot, three bottles of oil, cinnamon, eucalyptus, and cedar.” She pointed to a black velvet drawstring bag hanging on a jewelry tree. “And that bag of stones. That should be it.”

While he rang up her purchases, she outlined the familiar knot symbol tooled into the cover. She looked past the book to the items inside the glass case. A fountain pen with a tiger’s eye casing caught her attention and she asked for it. He told her the pen came with an ink cartridge and asked if she wanted to buy replacements. She said she wouldn’t need them yet.

Dana reached Broomstick Lane by dusk. The convenience store was hopping with Fernians who probably didn’t want to bother with the market—which reminded her, she had to go to Pingree’s Market, Fern’s one and only, and she wanted to stop at the Fern Feast for a big breakfast. She would go in a couple of days, early, before she settled down to write.

She would have her thesis perfected by the end of June, she promised herself. After that, the process would be pure joy.

Lights were on in the white house, but she didn’t want to knock on their door at dinnertime with bags and a mucky plastic cup. Whoever lived there hadn’t been receptive before, so she would stop the next time she passed by. It was getting dark, anyway. She thought of the sign above the door. The curtains were drawn and offered no small clue, but now there was a white truck in the driveway.

It was unlikely that Kit still lived there, since people tended to leave their childhood homes. She’d checked online and found no Kit Gray, which didn’t mean much. She would ask around at the auction if the opportunity arose, and she would ask Liz Abbott again on Saturday.

She passed the bend in the road and heard the faint rush of water ahead. She strode up to the bridge, swinging her bags, thinking about the next phase of her work. She stepped onto the sturdy wooden planks and glanced at her spot, where she would park herself tomorrow morning with her laptop, pad, and pencil.

The white rock was there.

A wind came up and the leaves moved in a fit. Her plastic bag thwapped. She looked up and all around, and down at the brook.

She heard talking and laughing as if there were a gathering nearby, vague, muffled sounds carried on the wind. One voice rose above the others.

Carla Gray, where have you been?

The screen door slammed behind them.

Mrs. Gray had called Kit by her real name several times when she was angry, when they traipsed back to the cabin after dark or when Kit left her sneakers in the woods.

Carla.

Dana picked up the rock and sat on the edge of the bridge. The moon’s reflection wavered on an eddy near the bank. She laid a hand on her forehead and felt a catch in her throat.

Impossible. The woman in Wyoming looked nothing like Kit, but how would she know? It was so long ago, they were kids. But she certainly wouldn’t have known that Dana was on the road, at that hotel. It was coincidence.

Later, she tipped her head back and saw that the stars stood out against the royal blue sky. It was almost night in the world outside the woods, and it was full dark where she sat. The moon’s reflection was gone.

It was farfetched, and there were many Carlas in the world. She stood up and slipped the white rock into her black bag, which she hung on her shoulder. She started up the hill and hugged her new Book of Shadows to her chest. She waved away mosquitos and gnats. She had to remember to carry a flashlight.

We’ll meet again, the woman had said in the pool room. Or Dana had dreamt it.

Halfway up the hill Dana spun around and walked backwards, her shoes scuffing at the dirt. There it was: the mystery of the place she’d felt back then, the palpitating darkness that had stirred her imagination. The faintest moonlight filtered through the trees, but it gave off no more than a shadow of an idea that she was still on the road. Night here was as black as the deepest old well, as claustrophobic as terror, and it would take time to adjust to the eeriness. There was always a chance that something or someone would spring out of the woods under the cover of dark.

She heard a crackle to her right and she gasped and stumbled. She turned and sprinted up to the cabin, where she’d left a light on.

Chapter 9

Dana turned the knob on top of the table jukebox and watched the pages flip. She’d never seen one. She read the selections and recognized most of the artists but few of the songs unless they’d become remakes. The waiter told her that the restaurant table model had been popular in the sixties, but here they were decorative, not functional. They fit perfectly with Fern Feast’s retro style, with lots of chrome, black and turquoise accents, and a touch of red. It smelled like the best meal of the day.

She was hungry, and she was elated with her progress. She’d set up her office on the bridge early the previous morning and she’d worked for hours. She let it percolate. She took off her shoes and slid down the bank to sit on a boulder. The water striders lit on top of the water with their long hair-thin legs, each one making a tiny dimple in the clear water, flitting around because they could. Cold water ran between her fingers and over her feet while she dissembled the information in her head and let it flow back together.

By noon she’d had her thesis. She’d scrambled up the bank, typed it in a new Word file and named it “paper.” For the next month she would dive into the research and work on a rough outline, then it would take off. She would find a university and spend a week there, if necessary. There was only so much she could do online, and she needed a library fix.

The waiter brought a plate of bacon and scrambled eggs, wheat toast, orange juice, and a speckled stone dessert bowl heaped with blueberries the size of shooter marbles. She dug in while she reviewed the list above her plate. Larry’s Laundromat was near the convenience store and it was her next stop, and she would hit Pingree’s Market afterward. It was Friday, and she was giving herself the weekend to pleasure-read, go to the auction, and explore.

Liz was right. The solitude was bliss, but you had to come down from the mountain and see human beings. Dana showered and dressed in jeans and low-heeled black boots, and she tucked in a cobalt blue buttoned-down shirt that she’d bought on her shopping spree in California. She’d gone overboard that day when she found a style she liked, and she now had five of them in different colors. She’d done the same thing with tee shirts, sweatshirts, and shorts. She put on small silver hoop earrings and a silver chain. She brushed her hair with her fingers and noticed that it was growing fast.

She heard a short beep moments before Liz walked in.

“Oh, spectacular, they did a good job of spiffing the place up,” Liz said. “I adore the décor.”

“You saw it before the changes?”

“Yes, Brian had a party here once when my house was finally finished and I was moving in. He invited his friends in Fern and he included me. It was pretty rustic back then, no plumbing. The outhouse…”

They laughed. “Thank you, Uncle Brian, for the shower and toilet,” Dana said. “I’m excited about the auction. I’m looking for a storage unit, a trunk or a cedar chest. Nothing huge.”

“There’re always a few of those. One of the guys will bring it up here for you. How’s the project coming?”

“Fantastic. So good, I’ve declared this a no-work weekend.”

Dana checked the place, locked up, and they got into Liz’s red BMW Roadster. “Okay, I’m a trespasser and I’m nosy, but damn, woman, what did your husband do for a living?”

“Who says it was from him?” She smiled at Dana as she tied her hair up in one dexterous movement with a pink scrunchie from her wrist, and they scooted down the hill.

On the way, Liz told her that the auction was Fern’s big weekly event from May Day through Labor Day. Love bloomed, fights erupted, differences were resolved, food and drinks were served, gossip ran rampant, and then there were items up for bid. People came from surrounding towns with their wares, and they ended up hauling home new treasures that were too good to pass up. From what Liz had heard, its popularity had grown over the years.

It was packed. Liz entered a dirt parking lot and slipped in between two monster trucks.

This wasn’t a granny gathering the way it had seemed when Dana was a kid. There was a healthy mix of everyone from babies to the severely pierced to families to the wizened in wheelchairs.

Dana followed Liz to a blue-tented booth that was set up to serve drinks on one side and hot dogs and burgers on the other. Liz treated her to a cold Starbucks mocha and bought one for herself. They walked to the main tent, which housed the auctioneer podium at one end and white plastic chairs for those who needed shade. They spilled out the back and sides of the tent as if for an outdoor wedding.

Dana was surprised at the size of the crowd. Liz greeted several people and introduced them to Dana. She grabbed Dana’s hand and led her to end seats on the right. Dana was glad she’d worn jeans and a long-sleeved shirt because it was blustery and cool. High, puffy clouds sailed by and the air was clean.

“Shouldn’t we have paddles or numbers or something?” Dana asked.

“It’s not Sotheby’s.” Liz shook her drink and twisted off the top. A baby in front of them laughed and pressed her fists to her mouth at the popping sound. “They have someone tagging the items.”

The auctioneer stepped up to the podium and the microphone squealed before he welcomed everyone and announced the cash-only policy. Dana looked away from the tent and watched the crowd meander closer. She spotted the guy who’d helped her at The Triple Goddess with his arm draped over a girl’s shoulder.

In the first hour the smaller items were put up, everything from jewelry to tableware to old LPs. Next up were small appliances and small furniture items. The auctioneer’s pitch was like a foreign language at first. Dana was fascinated. She guessed that he’d had the gig for a while.

Dana spotted a round-topped trunk, which she would later learn was a camel hump. The structure appeared to be solid but it needed refinishing. It was exactly what she wanted. She walked to the front near the podium. She pulled the lid up by a leather strap near the lock and she inspected the hinges and the condition of the inside. She tipped it and checked the bottom. She would strip the whole thing, then she would decide how to refinish it. She closed it and returned to her seat.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Liz said. “We’ll have fun. I promise not to intrude on your time, but if you ever want to do anything at all, let me know, and feel free to tell me to back off.”

“Thanks, same here.” Dana smiled at her. “Now that you mention it, I want to go to the Franconia Notch. We used to go to The Flume when I was a kid and I’d like to hike around there again.”

“You’re on. We’ll go in the fall, or before then, but definitely in the fall. We can spend the night if you like. There’s a great bed-and-breakfast in Sugar Hill.”

“Sure, absolutely. Hey, there’s my trunk.” Dana prepared to bid by sitting on the edge of her seat. Liz laughed and watched her. Dana had no idea what the auctioneer was saying, but she shouted out a starting bid of fifty dollars. It went up in twenty-five-dollar increments and she won it at two-fifty.

Liz congratulated her. “See that man up there with the red cap? Give him your name and he’ll tag it.”

Dana went up there and came back smiling. “I need a cheeseburger. Let me get you something. I’ll be right back.” She picked up her wallet from the chair.

“I’ll have the same, with mustard.”

Dana walked to the trunk first and ran her hands over it. Maybe she would stain the wood straps and use color on the spaces between them. It was a little bigger than she needed, but she liked the style. It looked like a pirate’s chest.

She headed for the food tent and stood in line. She tamed her hair as much as she could, but the wind had dried it into a wilder ’do than her usual. She took a step to the side to check the number of people in front of her. Seven or eight. She wondered if there were bathrooms or portable johns set up somewhere.

“There you are,” someone said behind her. “All settled in?”

She turned and faced the man from the furniture store.

“Hi, good to see you.” She shook his hand.

“Art Hanson,” he said.

“Hi, Art. Dana.”

“How’s the furniture working out for you? No lumps in the mattress, I hope.” He laughed at the notion.

“No, it’s perfect.”

“Hey, I saw you met Liz. She’s a treasure, isn’t she?”

“Yes, she is.” Dana turned to check on how close she was to the counter. She turned back to Art.

“There’s someone else I want you to meet, your other neighbor.”

Art turned and stepped back.

Carla.

Chapter 10

Dana’s mouth opened and she pressed her wallet against her stomach. She stared at the vision before her and everything else faded away. It was her, but as if someone had colored her in with vibrant acrylic paint on a storyboard and brought her to life with stunning results.

“This is Carla Gray, she’s on Broomstick in the house at the foot of the hill,” Art said. “And this is Dana.”

“What—” Dana said.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Carla said. Without taking her eyes off Dana, she spoke to Art. “Dana knows me best as Kit.”

Carla hugged her and whispered, “What took you so long?”

Dana let out the breath she’d been holding. “How...”

Carla pulled away, held Dana’s shoulders, and studied her face. “We’ll talk later. I’m so happy to see you.”

“Okay, looks like you’ve got this,” Art said before he shrugged and walked away, waving his hand.

Carla guided Dana by the elbow out of line and to the edge of the crowd.

“Kit, I can’t believe it. I…” She burst out laughing from tension and they threw their arms around each other. “Yeah, we do need to talk. The hotel, for starters.”

“We will.” Carla sighed. “You’re here.”

“You’re in the white house?”

“I moved back in there a few months ago, but yeah.”

Before she could find out any more, Dana saw Liz coming at them like an arrow.

“Liz,” Dana called. She was trembling inside. Liz’s previous reaction to the inhabitant of the white house was the last thing on her mind.

Dana rested her hand on Carla’s shoulder, and she felt Carla stiffen when she heard Liz’s name.

Carla cleared her throat, and she and Liz faced each other. Dana looked from one to the other.

“This is—” Dana said, and she remembered.

“I have to go,” Liz said. “After you pay for the trunk we can find someone to bring it up for you.”

“Yeah, I’ll do that—” Dana said.

“I’ll bring it up for her,” Carla said. “I have my truck.”

There was a heavy pause.

“Dana?” they said in unison.

“Um, as long as you have a truck. Do you mind, Liz?”

“Not at all,” she said. “Come up to the house tomorrow afternoon? I make a killer brunch. We can eat outside.”

Dana nodded.

Liz quickly hugged Dana, glared at Carla, and walked off.

She was curious about the rift between Liz and Carla, but she was more intrigued by how and why Carla had come to the hotel. She had an inkling, given recent events, but she wanted to hear it from her. Pandora’s box came to mind, and she glanced at Carla and thought that might be too harsh. She wanted to know, and she didn’t.

They eased the trunk into a space under the front window next to the Victrola. They straightened up and faced each other.

“I don’t know what to say. I have a million questions,” Dana said, brushing dust from her hands. She washed them and waited for Carla to speak. She nodded toward the sink. “Help yourself.”

“I don’t know where to start.” She rinsed her hands and took the towel that Dana held out. “Maybe it’s too much for today. You’re stunned, understandable.”

Dana sat at the table and pushed out a chair with her foot. Carla sat down and leaned on her arms on the table. Dana looked at her dark brown hair and the light strands, two on the left, one on the right. Her voice was husky, and she certainly wasn’t the whispering wisp who’d sashayed into the pool room. She was all there, in her black jeans, light blue sleeveless top, and silver earcuff dotted with chakra gems. She seemed ageless.

“Obviously you look nothing like the old Kit.”

“No, all grown up. You look a little the same, but hotter, and much less happy with me.”

Dana got to the point. “You’re a witch.”

“Yes. And so are you.”

“Well, no, I don’t think I’m—”

“You wouldn’t have seen me in that hotel if you weren’t. I’ll explain, but not tonight. I have to be at my friend Annea’s soon. Special meeting.”

“No, that’s fine. I’m on overload.”

“Do you remember our hideaway?” Carla asked.

“It came back to me.”

“I have to work tomorrow, but let’s go there early Monday morning, like we used to. I’ll come by around six? You bring a blanket and I’ll bring coffee.”

“Okay.” Dana took a deep breath. “You were a lot different at the hotel than...” She shot her hands in Carla’s direction.

“I’ll explain.”

“Too much.”

“I know.”

They looked at each other in silence. Simultaneously, they glanced at the yellow tulip on the windowsill.

“No more,” Dana said, pointing a finger at her and smiling.

“I’m sorry, but that was... awesome.” She whispered the last word. She bit her bottom lip.

“You are in so much trouble.”

They laughed—one nervously, the other with great pleasure.

“Monday morning then,” Carla said.

She left at six that evening and Dana paced. She turned on cable news and turned it off. She opened her laptop and closed it. She drank a glass of wine and walked from window to window. She ate a chocolate truffle while she nuked a frozen fettucine alfredo meal and wolfed it down. She’d missed out on her cheeseburger at the auction and she still had a taste for one.

She changed into loose knit pants, a baggy flannel shirt, and plush black socks. She brought her new Book of Shadows out of the bedroom and set it on the table. She opened it and ran her fingertips down the edge of a blank page. She put it back.

She closed the curtains before she lay on the sofa and stared at the ceiling. She thought of the two of them as kids at the hideaway. She went over questions she had for Carla. She wondered what she was up to, and if Liz was a witch, and what that meant for each of them, and what had caused the tension between them.

And if seeing Carla in Wyoming made Dana a witch, as she’d said, what did that mean? She’d sensed something different lately, maybe for a few years, but especially in the last six months or so. Heightened senses, a sharp attunement, a shifting wind. And the voice, she would ask Carla about that.

She turned her head toward the table and the mass of papers that waited there. As long as the shifting wind didn’t turn into a gale storm, and as long as the drama didn’t interfere, she was ready for anything.

Later, at midnight, she was reading in bed when a car passed the cabin and went up the hill.

The next morning, she was coming awake when she heard another one crunching over the dirt road. She peered out the bedroom window and she saw a white truck creeping down the hill. A man was driving, one beefy arm extended with his fingers spread, catching the air.

Chapter 11

Anywhere but here, of course, she wouldn’t notice people’s comings and goings. You didn’t have to rubberneck here, you just needed ears.

So Miss Liz has a fella, Dana thought as she walked up the hill for brunch. She wouldn’t ask. She would wait for Liz to spill it. She was happy to know Liz’s leaning because, married or not, it had been a toss-up.

She pressed the doorbell. Then again, no guarantees. She should know that by now.

The door swung open and a decidedly different Liz stood there. She was radiant.

“Whoa,” Dana said. She hugged Liz, then pushed her away for a better look. She was wearing a clingy emerald-green cotton dress that reached her ankles. Her skin glowed and her hair was loose and full. “Totally suits you.”

“Go on.” She smiled. “I feel great. Come into the kitchen.”

“Smells good in here, like brownies.”

“I trust your trunk made it okay?”

“Yeah, about that—”

“Let’s go out to the deck. It’s all set up.” She pulled two dramatic drinks in bowl-sized snifters from the refrigerator and handed one to Dana.

They sat at a round tile-topped table under a multicolored umbrella. A silver rolling cart next to the table held a small breakfast buffet. They ate and let the small talk dwindle before they moved to the subject of Carla.

“Delicious,” Dana said. She pulled the skewer of fruit from her drink and set it on her plate. “I want to explain about the auction. I knew Carla when I was a kid, by her nickname Kit, and I didn’t know about you, her, the white house. My head was spinning by the time you walked up.”

“Carla did tell me a little about you. Her first love. You did nothing wrong, don’t think that. Carla and I have a history, too. We were together, and not that long ago.”

“Friends or…” Dana put her hands together and tapped her fingertips.

Liz pointed at Dana’s hands. “Friends first, of course.”

Dana tried to fit the pieces together. That’s all she did lately.

“Yes, for three years she lived here,” Liz said quietly, playing with her food. Her volume rose. “But she’s stubborn and controlling. It’s a long, tedious story, but basically I wouldn’t do something she wanted me to do, and she was furious. It ended a few months ago with a lot of yelling and door slamming, and she walked out.” Liz groaned softly. “And I slammed the door after her.”

“Have you spoken since that happened?”

“A couple of times, but we’ll never agree on this.”

“Sorry.” She told herself not to ask what “something” had caused so much trouble, or about her late-night visitor, or anything that would further her reputation as a snoop.

“Anyway, that’s what that was about yesterday,” Liz said. “I thought you should know, and sorry if it was awkward for you.”

“Please, don’t worry about me.” She slid a juicy piece of pineapple and a slice of banana from the skewer. “So, have you been seeing anyone since then?” Nosy.

“No.” She straightened her back. She pushed her plate away and planted her arms on the table. “Enough of that. Tell me about the one you left behind.”

Dana chewed the fruit and turned away, pretending to avoid her. Liz laughed and squeezed Dana’s arm.

“My project is my big love for a while.”

Liz scrunched up her face.

“You can tell me to buzz off,” Dana said, “but let me ask you. You were married to a man, right?”

“He was gay,” Liz said. “We met when we were both teachers. I taught music, he taught drama, and if there’s such a thing as soul mates, we were. As friends. We started a side business for kicks, a clothing line, and it skyrocketed. You’ve heard of Dennick Formalwear?” She returned Dana’s nod. “Somewhere in there we got married for a variety of reasons, and it worked out amazingly well.”

“I’m sure you heard the Will and Grace jokes with that hair,” Dana said.

Liz nodded and laughed. “Anyway, I sold the business when he died, and that’s it. Here I am, retired at forty-four.”

She held her glass by the bowl and clinked it against Dana’s. Liz rubbed her stomach and put down her glass.

“Forty-four and delectable. To tuxes and gowns,” Dana said.

Liz pointed to Dana’s glass. “I’ll make more drinks. Hot tub?”

Liz stood, took a step to the side, and swayed. Dana knocked her chair over with the back of her legs and she caught Liz in her outstretched arms before she hit the deck. She carried her into the house.

Her face was gray, but she was coming around when Dana laid her on a sofa in the harp room and sat next to her. She had run to the kitchen for a cool cloth and she laid it on Liz’s forehead.

“Who should I call?” Dana asked.

“I’m fine. It happens.” She sat up and mumbled, “Low blood sugar or something.”

“Are you sure?”

“I have pills. Come into the kitchen and I’ll make you that drink.”

“No, Liz, get some rest.”

“Oooh, I’ll be right back.” Liz ran in back of the stairs and to the bathroom.

Dana heard her vomiting, and moments later the bathroom door closed. She went out to the deck and brought the dishes in. She was running water over the plates when she noticed a business card on the counter across the kitchen, next to the phone. She dried her hands as she walked to the bathroom door. She heard water running and Liz was gargling.

She went back to the kitchen and picked it up. The name was Ryan Williston, followed by a string of letters, Oncology, Concord Hospital.

She tore two sheets of paper from a small notepad and wrote her name and cell phone number on each one. She left one near the business card and one under a refrigerator magnet.

Liz came around the corner. “I should go to bed. I’m sorry. We’ll do this again soon.”

Dana brushed tangles of red hair away from her face and met her watery green eyes. “I left my cell number over there. I can be here in two seconds.”

A grove of gangly white birch trees stood beyond the grounds, to the right of where the red stone driveway met the dirt road. They were leaning this way and that and all at odds with one another. They weren’t tall. One of them was split from lightning. One had lost half of its papery bark. They were all living, but they’d been through something.

Dana made it that far. She walked into the grove and pounded on the barest tree with her fists until they ached. She leaned her head against it and sobbed. She wiped her eyes and nose on her sleeve, took deep breaths, and she cried again. She sat among them and drew her knees up and rested her head on her arms as tears fell onto her thighs and to the ground. The shadows lengthened.

She stood and fell forward onto the split tree with her palms. They seemed to sink into the bark. She pushed. She closed her eyes and held her hands there until she connected with the ravaged tree. She lowered her head. Her scalp crawled and her chest was hot. She opened her eyes a slit and she saw transparent ribbons of color running up and down the trunk and to the ground she stood on. She pressed harder and harder, and the last thing she remembered was whispering Allie’s name.

She woke in the dark, disoriented and aching. She trudged the half-mile to the cabin, massaging her hands all the way. She heard a snapping sound behind her and she didn’t care. She fumbled with the door key in the pitch black and cursed herself for not having a keychain light.

Inside, she changed into knit shorts and a tank top. It was ten o’clock. She drew the long gold chain over her head and placed the necklace on the chest of drawers. She scratched her arms and legs and little bumps bloomed on her skin. She’d forgotten about the abundance of mosquitos.

In the bathroom mirror, she saw the inch-wide pink circle between her breasts, where the scarab had been tucked into her bra. She touched it. It was painless, but the rest of her was wrecked. She was too exhausted to think about what had happened. She took two Advil with an entire bottle of water, set the alarm for four, then she tucked herself into her purple flannel sheets and electric blanket and slept like a sated newborn.

Chapter 12

Light, damn it. It was cold the next morning and Dana was determined to get a fire going in the stove. She ripped up several sheets of blank paper and stuffed the strips under the wood. She waved the long matchstick’s flame beneath them and they caught.

She sprang up and went to the bathroom to brush her teeth. She sat at the table and flipped through her notes. She brought up the novel she was halfway through on the reader. There wouldn’t be time to get into her work if Carla was coming at six. She poured a cup of coffee and tried to read while she paced, but her thoughts went to Liz, the grove, the pink circle, and how Carla figured into it all.

She was watching a play with the curtains closed.

After an hour, she got ready for the trek to the hideaway and answers to her questions.

“It seemed like a longer way from the cabin back then,” Dana said.

“Our legs were shorter,” Carla said.

They swept leaves and branches from the rock bed. Dana unfolded the matted green blanket she’d taken from the back of her car, and she threw one end to Carla. They lifted it up and floated it down over the bumpy surface.

“Seems like there’d be a lot more covering it after all this time,” Dana said. “I thought it would be buried.”

“I come up here, you know, to think,” Carla said.

Carla checked the lids on the coffees and handed her one. “Black.”

They climbed up on the bed and shifted their hips until they each found a comfortable spot.

Dana remembered the gin-and-tonic at the hotel. “You know a lot about me, but I don’t know much about you. I want to talk about Liz later, but first the hotel.” She looked at Carla. “What in the hell, woman?”

Carla ran her fingers through her dark hair and she took a deep breath before she spoke.

“I’ll start with the how, and we’ll go from there. I’ve been tracking you for a long time, about ten years. Just your location, and only once a year or so, not stalkery or anything.”

She waited for a reaction from Dana. She continued when she got a nod.

“I’ve been developing my powers my whole life. The short story is that they’ve become stronger over the years, and more recently in one area. That’s what you saw. It found me when I needed it and I worked on it with a small group. It’s possible that I was able to travel just that one time. To you.”

“So, a kind of astral travel?” Dana asked.

“Yes, something like that. The physical me stayed here. It’s a type of mind travel, but the focus—that would be you—has to be willing to see.”

“Well, we both know I was willing.” She wrapped her hands around the lukewarm cup.

“Me, too, and I shouldn’t have come to you that night, but...” Carla sighed. “Anyway, that day I was in an advanced meditation ritual with a High Priestess. She helped me.”

“That’s why you seemed there and not there, ghostly.”

Carla nodded.

“Nice touch, leaving the flower and the jade stone.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll go with that as the how. Now tell me why.”

Carla fidgeted with her cup.

“Carla?”

“I needed you, but I didn’t make you come back with magic. It wasn’t like that.”

“Tell me you didn’t.”

“I just gave you a little push on Beltane with a help from some friends. We only sent you the idea. You were free to reject it.”

Dana dropped her head back and took her turn staring at the sky.

“Don’t be mad,” Carla said.

“Give me a minute.”

“All right, but that’s not all.”

“I’m sure.”

Dana reached in back of her and picked up a length of branch. She flicked the pine needles. Birds chirped. Squirrels jumped and chased each other. The leaves seemed to whisper about the human drama unfolding below them. Carla removed the lid from her cup and it squeaked. She put it back on and circled its edge with her finger. She glanced at Dana.

“You did it a couple of other times, recently, before I left,” Dana said. “I heard voices, had rushes.”

She nodded. “That was me. I wanted to ease you in. I guess I didn’t want it to come at you all at once.”

“The white stone on the bridge?”

“No, not me.”

Dana thought of her grandmother at that moment, and she pushed it away. She would deal with that later.

“Why do you need me here?” Dana asked after she saw the high color on Carla’s face.

“Two reasons. First, Liz is dying, it’s advanced. She shut me out and won’t get treated. She’s stubborn and controlling, even at a time like this.”

Carla’s mouth trembled and tears welled in her eyes. Dana pulled her over to her side while she choked out sobs. Carla pulled a white handkerchief out of her satchel.

“Why didn’t you just call me?” Dana asked. Carla laughed and sniffed.

“No. I wanted you to come for a stay, not a quick visit. I didn’t want you to give me a list of websites or doctors or treatments. I wanted to entice you here, partly to see if you’d respond to me. Besides, no witch worth her salt would’ve called.”

“Okay, Liz is sick and that’s horrible, but what can I do?” Dana asked. “I’m not a doctor.”

“I guess I’m asking that you be with her sometimes, when you can. She won’t see me. She can be a recluse, especially now, and it can’t be good for her.” Carla looked at her. “She likes you. I knew she would.”

“I like her, too, and I think we can be good friends. But that was already happening.” Dana was confused and didn’t know what questions to ask. Carla couldn’t have wanted her here to be a buddy to her ex.

“Tell me the second reason,” Dana said.

“Because you need to be here as much as I need you here. Sorry, I can’t explain any of this.” Carla put her head down and was ready to cry again. “I just know.”

“Don’t be sorry. Look at this place.” She turned to Carla and smiled. “I’m just glad you live here and not the Sahara or the North Pole.”

“Do you really remember us here, when we were kids?” Carla asked, patting the blanket.

“It came back to me in colorful detail when I got here.”

“I never forgot it.”

They leaned against each other.

“Is Liz a witch?” Dana asked.

“A solitary. She reads tarot, and she’s good. She’s heavily into meditation, but she’s shut out pretty much everything now.”

“You know, it’s natural for her to change. She ran smack into her mortality and it’s a protective reaction. She lost control of her most fundamental security, her life, and she’s grasping for control wherever she can.”

“Yeah. She wasn’t like that before.”

“So, is that everything?” Dana asked.

“No, but that’s it for now.”

“No more magic on me without my permission,” Dana said. “You broke the only rule, not to mention the risk to yourself.”

“I won’t,” Carla said with sincerity. She turned to face Dana and grasped her shoulders. “But seeing you here, right in front of me? To be honest, it was worth it.”

She watched Carla walk down the hill at eight and she turned and waved. Dana called after her and asked where she worked. She wasn’t surprised to learn that Carla made cloaks and other ritual wear, wands, and books, and that she owned The Triple Goddess.

Dana wrapped her baggy red fleece jacket tightly to her and walked across the road to the brook. She stood on the nearest boulder and looked up the steep hill on the other side. They weren’t allowed to go up there as kids, but they’d gone anyway.

She walked back to the road and Carla was out of sight. Stubborn and controlling, they’d both said. Dana had emphasized her reason for being there in the first place. Her work was her first priority. She’d assured Carla that Liz had her cell number and that she would help however she could.

Carla had seemed relieved when she left.

Dana still had questions.

Chapter 13

Fern’s own little witch enclave on Broomstick Lane, drama and all, thrilled Dana. She felt like she’d known Carla her whole life, without interruption, and Dana was crazy about Liz. They respected her work schedule and, so far, she saw no complications. She could forge through her paper, spend time with them, and get in some sightseeing. She still wanted to go to the Franconia Notch, and she had to find a good library.

The next ten days were uneventful compared to the first week. She made headway on her research, came up with a rough draft of her introduction, and wrote a preliminary outline.

This might be the best move she’d ever made. She could almost taste her future: a sprawling two-story house with a red tile roof, working in the yard with her partner, winging off to Italy or the British Isles for a romantic vacation. She would be one half of a couple, a solid entity. She reveled in the legitimacy of it, and she went back to work.

She and Liz got together every few days for lunch and they went for walks. Liz had drily confided in her about her illness, offering the information as if it were someone else’s story. Dana listened. She had a feeling that Liz was telling it this once and the subject wouldn’t be broached again.

The medicine that had made her sick that day was from a clinical trial medication, she said, and she’d stopped taking it. She was getting personal care from Ryan Williston, who was a colleague and friend of her father’s, and she’d been firm with Ryan regarding treatment. He’d come up to her house on Saturday night, and he’d taken blood and given her an exam on Sunday morning before he left.

Liz explained that she’d seen a long-time partner go through months of hideous treatment and they’d both gone through hell. She wouldn’t do it. She would rather die in her house on the hill than in a hospital room, hooked up to machines and out of her skull on meds. Screw that, she’d said, and that was the end of the conversation.

Carla lay low. She understood that Dana needed time to absorb it all, and maybe forgive her, and they each had to focus on work. They made plans to go to Fern’s Fabulous Fourth Fest together, with an agreement to call each other before then, if necessary.

Dana was high on her progress. She stashed her work away in a drawer for the last weekend in June.

She put her Book of Shadows in the center of the table and surrounded it with the bottles of oil, tarot cards, and stones.

She lit a lavender pillar candle she’d found in the bottom of the hutch. She opened the tarot deck and studied the beautiful designs on the cards and the book that came with them. She practiced readings from the layout illustrations and she read the meanings of the elemental suits: wands, cups, pentacles, and swords. The images were mesmerizing, especially on the Major Arcana. The artist used spheres, symbols, color, animals, and archetypal images to signify each card’s unique meaning.

Liz invited her over for Saturday—dinner, drinks, hot tub, and movies—to celebrate Dana’s weekend off. They would stay up late, she said, and Dana could choose her own bedroom and stay the night. Liz’s enthusiasm was appealing and contagious, and Dana accepted.

“We don’t need them,” Liz said. She piled her hair on top of her head and fastened it with a clip. Dana watched. It was sleight-of-hand the way she did it.

“Seriously, nekkit in the spa,” Dana said.

“Dead serious.” Liz snickered as she pulled two glasses from a cupboard. She poured white wine and handed one to Dana. “Let’s go.”

They walked out to the deck and to the left, where the hot tub was built into the far end. It was a twenty-seater deluxe model and the water was already roiling. They set their drinks in wells on the edge. Liz stripped in five seconds and stepped into the tub.

Dana picked up her drink and faced the other end of the deck.

“Life’s too short, Dana, it’s just naked. I promise I won’t hurt you.” Liz squinted up at her and splashed her. “Come on.”

Dana let her shorts drop and she peeled off her tee shirt and tossed it aside. She kept her underwear on, happy that she’d worn a new set of Hanes. She hesitated, and she picked up her clothes and folded them. She placed them on the railing and patted them.

Liz laughed. “Surely this isn’t your first time in a hot tub.”

“Well, no, but it’s light out and I don’t know you,” Dana said. She laughed. “I’m kind of modest.”

Liz adjusted the clip in her hair. “You shouldn’t be.” She whistled and Dana splashed her.

“I want to stay here all night,” Dana said when she was immersed. “It’s not godawful hot the way they usually are.”

“No, I can’t do hot. I like it this way, like a bath.”

Dana released every bit of tension to the bubbling water and she watched Liz do the same. She noticed Liz’s increasingly bony frame but she didn’t mention it. They talked until the sun disappeared behind the hills. Liz gave her the lowdown on the clothing business, and Dana described her teaching travels and some of her romances.

“So you’re the serial monogamist that’s much maligned in the community,” Liz said.

“I guess. And I eat meat and chocolate and I like black coffee.” They slapped hands. “Living on the edge.”

“What made you decide to come back here?” Liz asked.

“Well, I was considering a studio at the beach or a rental in Lake Arrowhead. The cabin idea came out of nowhere, like magic. There was no turning back.”

“Magic.” Liz picked up her drink and felt the rim of the glass. “Have you seen Carla?”

“No, we’ve both been busy. I’ll see her at the Fourth Fest.”

She looked at Dana. “I miss her.”

“I know.”

“No whining. We’re here to have fun.”

“Come on, you’re not doing that. It’s okay to talk about it.”

“I’ll take you up on that sometime.”

“So what’s up for tonight?” Dana asked. “And don’t forget, I brought cheesecake.”

“Do you like old dance movies?”

They watched An American in Paris on a big-screen television hanging in an otherwise cozy room that was lined with bookcases. A plush red rug sat in front of a mica-faced fireplace topped by a vivid western-themed abstract oil painting.

Liz poured Roederer Cristal champagne into elegant flutes. She stretched out and laid her head on Dana’s lap, and Dana played with her hair while they watched and talked.

“Favorite old-timey actress?” Dana asked.

“Maureen O’Hara, by far.”

“Yeah, gorgeous. Actor?”

“Cary Grant.”

“I liked An Affair to Remember,” Dana said.

“I have an idea.” Liz sat up and stood. “Do you dance?”

“No, I—”

“Stay put, I’ll be right back.” She laughed. “Pour yourself another glass of champagne, my friend, you’ll need it.”

She returned twenty minutes later with her hair pinned up in a waterfall style, and she was wearing a backless silver gown with thin straps, a strand of emeralds, and matching earrings. She was barefoot. She held up a tuxedo and laid it across Dana’s arm.

“I think this will fit you.”

“Oh.” Dana turned her around in a dance move. “You are stunning.” She sized up the tux. “Okay, but you’ll have to teach me. I can barely fake dancing to techno in a crowded club.”

While Dana changed in the bathroom, Liz found a dance collection CD that covered ballroom to the twist. She turned on the sound system speakers and lights to the deck. They hooked arms in the kitchen and strutted outside, down the steps, and over to a cement pad off to the deck’s side.

“I’ll be O’Hara. Who do you want to be?” Liz asked.

“Bacall, who else?”

They were laughing so hard that they nearly fell down when they did the tango, the twist, and the cha-cha. Neither of them knew salsa, but they tripped over each other’s feet trying. When a slow song came on, they came together with their hands on each other’s backs. Dana closed her eyes. She heard a jazzy tune next, from a distance, then from farther away. They stayed close together until the music stopped.

Dana came to, as if from sleep, and her head ached.

“Wonderful. I feel renewed,” Liz said, “and you’re not a bad dancer, Bacall.”

“Same to you.” She felt foggy. Probably the drinks. She held onto the railing when she walked up the steps.

Dana followed her across the deck to the kitchen door. She stopped cold and stared when she saw two pink handprints on Liz’s back. Liz turned around and grinned. Her face was bright and flushed when she opened the kitchen door.

“After you,” Liz said, adding, “God, I feel good!”

Dana paced the guest bedroom even though she felt drained. She hadn’t wanted to alarm Liz, so she didn’t point out the fact that she was sporting handprints on her back. She hadn’t hurt her, she was sure. She didn’t know what it meant. She checked her hands a dozen times for an answer. She was thrilled, and worried. She thought of the white birch trees, the mark on her chest, and the exhaustion she’d felt that night. She paced the room and looked at her reflection in the window. She remembered slow-dancing and closing her eyes, faraway music.

She went downstairs for a bottle of water and something to do. She drank the whole bottle and got another. The dance tunes CD was on the breakfast bar and she turned it over to read the playlist. She smiled at their clumsy attempt at salsa. Two songs after that was the first slow song, and after that there were eleven more titles. She was sure they hadn’t been dancing for that long.

At three o’clock, she walked with flashlight in hand down the driveway to the grove of white birch trees. She checked each one. She aimed the beam at the split tree and it was whole.

That couldn’t be right.

She looked at each one three times. She walked up to the one she’d connected with that night, the split one. It was leaning and oddly shaped like before, but the split that had run from the lowest branch up the trunk was gone. She ran her fingertips over the rough, papery bark, and she glanced at the house.

She was in the fabulous shower-with-a-view at eight in the morning trying to figure out how to get Liz’s shirt off. They’d been pretty toasted when they were dancing, and she wanted to make sure that she saw what she saw. She needed a glimpse of Liz’s back. She could get Liz breakfast-drunk on bloody Marys and suggest they play strip poker. No. There’s a bee on your shirt. No. Love your shirt, may I try it on? No. All lame.

She looked out at the dull mist settled in the valleys between the gray-green hills, which seemed one with the thick, slow clouds. She saw Liz living a long life up here in her log mansion, and wondered if that could possibly happen. She didn’t want to question Liz on the details of her illness and Liz showed no signs of wanting to talk about them. Dana wasn’t sure it would make a difference to know more at this point. There was time.

She dressed and went downstairs.

“Good morning, did you sleep well?” Liz asked. “I had such a great time last night and I feel better than I have in six months. And I’m starving, can you believe it? Breakfast is out on the deck. We have—”

“Slept well, yeah, and last night was magical.” She’s chirping, Dana thought. A small panic tugged at her. “I could eat.”

Liz held Dana’s arms and studied her face. “You’re a little pale. Food will fix that. We had a lot of champagne last night.” She giggled.

Outside, Liz ate from a mounded plate of eggs, fruit, and waffles. Dana didn’t want her to know yet—she wasn’t sure herself—so there was no easy way to get a look at her back. She suggested the hot tub.

“Now?” Liz laughed. “You can, but I don’t think so.”

“Oh, come on, it’s a…” Dana looked at the gray sky and the haze. “gloomy day and… I’m cold and the spa is so warm.” Dana nodded with satisfaction.

“I’ll get you a jacket.”

“Please, Liz, please. Let’s go in the hot tub.”

Her eyes opened wide. “Jeez, Louise, I get it. You just want me to get naked again.”

“Yes, that’s right.” Dana gave her a lecherous snicker. “Let’s do it.”

She’d never had so much trouble getting anyone into a hot tub. The prints were still on Liz’s back, but faint, and she seemed livelier than Dana had seen her. Dana was sure Liz had put on a few pounds overnight.

She had to think. She might talk it over with Carla when she saw her. It could be a fluke. Maybe Liz was simply feeling better from a new medicine. She would check on her in a few days and if she was as vibrant as this, Dana wouldn’t interfere.

She stopped at the grove of white birches on her way home to see them in daylight. Indeed, the tree was no longer split. She brushed each trunk of the misshapen family of five. She studied her palms. She was excited and a little overwhelmed that she and the talisman might have this immense power. As she strolled down the hill, her mind raced with the possibilities, which were obvious and fantastic. But she was a realist. Something this awesome couldn’t be all good. There was another side, which could be disastrous.

Chapter 14

Liz was at her best the morning after they’d danced, but throughout the week she’d declined. Dana had stopped in the previous afternoon and Liz looked weary and waifish in spite of her efforts to hide it with good cheer. Dana had buried herself in her project that week, but the event in the grove and the handprints intruded on her concentration.

She had more questions for Carla today. Dana was parked in the driveway at the white house, and Carla had shouted that she’d be right out.

Within minutes, she bounded down the porch steps. She held up a picnic basket and walked to Dana’s car window. She leaned in and kissed her cheek.

“Happy Fourth. Do you want to come in and see the place or do it later?” Carla asked, smiling.

“Later’s fine, you locked up.” Dana breathed in a faint vanilla scent.

Carla looked twenty-eight tops in her jeans, black polo shirt, and blue baseball cap. She walked in front of the car to the other side.

“Hope you brought a jacket or something,” Carla said. She set the basket on the floor in back and laid a blue sweatshirt on top of it. She settled into the front seat.

“I did.”

They turned to each other.

“Quite a week,” Carla said. She shook Dana’s shoulder.

“It has been. We deserve to get crazy tonight.”

Half an hour later, they sat side by side on the same blanket they’d used at the hideaway, on the same lot used for the auctions. They already had their sweatshirts on and they talked while they watched the crowd. Carla gave her a running bio on the people she knew. Dana asked about her family.

“Tommy died in Iraq and my mother died two years before him, cirrhosis of the liver.” Carla mimed a drink toss. “She left the house to me, us, and I’ve been there ever since, except when I was with Liz.”

“Sorry to hear that. I remember both of them. And the raccoons.”

“Those ugly hutches, God.”

“You’ve lived there alone?” Dana asked.

“No, I was with someone for years. Elise. We split about four years ago and she moved to Florida. I already knew Liz, and sparks flew. I moved into her place three years ago.”

Dana pulled a bottle of water from the basket and twisted off the top. She handed one to Carla. A devil’s darning needle whizzed by Dana’s head. She remembered her mother warning them that if they lied, the insect would find them and sew up their lips. The past trickled in on a regular basis like clips of This Is Your Life.

“Why do you think it ended?” Dana asked. “And don’t say stubborness.”

“She won’t get help. We were so happy before she got sick and then she refused to get chemo or radiation, which is a horrible path, I know, but it’s better than no chance at all. I can’t even say I’d go that route if it happened to me.” She studied her hands. “I don’t have that kind of power. I’m not a healer. Believe me, I tried, and we brought in a couple of other people. Liz didn’t like them.”

“Hm.”

“What does that mean, ‘hm’.”

“No, I’m sure all that’s true, but you made a decision, too.”

“I can’t watch her die, Dane, and I don’t think she wants me to.”

“What if she agreed to get help?”

Carla looked at her. “What do you mean? She won’t.”

“What if she did? Without any guarantees that it would save her, because there are none, what would you do if she agreed to?”

“I’d ask you to drive me to the florist right now, if Fern had one, and then drive me up the hill and I would beg her to take me back.”

“Yellow tulips?”

Carla wiped her eyes and bumped against Dana. “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“I do.”

Dana had seen fireworks at the Rose Bowl, in Las Vegas, and from a helicopter, but this was her favorite so far. It was good to be out with Carla and other people, away from work, comfortable and fun. She’d been in Fern a few weeks, and she was starting to recognize people she’d seen around town and at the auction. She greeted Art Hanson and he introduced her to Steve Adamson, his partner.

Dana had completely missed that Art was gay. Steve suggested that they all get together sometime. They both owned the furniture store, Art said, and they would show Dana the hot spots in the area. Carla slapped Art’s leg and they laughed.

Carla knew everyone. She waved some of them over, mostly friends and regular patrons of her shop, to introduce them to Dana. They asked when she would be getting in this or that item to the store.

“I went into The Triple Goddess, you know. It’s incredible,” Dana said. “You have a good selection.”

“Thank you, I know you were. You bought one of the books I made.”

“I love it. I actually bought a trunk to put it in, well, and other things.”

“Would you believe me if I said I made that one for you?”

Dana smiled at her. “That would be cool, and yes, I’d believe anything right now.”

The fireworks lasted for only a few minutes, but it was fun to see the kids get so excited. They sat on the blanket until most of the crowd had cleared. They picked up their trash, packed the picnic basket, and folded the blanket.

“You fit in,” Carla said. “I’m happy you’re here.”

“Me, too.”

“Let’s go to my house. I cleaned, so you have to come in.”

Carla showed Dana around. It was a solid old house and Carla had decorated it in an appealing mix of new age and rustic. She had a cluttered room in the back corner of the first floor where she designed and made goods, which had its own messy charm, and the rest of the house was meticulously decorated.

Dana remarked on a scene painted on the wall behind her bed, a depiction of the maiden, mother, and crone. The crone had flowing silver hair and a strong, serene face, and the other two figures were in front of her, at her sides.

“I put the crone in the middle, and bigger, instead of the mother.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Does the maiden look familiar?” Carla asked.

Dana cocked her head, and she shrugged.

“It’s you, back then,” Carla said.

Dana stretched over the bed to get closer. “I’m touched, wow. You’re quite the artist.”

“You were so cute, and now, well… know who you look like? That writer…”

“It’s the hair.”

They drank wine at the table in the roomy kitchen, reliving events from nearly twenty-five years ago. Carla asked about Dana’s family, and she told Dana more about Tommy. They talked about their adventures in the woods. If they ran around in the woods from sunrise to sunset these days, they agreed, they’d keel over. They reminisced about that last summer in the hideaway, and how horrible it had been when Dana moved away.

“It was like pages torn from a book. I completely blocked after we moved away,” Dana said. “It opened up after I got here, though, like a deluge.”

“You were in shock. I think you had to make room for the new stuff you had to deal with. I can’t imagine. New house, new father, new school. It must’ve been hard.”

“Yeah, but maybe it happened the way it was supposed to, you know? It didn’t kill me.”

“I’m so glad you’re back,” Carla said. “I always hoped.”

By midnight they were yawning, and Dana made motions to leave.

“Wait, I wanted to ask you… do you remember my cat Mojo?” Carla asked.

Dana squinted. “Aw, the fluffy orange one?”

“When you came up the beginning of that last summer, you showed me your talisman.”

Dana nodded.

“I was upset and told you he was sick. He’d been lying still for a few days and he wouldn’t eat. We ran to my house and you put your hands on him, on his stomach and head, and you closed your eyes.”

Dana inspected her thumbnail. She rubbed her earlobe.

“He got up instantly, do you remember? He jumped up and he was normal, completely better. And you had a fierce headache and had to go back to the cabin for the rest of the day. And there was one other time that summer—”

“I don’t remember, sorry,” Dana said, shaking her head. She yawned. “I have to go.”

Carla walked her to the door. They hugged, and when they released their hold on each other, Carla’s eyes pierced her own. Dana felt a surge of energy in her head. The event with the cat played in fast forward, and she saw it as if she were there.

Carla kissed her, and Dana kissed her back.

Dana was restless when she was back at the cabin, so she worked. She sorted through her notes and skimmed them while she organized them into piles. It was going well, and if she did some cleanup now she could start fresh in the morning. She pulled new manila folders out of the bottom drawer of the armoire and brought them out to the table.

She thought about Mojo and that day.

In June 1985, her family made their first weekend trip of the summer. As usual, she’d had her nose pressed against the car window as they approached the white house on their way up the hill. She laid her hand on the window and peered through the woods for her first glimpse of Kit.

She was on the top porch step. They waved to each other and Kit leapt to the ground. Before the car came to a full stop in front of the cabin, Dana opened the door and ran back down the hill to meet her on the bridge. She was already there, Dana could see, and she ran faster with her hand over her new necklace. Kit would like it.

They grabbed each other’s arms and twirled as they always did to the music of the rushing brook below and the rustling leaves. Dana held up the gold scarab.

Kit had only touched it when she started crying.

“Mojo’s sick,” she said.

Dana took her hand and they ran down to her house and inside to her bedroom. The cat was lying on his side in the closet, eyes closed even when Dana stroked the bony nub between his ears. A food dish and a bowl of water were nearby.

She sat cross-legged in front of him and Kit sat beside her.

“How long has he been here?” Dana asked.

“Two days.”

Dana placed one hand on his head and neck and one hand on his stomach. She closed her eyes and soon her head vibrated and her scalp crawled. Her chest was warm. She heard faint voices underneath soft static. She stayed for a minute until the cat moved under her touch.

Mojo stood and yawned as if rising from a nap. He stretched his back with his paws pushed out in front and his butt up, then he arched high. He shook his head. He brushed against the girls in cursory thanks and walked unfazed to his food dish.

They stared open-mouthed and wide-eyed at him. They looked at each other.

“Let him eat,” Dana said. She rubbed her forehead and temples.

“How’d you do that?”

Dana placed her hand on her chest and smiled. “It’s a gift.”

“Magic,” Kit said. She touched the talisman on Dana’s shirt.

They were twelve years old, guileless, and open to whatever the world laid before them as long as they had each other. They didn’t analyze their good fortune. They’d kissed Mojo on the head and scratched his ears before they’d run out to the woods.

It had been a summer of firsts, that last one.

Carla knew. That was why she needed her.

Dana was hunting for a marker to label the folders when she heard a car pull up, followed by silence. She heard a soft knock at the door and a muffled voice said, “It’s me.”

Dana glanced up at the clock on instinct, and around the room at the closed curtains. She walked to the door and stopped. She had a hand on the knob and she looked at the papers covering the table. She looked at her feet for a few moments.

She opened the door. “Carla.”

“I want to sleep with you. I brought my pajamas and toothbrush.” She patted her satchel.

“The um… it’s… not a good idea. What about—”

“Not for sex, relax. I need to stay here. Just tonight.”

“Come on in. I was just going to bed.”

They took turns in the bathroom getting ready and they turned out the lights. Dana clicked on the glass lamp and made Carla show her tattoo—a Celtic Four knot, Carla said, for the seasons, with double lines around the edge that meant connection between two people who are apart but together.

In the dark, Dana told the story of Mr. Hatch’s ghost to scare Carla, who played along and buried her head under a pillow, begging Dana to stop. “One eye,” Dana whispered. Carla told her a story about a hunter who was mauled by a bear. His ghost tramps around the woods to this day, she said, and he liked to hang out underneath a cabin on Broomstick. They giggled, like before.

They faced each other, wound up, and they talked about the night in the hotel. Dana said it was her favorite sex dream so far, and Carla said it was better than their first times on the rock bed.

When they were quiet, Carla whispered, “We can’t wait forever.”

“I know.”

They lay silent for a minute. Dana slipped her hand under the waistband of Carla’s shorts, slid her hand over the small of her back, and pushed her close. Carla laid her leg over Dana’s hip. They picked up where they’d left off years ago, all but the fumbling.

Much later, when the barest light fell on the trees and made vague silhouettes, they pulled the comforter over them. They made no declarations or promises or breathy assurances.

Just this once, they said, and they slept through the day.

Chapter 15

The writing studio that Dana set up each morning on the bridge was the best in the world, she was sure of it. When it rained she stayed in the cabin or ran errands. A man at Fern’s small hardware store helped her find what she needed to strip the trunk, which she wanted to do before it turned cold.

She made occasional trips to Larry’s Laundromat and Pingree’s, and more frequent runs to Chock O Latte, where she was now. It was mid-July and steamy. She took a long pull on her iced mocha and tucked her truffles into her bag.

She wandered around the town center and went into The Red Hen. She slid a few classics from the shelf, flipped through them, and put them back. She picked up a large-format hardcover of Sights to See in New Hampshire and she set it on a big metal office desk that served as the checkout counter. She found a tree identification book in the used section. The New Age/Metaphysical section filled five shelves, which surprised her. She skimmed the table of contents on several healing books and she tucked two of them under her arm. She found a reference section and chose a book on writing. She checked out and lugged her bag to the sidewalk, happy that she’d driven today and not walked.

She pushed the door open at The Triple Goddess. Carla smiled at her from behind the glass case at the back and waved her over. Dana walked past an older man and a boy who were looking at the swords on the wall.

“Hey, I have something for you in the back. Hang on.” She disappeared behind the red velvet curtain.

Dana set her drink on the glass case and released her heavy bag of books to the floor. She picked out several more bottles of oil—lavender, jasmine, and another cedar—and an assortment of ritual candles with a silver candleholder and snuffer set. She set them on the counter and added a pair of amethyst knot earrings. She removed them from the small brown card and she inserted the first one. The bell tinkled when the man and boy left. She was jiggling the second one through her earlobe when Carla swept through the curtain.

“Can’t leave you alone for a minute,” Carla said. “I love those. They look good on you.”

“This place is great. I swear, I’m thinking about getting a cloak.”

“I can customize one for you, a woolen winter one if you want. In the meantime,” she said, holding out a large deep-blue tarot bag, “please take these. Cleansed and infused last night.”

Dana held the bag from the top with one hand and felt the contents with the other. She opened it wide until the black strings were taut. She reached in and ran her fingers through them, then she scooped out a few and held them under a light.

“What are they for?”

“They’re healing stones, selected very carefully by yours truly. Make them your own.”

“Yeah…” Dana avoided her eyes. “Carla, thank you, but I don’t know yet—”

“They might come in handy, that’s all.” She blushed. She stooped down and rearranged the jewelry in the glass case. She popped up and leaned on it. “Listen, I’m not pushing. I know what’s involved in this for you, the risks, not to mention the time it will take. And it will take time.”

“Months.”

“Yes. I’m afraid the longer you wait, the longer it will take.”

“How did you know?” Dana watched the stones click between her fingers.

“That whole summer, but it didn’t end there. We always had that connection in so many ways when we were kids and it never went away. We’re kindred souls, as my mom used to say. It was different for you, I know, because you had to leave, but I was always in touch with you. The strongest vision I had was when you were leaving Texas. You were a constant in my head for two weeks.”

Dana nodded. Allie. The scarab.

“And, don’t be mad, but…” Carla said.

Dana braced herself.

“I watched you in the grove that night. The fusion was incredible. I stayed with you and followed you home.”

“Did you know that Liz was sick that day?”

Carla nodded. “I got to the top just as you leaned against the tree. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Neither have I.” Dana smiled. “It freaked me out at first, then it was… amazing.”

“Witches have their specialties just like anyone. I get visions. You heal.”

“And they arise when we need them,” Dana said. She put the stones back in the bag. “I’ll keep these.”

“It’s a lot, and I won’t mention it again. I’m as concerned about you as I am about Liz, and I’ll help any way I can. Say the word.”

“I get the urgency, but if I don’t see every aspect it could spiral down for all of us. It won’t work if I have doubts.” She handed Carla the earring card and pushed the rest of her items across the glass counter. “Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“And you don’t have to sleep with me to get my help. I may not know a lot about this, but I know it doesn’t work like that.”

“That’s not what happened,” Carla said, smiling. “You were there.”

“It was…hm.”

“And could be again.”

“Bad idea, considering what we might be dealing with soon, but, believe me, no regrets.”

Dana walked around the counter and hugged her.

“Okay,” Carla said, “but—”

“And…” Dana said as she walked back.

“Uh-oh,” Carla said quietly.

“I don’t want to get lecturey, but do not use magic on me to make me do this. It’ll backfire on you.”

“I won’t. This is serious. I get it.”

Dana shook her head and they smiled. “Ring me up, and add about three dozen blue candles, just in case.”

Carla disappeared behind the curtain and returned with a white box filled with candles in shades of pale cerulean to blue-black. She tucked white glittery tissue paper over them and closed it.

“Have you seen her?” Carla asked as she wrapped the bottles of oil in tiny bubble-wrap bags.

“Every couple of days, and she’s fine. I’m going up there now.” She studied Carla’s face. “But you probably already knew that.”

Carla grinned.

Dana started spending more time with Liz, trying to think of a way to test her power once more and stall her illness at the same time. They drove up to the Franconia Notch in late July and stayed at the inn in Sugar Hill, but the conditions weren’t right. She always had a great time with Liz. They walked around the park all day, ate dinner, and fell into bed early. They also hung out a lot at Liz’s house in the hot tub, or walking, or cooking and eating, but the opportunity didn’t present itself there, either. She didn’t know how to try it again.

Instead, she read up on it, and learned that there were as many healing scenarios—methods, precautions, and outcomes—as there were people. Some followed a prescribed course and had a name, like Reiki. Some were Wiccan, some Christian. She found material from all religions, societies, and cultures. They described their long histories in the healing arts, supported by case documentation.

Accounts of solitary healers interested her most. It was there that she found cautions on the adverse effects that the most intense healing practices could have on the healer. Even with those, though, every case was different. To complicate matters, there were also many success stories that reported total eradication of serious illnesses.

She had more data, but she was back where she started: it was a risk, and she wasn’t sure she should take it. She knew the gold scarab was a vital aspect—or she thought it was—and she and the talisman together might be the right alchemy. If it came to that, she would first do a session without it to see what happened.

Chapter 16

On Lughnasadh, Carla brought Dana to the August 1 festivities to meet the women in Carla’s coven. They drove twenty miles west into the mountains on roads that gradually became narrower and curvier. Carla finally turned into a drive that led to a dark-shingled A-frame in the woods.

After she was introduced, Dana stayed inside during their short ceremony. She observed them for a minute—vague figures set back into the woods a ways, the light catching their faces and clothes. It was hot, and they wore gauzy dresses or shorts and tee shirts. She didn’t want to be caught spying and she didn’t know their protocol, so she withdrew to the front of the house. Soon they piled into the kitchen and the party started.

They threw open the refrigerator, snatched up covered dishes and platters from around the kitchen, and set out a spread of homemade bread loaves, honey butter, fruits, fresh vegetables, dips, and cheeses. Red wine flowed into a mismatched collectible set of polished stone goblets. No one was shy about loading a plate. The owner of the house, Annea, offered a short sentiment on the meaning of the day. They toasted their coven, The Circle and Path.

Dana was the outsider, but they made her feel like one of them. Carla went her own way when she saw Dana mixing with everyone and having a good time.

One woman introduced herself to Dana as Hannah Reese, and she stayed by Dana’s side much of the time. Dana’s first impression was that she looked like a butch version of Rachel Talon. Hannah asked her how her project was coming along, and Dana was surprised that she knew about it. Hannah laughed and insisted that it was a compliment that Carla talked about her a lot. There were few secrets among them, she said.

She talked about her job as a systems analyst in Concord. When Dana asked her what she liked to do on her own time, Hannah said she liked to cross-country ski and water ski. Dana looked at Hannah’s toned legs and assured her that it showed. Hannah turned red, and Dana melted. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen someone react that way to a compliment.

She suggested some sights Dana should try to see before she left New England. Dana told her the ones she’d seen and the ones she wanted to see, such as the House of the Seven Gables, Hawthorne’s house—all of Salem, really—and the Maine coast.

It was late when Carla and Dana got into the truck. Hannah came out of the house and waved. She walked to Dana’s side and handed her a card, which Dana flipped up and down to catch some light. She read “Circle and Path” around a logo, her name, and a phone number.

“Call me, maybe we can go to Salem for the day,” Hannah said.

Dana watched her walk away, and she waved when Hannah turned around.

Carla made noises all the way down the drive. “So, Hannah,” she said when they were on the road.

“Yeah, I like her. She’s…”

“Beautiful? Smart? Enchanting?”

“She’s great,” Dana said, smiling in the dark.

“We just found out there’ll be an opening in the spring,” Carla said. “Vicki, you met her, the one with the gray buzz cut, orange shirt. She’s moving to Oregon.”

Dana asked a few questions about the group and Carla answered with enthusiasm. The Circle and Path was an old New England coven that had evolved into a women-only group. She explained that there was no hierarchy whatsoever, and it was more of a green coven than a traditional one. They kept the group at thirteen. A local High Priestess acted as an external advisor for Path if problems arose, or if they had questions. They held rituals and celebrations for the Sabbats, and they often gathered for the Esbats. Special rituals were held when needed.

Dana listened with genuine interest, although privately skeptical that a group that size could be free of a hierarchy. As much as she liked Hannah and all of them, she didn’t want to pursue anything else right now. She was on her own path.

She slid the card into her shirt pocket.

She lived August that way—focused, flexible, and prioritizing—working on her first draft, spending time with Carla and Liz, seeing the sights, walking, and reading. She answered e-mails. She donated online to the Old Man of the Mountain fund. She put in a small order with Amazon for a few novels that weren’t available as e-books. She spread newspapers on the patio and stripped the finish from the trunk, sanded it, and applied grain filler to the strapping. She made several trips to Plymouth, first to get the car washed and the oil changed, and other times to shop.

She had some lengthy conversations with Gen about her project. When she was truly stuck, though, she found that sitting on the bridge and staring at the water conjured up solutions.

When she wrote in the cabin or at the picnic table or on the bridge, other thoughts snuck in like vaporous fingers. She thought about Liz, and Carla, and the best way to help them. She wondered about Hannah, the coven, and the rituals. She was enthralled with the women and the idea of belonging to the group.

She mostly thought about her future, especially when she hiked in the woods. She felt her real life getting closer, revealing itself to her like a slowly developing photograph that would someday soon become a brilliant mural.

She stocked up, cleaned, organized, and got things done like the squirrels outside her window would in time for winter. Woven through her work, play, hikes, and the surrounding calm on her little piece of Broomstick Lane lurked an undercurrent of urgency and a low-grade anxiety for what was to come, no matter what she decided.

The waiter placed vegetarian fare—a bowl of onion soup, salad, and a cucumber sandwich— in front of Carla, and a cheeseburger and fries in front of Dana. Carla had asked to meet her at the Feast for lunch when Dana was more than ready for a break.

Carla asked how Dana’s project was going with as much interest as she’d show steak tartare.

“I have a bad feeling,” Carla said.

“About?”

“Liz. And waiting. I’m afraid she’ll be too far gone. I know I said I’d leave it alone, but I’m really worried.”

“I saw her yesterday and she seemed fine. We went for a walk.” Dana dipped a fat crinkled fry into a blob of ketchup.

“She’s a good actor.”

Dana took another bite of her sandwich and watched her, and another bite while she considered telling Carla about the handprints. Carla stabbed at her salad. Dana swiped her mouth with a napkin.

“I have to tell you something.”

“What?”

“It worked. One night we danced and we had our hands on each other’s backs and… it worked. I lost time and felt like hell for a while, but Liz was the Energizer bunny the next morning.” Dana smiled when she saw Carla’s face.

“Oh my g—”

“Don’t tell anyone, not even Liz. Especially not Liz. Promise me.”

Carla slowly nodded her head.

“It could’ve been an isolated thing. There’s absolutely no guarantee that it would work, and I’m still not ready to commit. I read up on it and there are some risks.”

“Okay, it’s okay.” Carla let out an indoor shriek. “What can I do?”

“For now, stop worrying and don’t say anything. I’ll let you know. Give me a little time.”

“Thank you for telling me.” She took Dana’s hands and turned them palms up and she gazed at Dana’s face as if she were meeting Hecate in the flesh. “This could really freakin’ happen.”

“Not a soul, Carla.”

Chapter 17

Liz decided to throw an end-of-summer barbecue at her house in early September, and Dana offered to help her with the preparations. It was also Dana’s birthday.

“Double celebration,” Liz said.

“No, let’s not. Maybe at forty, a milestone, but not thirty-eight.”

“A cake, then, what’s wrong with a cake?”

“Cake is fine.”

“It’s not enough. I’ll think of something special.”

Dana rubbed her chin. “There is one thing I want.”

“Name it.”

“Invite Carla.”

Liz waved her arms through the bubbling water and watched them with great interest. She shook water from her hands and re-pinned her hair on top of her head.

“Okay,” Liz said.

Dana took a deep breath and slid under the water, and stayed there as long as she could. When she came up, she held Liz’s face and kissed her loudly on the forehead.

That night Dana opened an e-mail from Rachel with the subject line “BIG NEWS.” She and Maria were going to have a baby by artificial insemination, and Maria would carry it. The donor was a well-known actor friend of Maria’s, and Rachel wrote that it was hush-hush but she would tell Dana when she came back to California. She added a line at the bottom: Told you I was on it! haha.

Dana congratulated them. She wrote that she was glad Maria was carrying it because if Rachel mated with anyone else in the dramatic professions, the kid would be bouncing off the walls. She wished them both the best and said she would call her when she got back there.

She re-read Rachel’s e-mail and had the best time imagining her as a mother. Lucky child. It was good.

“I know how to barbecue hamburgers and weenies,” Dana told Liz a few days before the party when Liz said she would hire a caterer. “I want the job. I can wear an apron and a cap and people-watch.”

“It’s your birthday,” Liz said.

“That’s what I mean. This will make my birthday.”

“Are you sure?”

“Do you have a grill?”

“A beauty.” She pointed to the storage shed.

“Let’s make a list. I’ll shop on Sunday and bring it over early Monday and we can get it ready together.”

They filled a page with mostly ready-made items so they wouldn’t have to cook. They knew that some people would bring dishes and desserts, but they overdid it, anyway. Liz gave her the name of a gourmet shop in Plymouth and said she would call ahead to have them charge her account.

“You still okay with Carla coming?” Dana asked.

“Yes. Even if we can’t be together, I want to move past the bad.”

“And?”

“What?”

“You want to see her.”

“Yes, damn it,” Liz said. She smiled and her face was flushed. “I miss the little witch.”

Dana and Liz had their own party that morning in the kitchen, listening to music and singing while they prepared the food. Liz tried to teach Dana an Irish dance, but Liz gave up and said they should stick to improv moves. Dana could see more and more why Carla loved her. Dana told Liz that if she ever wanted to work again, she should start a fancy catering company. Liz told Dana she’d think about it if Dana would stay in Fern forever, and she ducked into the pantry with her red hair flying behind her.

The sun came out just before noon after a dreary morning. The guests would arrive in an hour. Liz came out on the deck and leaned over the railing next to the cement pad they’d danced on weeks ago, which was now Dana’s barbecue area.

Dana had her back to the grill, staring off in the distance, brushing her hands together. Liz leaned over the railing and passed her an iced coffee.

“What’s going on?” Liz asked. “Come up and sit with me. We have time.”

“Just thinking about my marinating meats,” Dana said.

“Uh-huh.”

She walked up to the deck and joined Liz at the table. They didn’t speak for a minute.

“Question.” Dana cleared her throat and wrapped her hand around her glass. She wanted to ask the right one.

“Okay.”

“Would you resolve things with Carla if we found an alternative way to treat you?”

“Alternative. Like shark bone pills or crystals or healers? We tried that, except the shark bone.”

“Hypothetically. If we knew a healer and you connected and it was all good, would you go for it?”

“I’d have to work with them, meet, talk, and do a session. I’d know from the first time.”

“And Carla?”

“As long as we don’t have to rehash the old stuff, I’d be open to it, yes.”

Dana wiped the sweat on her glass and waited.

“I take it you know someone,” Liz said.

“I might.”

Liz squeezed her hand and stood. “I won’t get my hopes up, but thanks. Let me know.”

Dana watched her close the kitchen door behind her. Liz looked tired already and would probably nap if she could. Dana sat at the patio table for a while to summon her party face before she returned to the grill. She pulled a Jackson Pollock-print apron from the railing and hooked the neck strap over her head. She didn’t have a cool chef’s hat, but she’d brought a white baseball cap with her. She put it on and went inside to check the meat.

Fifty people showed up between one and two o’clock, and everyone gathered on the deck. Liz and Dana had strung red and white lights the day before and they’d planted tiki lamps along the walk. Five table groupings were set up on the deck, and several more were set up on the lawn beyond the lamps. They left the umbrellas off the tables because the balmy weather was not to be missed.

From her station at the grill, Dana watched. People were drawn to Liz’s warmth and good nature. One little girl was mesmerized by Liz’s red hair, and she lifted her arms to be picked up so that she could touch it. Liz looked good, Dana thought, but she was slowly shedding weight and she was dead pale under the thick makeup she used as a cover.

Dana watched her whisper to one person after another and suddenly there was a loud chorus of the happy birthday song followed by a smattering of “how old are you now?” Dana lifted her glass above the railing and they all toasted her. She gave them a deep bow and they hooted and clapped.

She piled hamburgers and cheeseburgers onto a stoneware platter, hot dogs into a small baking dish, and chicken into a broiler pan lined with foil. Liz carried them to a long buffet table covered with containers of food near the kitchen door, and Dana started a second batch of all three.

The basting brush flipped out of her hand and landed in a strip of dirt between the cement pad and the deck. She picked it up and tried to brush it off with a towel. She searched for Liz, but didn’t see her. Dana bounded up the deck stairs and into the kitchen. She rinsed the brush, dried it with paper towel, and left it on the counter. She headed to the bathroom, worrying about the meat burning.

She rounded the corner and glanced toward the front door. She sidled up to a wall, out of sight. Liz and Carla faced each other, talking, then they embraced. A full minute later, they pulled away from each other and started toward the kitchen.

Dana ran into the bathroom and sighed with all kinds of relief when she finally sat down. If—big if—this was going to happen the way she thought it might, Carla and Liz had to be together.

Chapter 18

By October 5, Dana’s first draft was finished. She leaned into the pillows on the sofa with her laptop propped against her knees. Rain pattered on the roof and she fed the stove all day. Rough, very rough, she thought, after she read it from beginning to end. She made notes in the file and wrote more of them on a yellow lined pad. By the time she finished evaluating it late that night, she decided to spend a few days in Manchester to use the university library. She needed to get away, mostly for research, and partly to think about Liz. She would check on her and talk to Carla before she left the following afternoon.

Three days at most. And she promised herself to have a decision by the time she returned to Broomstick Lane.

Parking was atrocious. She turned her car into a space against a chain-link fence. She gathered her leather case and her black bag and walked toward the campus buildings in the distance. She remembered her students complaining that the biggest challenge they faced in getting an education was finding a parking space every day.

Her cell phone beeped and she plucked it out of her bag. Gen. She set her bags on the sidewalk. They caught up on personal chat and Dana sensed that she’d called for something else.

“Listen, how’s the project coming?”

“First draft is done. It’s rough.”

“Wow, great progress in a short time. The clean air agrees with you. Let me know when you have a firm date to send it to me for a read. No pressure.” She spoke to someone in the room with her. “Okay, I’m here. I’m ninety-nine percent sure I’ll have that associate’s position for the fall. Do you feel confident you can get this wrapped up?”

Dana thought of the woods, the brook, the bridge, the cabin, and the quiet. They were overshadowed by an encapsulated image of a respectable job, a mate, a house with a pristine lawn, a fountain in the back yard, romantic trips to Tuscany, security.

“Yes, it’ll be done. My committee meeting is set up for late May, so I’ll send my final draft to you in March. Is that good for you?”

“Excellent, I can’t wait. Copy Sharon on it, too. I want another pair of eyes to take a look. So, are you lonely there?”

Dana smiled and rubbed the top of her ear. “I’m getting by. Met some of my neighbors.”

Gen sniffed. “Anyone serious?”

“Serious possibilities.”

They hung up and Dana finished the trek to the library. She hunkered down in a corner cubicle after she’d collected a stack of source material. She worked diligently for hours and her mind started to wander in the late afternoon.

She’d read the same page in The Victorian Supernatural a dozen times and she was starting at the first paragraph again. She’d set up a new file of notes on her computer and her pile of photocopied references was half an inch thick. She’d accomplished a lot, but she was tired, and her thoughts were turning to the decision that she could no longer put off. She would head home tomorrow.

She started the page again and only saw Liz’s radiant face after they danced. She recalled how drained she’d felt afterwards, and how exhausted she’d been for an entire day after that time in the grove. She saw Carla, the hope and excitement in her eyes at the shop and at the Feast.

She thought about that night with Carla in the cabin. They’d slept into the afternoon, and puttered around the cabin when they got up, drinking coffee. It was hot that day and Carla walked around in shorts and a sports bra. She put on one of Dana’s caps, and wisps of hair flipped out from under it. They were comfortable with each other. Liz’s illness hung out in the room with them, but they didn’t address it. Carla talked about the shop and some of the people in town. Dana booted up her laptop and Carla read her synopsis. Carla refilled their cups and brought them back to the sofa, and she talked about her initial days in the coven. The night hadn’t made them edgy or careful with each other, and in the afternoon they’d become friends again.

Dana shook out her hands at her sides and focused on the page. She gave up, gathered her things, and headed for her car.

She was in her hotel room by five, called room service for a sandwich and fries, and took a fast shower so that she could answer the door. When she was wrapped in a towel, she grabbed her laptop from its leather case and booted it up. A search for “Manchester lesbian club” yielded two possibilities: Gigi’s and The Tuxedo.

No contest. It was close to the hotel, too.

Dana arrived at the club when it was preparing to come alive. It was a notch above the places she’d seen, but she hadn’t been in one for a while. There was a horseshoe bar lined with padded stools in the center of one end, and plenty of seating against the walls. A roomy dance floor took up the other end. Dana was only impressed by the low lights and the ready drinks.

She sat at the bar and ordered a gin-and-tonic from a tattooed, pierced woman wearing a skimpy tuxedo-style top. She might’ve been twenty-one and a day. She set Dana’s drink on a napkin, then she wiped her hands on a towel. She introduced herself, shook Dana’s hand, and assured her that the place would be packed in an hour. Dana didn’t know what music was playing at background volume, but she hoped it would get louder.

By her third drink, it was. The place was teeming with bodies and the music bumped. Dana meditated on her drink and played with the ice. She weighed the pros and cons of doing the healing. It might not work, in which case they would all be devastated, especially Liz. It was coming down to two things: they couldn’t wait much longer, and given the success she’d had with Liz that night, it would likely work. And there was the crux of her hesitation: she could be so drained by the months-long process that she wouldn’t have the strength to finish her project, or worse.

She finished her drink and sucked on a piece of ice. She imagined driving to the cabin right now, loading her car, and hightailing it to California. She would take a different route this time. She’d never seen the southern states—

“Hi.”

For a moment it didn’t register that the “hi” was directed at her. She turned slightly to the left. A woman was sitting on the next stool. Dana nodded, mumbled hello, and went back to her drink. The woman ordered a glass of wine and fidgeted with a napkin. She laid a ten-dollar bill on the bar.

“You’re Dana, right? Hannah Reese. We met at that party.”

Dana studied her face and they broke out into smiles. “Hannah, hi. Yeah, Dana Quinn.”

They shook hands, and Hannah pulled her arm and hugged her.

“I’m here for a bachelorette party.” She looked at the dance floor and turned back to Dana. “You didn’t call me.”

“Sorry, I’ve been working a lot.” Dana emptied her glass, held it up to the bartender, and turned to Hannah. “But we’re here now.”

She shifted her eyes from Hannah to the bartender, who was slicing a lime.

“I just got back. Business in Tulsa for a week.”

Dana grinned. “Tulsa. Yay.”

“And why are you in the big city tonight?”

“Research.” Dana stirred her drink.

“You look good.”

Dana pointed a pinkie at her. “And you look good enough to eat. I thought so when we met, but I didn’t say… anything.” Dana cleared her throat, smoothed the front of her shirt, and she took a deep breath. “That would’ve been weird and inappropriate.” She mispronounced the last word and whispered it again.

“Yeah, you’re not driving home tonight.” She smiled and swept a strand of hair from Dana’s face.

“Tomorrow. My hotel is three blocks that way. I walked here.” Dana picked up her drink and swiveled her chair until their legs touched. “Can I trouble you for a lift later?”

“Happy to.”

“Great. Let’s dance. I don’t want to think about anything until tomorrow, and I clearly need to stop whatever this is I’m doing.”

Hannah laughed and stood up. She held out her hand.

The next morning, Dana opened her eyes and saw that Hannah was awake, or getting there, with her head resting on her arm. Hannah turned and faced her. She reached under the sheet and brushed Dana’s arm. She slid her hand up and down her side, and over the length of her back. They smiled and kissed and reached for each other again.

Later, Dana made a pot of strong coffee while Hannah showered and dressed. They stood at the door of the hotel room by eight o’clock. Dana noticed that she’d had her hair cut since the party and it came to her shoulders now, natural brown with red highlights, and straighter. She was slightly taller than Dana, and had big brown eyes and great skin. Dana would gladly stand at the door all day and kiss her.

“If you don’t call me, I’ll call you,” Hannah said as she reached for the doorknob.

“I might be leaving this weekend,” Dana said, “but I still have your card. I’ll call you if I stay.”

“I hope you don’t leave. Call me either way, so I know.” Hannah kissed her once more.

After she left, Dana searched through her bag for Advil. She washed two down with coffee and lounged on the bed for a while before she showered, dressed, and packed. She stopped at the library for a few hours before she headed north to Fern. She came up with some ideas for the section she was working on and she pulled over once to make some quick notes.

She thought about Liz and how she stayed strong in spite of how she felt. Dana hadn’t made a firm decision yet, but she was leaning toward staying. She had to talk to Carla first, and maybe they could all get together.

She caught herself smiling when she thought about her night with Hannah. They’d had a good time at the club, and a spectacular time in the hotel room.

She played a classical piano CD. By four o’clock she reached the town center and she glanced down Jadestone Lane. Carla’s truck wasn’t there.

As she turned left onto Broomstick she was struck by dread in her gut that radiated like an electric current.

Carla’s truck wasn’t parked at her house, either.

She sped across the bridge and stopped on the road next to the cabin. She ran inside, grabbed her necklace from her nightstand drawer, and threw the chain over her head.

She sprinted back to her car and floored it up the hill.

Chapter 19

Dana tried to open the front door, and she rang the bell and pounded. She called her name. The garage doors were closed and her cars weren’t in the driveway. She ran around to the back and tried the kitchen door. Locked. She tried Liz’s phone numbers and she didn’t pick up. She yelled for her as she walked the length of the back and tried another door. The knob turned and she entered a laundry room.

She ran to the kitchen and felt the sink, which was dry. The coffeemaker was clean and unused. She peered into both front rooms and the study. No signs of life, not a sound. After she checked every room on the first floor she ran upstairs to Liz’s bedroom.

The door was open. The room was dark until a breeze pushed the navy blue curtains.

She was in bed. Dana clicked on the nightstand lamp.

“Liz.” She brushed her forehead and she didn’t stir. Her face was chalky and damp. She checked her pulse. Dana repeated her name and Liz’s eyes flickered open a slit and closed again.

“Tired.”

Dana searched for pill bottles in the bedroom and bathroom. There were none.

She knelt down and took Liz’s face in her hands. She didn’t hesitate or think or weigh the pros and cons. This was it.

She removed her shoes and socks before she drew the covers back and lay down facing her. She pulled Liz close and slid her hands under her shirt. She pressed on her back and rested her head on the pillow, their noses almost touching. She imagined her whole self in her hands and envisioned them glowing white. She felt the same heat in her chest and a low vibration in her head. She heard voices beneath a layer of white noise.

Dana woke in the dark, alone, and she felt like all kinds of hell. She rolled over. She moved her legs and tried to raise her head, and she couldn’t think of a good reason to get up yet. She nestled her head into the pillow and slid her bare feet across the sheets, over and over. Soft flannel, it felt good. She recalled Liz lying still and pale in the bed. She whispered her name, then Allie’s. She heard music from a distance and she drifted off.

When she came out of Liz’s room early in the morning, she listened on the stairs for her. She heard kitchen noises and she went back up to the bathroom. She drank a few glasses of water from the tap. She showered for half an hour, most of the time spent letting the water beat down on her while she stared out the window and postponed the inevitable conversation with Liz. It was sunny and clear, but it was starting to get cold, and the hills were ablaze in reds and yellows that converged into orange.

She was ravenous and headachy, but steady. She didn’t know what to say to Liz until she saw her. It was done. She wouldn’t worry about it yet. She dressed and went downstairs. She ran out to her car for a sweatshirt and she put it on as she went inside to the kitchen.

Liz was there in a thick green bathrobe, leaning against the counter in front of the sink. She appeared to be waiting for something and Dana wasn’t surprised. Forget the likelihood of handprints. The fact that Liz woke up to an uninvited bedmate was a dead giveaway.

“Hungry?”

Dana nodded and sat at the breakfast bar. For all she knew about this, there might be a worldwide healers’ association rule against jumping on someone in their bed without clearing it with them. She’d been irritated with Carla for doing the same thing to her, in a way. Dana braced herself for anything. She couldn’t exactly have gotten Liz’s permission before she did it. Screw it, no harm done. Liz obviously felt fine and she looked ten years younger than she had the day before.

Liz pulled a pan from the oven and made up a plate for her. She poured cranberry juice into a plain clear glass, and she set them in front of Dana.

“Thanks.”

Liz crossed her arms in front of her and watched Dana eat. They exchanged looks. Liz returned to the counter and faced Dana.

“So, you slept for, what, more than twelve hours,” Liz said.

“I did.”

Liz watched her while she flicked one end of her robe sash.

“It’s not every day that I wake up and find you in bed with me,” Liz said. “I was sure something happened between us…”

“Sorry, I was—”

“You were dressed, but still—”

“No, we didn’t do that—”

“Then I showered and couldn’t help noticing.” She turned around and dropped her robe down to her waist. She held it with one hand and swept her hair aside.

Dana swallowed and looked at her back. The telltale prints were a warm rosy red this time. Liz pulled her robe up and around her and tightened the sash at her tiny waist.

“It’s you.”

Dana nodded and waited for a reaction.

“The night we danced.”

“Yes.”

Dana focused on her food. She wanted to pick up her plate and eat in the pantry with the door locked. She realized that Liz’s acceptance would be more unnerving than anger.

“Does it hurt at all?” Dana asked.

“Not a bit, and I feel so strong.”

“There’s a lot to this, Liz. It would take time.”

“Yes.” She walked up to the bar. “If you’ll still do it, yes.”

“It’s not that simple. I need you to understand. We have to meet, the three of us.”

“Tomorrow night.”

“No guarantees. We have to start there. I’m a total newbie.”

“I do understand, and it’s my best chance,” Liz said. “You may be my only one. I feel it here.” She flattened her hand against her stomach and walked around the bar. She swiveled Dana’s chair.

“Okay then,” Dana said. Okay then? She didn’t know what else to say.

Liz held Dana’s face and kissed her cheek.

It was right, Dana thought, it was right, but somehow she had to reach a place of total commitment. She had to trust in it even more than Liz obviously did. She had to want it as much.

“I’ll call Carla,” Liz said, beaming.

The following afternoon, Dana was working at the table when she saw Carla’s truck pass the window and lurch to a stop in the road. She held the screen door open for her, and Carla handed her a hanger with something hidden under black flimsy plastic.

“I didn’t have this quite finished for your birthday,” Carla said, short of breath. “I, uh… I love you, that’s all. Thank you for doing this.”

Dana pulled the plastic off and gasped at the deep purple woolen cloak lined with smooth charcoal-gray faux fur. Three yellow citrine gemstones were sewn into the edge of each sleeve area, where they would sit on her wrists. Several more twinkled on the top hemline of the hood.

“Oh, Carla.” She held it up and twirled it around. She felt the fabric. “Gorgeous. Thank you.”

The tag inside had one word stitched in gold: Protection.

“See you tonight. Gotta get back to the shop.” Carla grabbed her and squeezed so hard that Dana’s neck cracked. She shrieked when she sprinted back to her truck.

She watched her drive away and wondered how Carla would respond to her proposal that night. It wouldn’t be easy to tear her away from The Triple Goddess for the winter.

She slipped the cloak on and was surprised at its light weight and warmth. The lining was like selkie skin. She pulled on the hood and looked in the bathroom mirror. She touched the small gems and she was sure the garment shimmered as if a connection had ignited.

Carla passed on pork roast. It was Dana’s favorite, but she told Carla that she didn’t judge. Carla glanced at the slab of meat and pursed her lips. She called it “the other white sadistically slaughtered pig.” Dana cut off a fat-rimmed chunk, licked her lips, and stuck it into her mouth, audibly savoring it. Carla laughed and said she was gross. Liz was so keyed up that she could hardly eat. They could’ve been eating broiled bark for all she cared.

They sat at the dining room table and talked about winters in Fern, specifically the snowplowing action on Broomstick Lane.

It was Dana’s first question.

“They clear the lane from the main road up to about a hundred feet before the bridge, usually,” Carla said. “It’s too steep after that. Basically, it’s not high priority, and sometimes they give up in late December through the end of February.”

“So when is it impassable? Give me a range.”

“Depends on the winter. Usually early December through the middle-end of March,” Liz said.

Carla nodded. “Yeah, that’s average.”

“Worst case, how deep?”

“I’ve seen seven or eight feet, but that was a two-nor’easter winter,” Carla said. “Ages ago. We’ll probably get four or five at the most.”

Dana tapped her fork on her mashed potatoes. “I don’t know how long this will take. I planned to stay at the Days Inn for a few months, the coldest ones, and there’s always the risk I won’t be able to get up here. We can do it here or there, or at Carla’s, but we have to be together.”

“Please, let’s all stay here,” Liz said. “I stock up on anything I need for six months and I have a freezer closet built into the laundry room. You can have the adjoining bedrooms and the shower you like, all to yourself, and we’ll set up an office for you in one of the rooms.”

Liz and Carla held a sidebar on which room to turn into an office. They decided on the corner room, and they launched into a discussion of what furniture to move up there. They finished each other’s sentences and spoke in some sort of shorthand code that was clear only to them.

Dana ate while she watched the show before she jumped in. “What do you do about emergencies, medical or whatever?”

“There are medical emergency helicopters at Plymouth General,” Liz said, “and a private charter service in Plymouth.”

“And the charter delivers non-emergency?” Dana asked.

“Yes, I can arrange it,” Liz said. “I’ll do anything.”

“So let’s watch the weather. I’m thinking mid-November, so we have five weeks to make arrangements, but we have to be flexible.” Dana turned to Liz. “I’m going to start off with a session once a week, starting a week from now, and every Thursday until I move in. Set up an appointment for a thorough exam with your doctor for early January. Sound good?”

Liz nodded. Her eyes sparkled and she couldn’t stop smiling.

Dana turned to Carla. “We need you. You know anything could happen with this and you’ll have to monitor me. And watch Liz, too, but she should improve, not decline.” She paused. “Can you find someone to run the shop for a few months?”

“It’s already set up.”

Dana stared at her. “Witches.”

They all laughed. Carla lifted her wine glass and to that they toasted.

“Do you have The Shining?” Dana asked. “We should watch it as a cautionary tale.”

Carla snickered. “Redrum.”

“There’s one other thing I want to try,” Dana said, “tonight, if you can. I want to try once without the talisman, just to see.”

“Absolutely, tell me when and where,” Liz said.

“I’ll stay,” Carla said.

Later, they lit candles and placed them around their bedroom. Dana had found that she quickly entered a trance in a peaceful, low-lit setting. They lay facing each other again, assuming the same position as before. Dana told Liz to relax and try to sleep, and she followed her own advice with her hands on Liz’s back.

Liz fell asleep, but minutes later Dana was still fully aware of her surroundings. She relaxed, threw her focus into her hands, and imagined them glowing white. She felt a low heat in her chest and some head rushes, but the intensity wasn’t there. She stayed with it. Ten minutes later she floated down and fell asleep.

Dana woke in an hour and sat up.

“Hey,” Carla whispered from across the room. She walked over to Dana. “What happened?”

“It wasn’t as intense, not even close. I have to see her back.”

“I’ll help you.” Carla sat beside Dana and they started to lifted her shirt. She woke up and turned over.

“Let me see. Lift your shirt,” Dana said. “How do you feel?”

“I like a woman who’s direct,” Liz said. “I feel good, like I just had a nap.” She turned and lifted it. There were two faint prints.

“Look at that, Dane,” Carla said. “You could strengthen it enough to do it without the talisman.”

“If we had time, yeah, you’re right,” Dana said. “Okay, that’s all I need to know. Great.” She stood up and said, “I’m hungry again.”

“Shocker,” Carla said. “Let’s make a cheese pizza and bring it up here with some sodas.”

They sprawled out on the king-sized bed and went over their plans while they ate. The candles threw light and shadow around the room. They agreed that this was the place they’d do all of the rituals. They didn’t want to mess with what had worked well the first time.

Liz mentioned that she’d run into Megan Richey, a friend and minister at the Unitarian Church in Fern.

“We’ll have her over sometime so you can meet her. You’ll love her,” Liz said to Dana.

“Sure, “Dana said. “You go to her church?”

“No, but we’ve been to some weddings there,” Carla said. “Just this year she’s performed, what did she say, more than a hundred.”

“Yeah, and she did commitment ceremonies before that,” Liz said. “We don’t go to church.”

“I was raised Protestant, sort of, in spurts,” Dana said. “No real effort on anyone’s part, including mine. My affinity is with nature, but I’m not a practicing anything.”

“You would fit right into Path,” Carla said.

“I’m pretty fluid,” Liz said, “but if I had to say, I’m a Pagan-Christian combo. Catholic upbringing, hard to shake.”

“I was born a witch,” Carla said, “but I think all religions are interesting. We never went to church. I would always take a walk in the woods to get my fix. I still do.”

“So you’re not anti-Christian, or anti-God,” Dana said.

“Oh, hell no,” Carla said. “It’s not for me, but it’s more good than bad, I think, in the big picture.”

“We need some version of a Golden Rule, I guess,” Dana said.

“I like the Rede myself,” Liz said. “Simple rule of three. No threats, no dogma.”

Carla and Dana nodded.

“You know, your Hannah is the only one in Path right now who was actually raised by a witch,” Carla said. “A solitary. Her mom schooled both kids in it.”

“My Hannah?” Dana said, smiling. “Hm. My Hannah.”

Carla rolled her eyes. “You still hungry?”

“I could eat more,” Dana said. “I’m not ashamed.”

“Brownies,” Liz said, and she left the room.

Fluid faith, Dana thought. It made sense. The basis of religion, it seemed to her, was an individual search. She had once asked a friend for her definition of religion, and without hesitation she’d said, “Art.” The pomp and circumstance of organized religion was elegant, but it could be stifling—restrictive and male-oriented came to mind. No wiggle room. The texts that were written for them were impressive, but the commonly accepted interpretations served agendas and ended up defeating their own messages.

They talked late into the night, mostly about what each of them knew about healing practices. It turned out to be very little, in total. The unpredictable nature of healing ran a close parallel to the unpredictable course of any illness. They would have to jump in and hope for the best.

Carla blew out the candles and slipped under the covers in the middle of the bed. Dana lay on one side, Liz on the other.

“If you’re going to do it, warn me,” Dana said.

They laughed. Carla said, “That’s fair.”

When they were dozing, Liz said, “This will work, I know it.”

Chapter 20

Maples, pine, and white birch were a cinch to spot, and that was the extent of Dana’s dendrological smarts. New Hampshire winters were long, and now she was on the cusp of one in which anything could happen. She wanted to get in the day of exploring she’d promised herself, starting with a hike.

The evening before the big day, she researched tree identification for the area. She flipped through the book she’d picked up at the Red Hen, Lassoie’s Forest Trees of the Northeast, which she would carry with her. Her Nikon Coolpix was charged and ready for action. She would stay in the vicinity of the cabin and venture only about half a mile into the woods, past the hideaway.

Liz and Carla had said that this was indeed bear country, and they’d seen a few of them in their yards and in the woods, but they assured her that they preferred to hang with their own species. They told her to shove her hair underneath a hat, tuck her pant cuffs into her LL Bean hikers, and wear long sleeves against diehard insects and poisonous plants. Liz supplied a light scarf and Carla gave her a noisemaker.

“If all else fails,” Carla said, “put a halting spell on the bear.”

“Of course,” Dana said, “I know how to do that.” She’d braided her hair, which was well past her shoulders, and she tightened the cloth bands at the tips.

“Laugh,” Carla said, “but you’ll be surprised what you can do when you let yourself.”

The next morning, Dana walked up the path that led past the empty outhouse pad, away from the road and the brook, and into the woods. It was a perfect fifty-five degrees and the high wouldn’t reach sixty. She wore black cotton trousers, a dark green long-sleeved tee shirt, and a red ball cap with Austin City Limits stitched on the front. Her pack held two bottles of water, a flashlight, the camera, two granola bars, the tree book, and her phone and keys.

She continued north from the cabin and studied the trees as she went. She realized that it was a geeky pursuit akin to bird watching or stamp collecting, but trees were endlessly fascinating and great communicators. She was hooked. Fall was the best time, as many of the deciduous trees could be identified by their leaf color. Sugar maples had burnt orange leaves, red maples had red, and birch and beech dropped yellow. Farther in, she brought out her camera and took close-ups. She wasn’t getting into the species of each type—some had hundreds, she’d read—as long as she could place them in their families.

After she weeded out the ones she knew and had pictures of them, she sat on a granite ledge and looked around at the evergreens. Blue spruce and fir were the most common. The sharp-needled spruce gave the mountain range its blue-green hue. Pine pitch. She remembered the grownups telling them not to touch it, yet she recalled precisely how sticky it was on her skin and in her hair. Once she’d seen her uncle pull black gum from a tree near the cabin, and he’d chewed it. She would check it out when she got back to the cabin. She thought she knew the exact tree, right outside the bedroom window.

She brought her legs up and crossed them. She took a few more pictures and soaked in the scenery and the silence. She drank water and thought about the people she’d seen up here, and when. Funny how she thought of this place as her childhood home, not the one in Massachusetts. The real one was more about school, chores, squabbles, and rules; this one was freedom, or so she saw it from a distance of twenty-some years.

Crack.

A chill shot through her. She tightened her grip on the bottle and inched her head to the right. Movement, a shadowy lumbering mass through the trees. Her vision blurred for a moment, the way it did when she saw a spider in the shower, and she blinked. She felt cold sweat on her face and neck. She was as rigid as the tree trunk she wanted to climb. She kept her eyes on the animal moving toward her at an angle, but not directly at her. If it stayed on its trajectory it would come within fifty feet of her and keep going.

Unless it was hungry.

A moose.

She’d researched bears, fox, bats, owls, and even friggin’ water striders, but she didn’t know a thing about moose. You never heard about people being mauled by them, and you never heard of a moose running wild in the streets or terrorizing neighborhoods. Jesus.

It strolled closer, a huge beast, seven feet tall at his neck, a male—a hungry, aggressive male with humongous antlers. Not that a female would be any less aggressive or hungry, and not that that mattered because she didn’t even know anything about the one heading her way. Beautiful animal, though, stay positive. No, run. Did moose run? Yes, and it could tackle her in twenty gallops, if moose did that. He would hold her down with one hoof and beat her to death with his antlers. Easy, stay positive. She was going to die here, for sure, and she deserved to because she ate meat, but never ever moose meat, and she’d made fun of Carla. The halting spell. She would try it if she had to. She had to pee. Now.

He sauntered toward her until he was within decent camera-shot range.

He looked at her.

Don’t look. He changed course and came directly toward her. He was twenty feet away. She didn’t like the fifty-fifty chance that he was in a foul mood. Oh no, no, no.

She was dead.

She only wanted him to leave. She tried something different.

She held her right hand in a loose fist with her forefinger and little finger pointed out, but crooked slightly. She met his eye and swept her hand all the way to the right.

He stopped, made a soft chuffing sound, and turned downhill.

Dana watched until he was out of sight. She waited for thirty seconds before she stuffed her bottle, camera, and book into her pack and ran like a pro back to the cabin. She now knew the meaning of your feet not touching the ground. And it wasn’t from fear, not exactly.

It had worked. She had to relax her fingers and gently wave her arm instead of jabbing them straight forward like weapons. She felt a catch in her throat and it burst out in an excited gasp.

She rinsed out her pants in the shower and hung them over its glass wall before she got in to wash herself. A moose. They’d never seen anything but deer and small animals way back when, except for the bears at Clark’s Trading Post.

It worked!

She ate lunch while she transferred her photos onto her computer, then she got ready for her next excursion.

Rebecca had given her explicit directions to their grandmother’s gravesite. Dana had been in college in California when she died and Gran had requested no service of any kind, so Dana hadn’t visited before. She put a rake, a jug of water, a trash bag, and rags in the car. She was no graveyard romantic, but she did want to see it, and she’d told her sister she’d do cleanup.

She stopped the car to snap some pictures after she drove through the beautiful long, covered Blair Bridge, which spanned the tree-lined Pemigewasset River. Two hours ago she was eye-to-eye with a moose, and now she was gazing at the foliage reflected in the water in a fairly busy area. It was tourist season and the White Mountains always drew a crowd. She noticed a restaurant down the road right on the river, with a view of the bridge, and she decided to stop there for an early dinner on her way back.

She checked her directions again when she returned to her car. She drove past the restaurant and saw that the parking lot was nearly full.

Ten minutes later, she turned onto a narrow, curvy road that dipped and rose like a carnival kiddie ride. Her car stirred the bright leaves and tossed them into the air. A mile up she found a dilapidated post fence in front of the grim graveyard that Becca had described. She drove through the ungated opening and immediately turned left onto a bed of weeds and chopped cement that might have been a parking space. She hoped she wasn’t parked on ravaged old graves.

The cemetery was small and square, enclosed on the back and sides by a four-foot-high, wrought iron fence that was barely visible between the creeping tentacles of the encroaching field beyond. Two dozen weary headstones sat akimbo in a motley plot of dead grass, flourishing weeds, and dirt patches.

She got to work. She located her grandmother’s headstone and she pulled her grave-cleaning equipment out of her car. Using the rake like a comb dragged through hair, she pulled the knotted overgrowth from the stone. She washed the pink-toned granite and rinsed it, saving some of the water to wash her hands.

She kissed her fingers and tapped the name, Tessa Murphy Bell. She thought it was a crappy final resting place, especially for her grandmother, but it really didn’t matter, after all. The whole concept of burial baffled her. Bones in the ground, picked clean by vermin.

The headstone next to hers was larger and more elaborate. She looked closer. She tore the weeds and debris away with the rake and saw the name Ivy Wynn on top of the words “Blessed Together.” There was no birth date or death date. Near its base lay a branch that looked oddly fresh compared to anything else in the graveyard. It was two feet long and an inch in diameter. Dana picked it up and set it in the back deck.

She read the names and dates on some of the other stones. The once-private family cemetery dated from nearly a century ago with first-generation Murphys, once adjacent to a home that was long ago demolished. Now the sorry square of old bones stood alone on the edge of town and at the forefront of an uninhabited swell of mountains. Someone, either a relative or a local, was halfheartedly maintaining the old graves, but weather and the years were winning.

After she cleared the weeds from each stone and its surrounding area, she raked the rest of the lot and left the debris in one corner.

She cleaned her hands, threw everything into the back deck, and backed out onto the road as she took a last look. Her grandmother wasn’t there. Other than the name chiseled in stone, the place had little to do with the wise old crone she’d known.

Chapter 21

On the chilly afternoon of October’s full blood moon, Dana sat on the rock bed in the hideaway between two books: her grandmother’s Book of Shadows and her own blank one. She reached for the old book and set it on her lap. It was soft leather, stained with years. She touched the edges with a fingertip and ran a hand over the cover. She returned it to the velvet bag and pulled on the tassels.

She picked up her own book and drew out the tiger’s eye fountain pen she’d clipped to the front pages. It was her story of magic that she wanted to tell, in celebration and confirmation, to live it again and make it live. It was infinite and free of parameters. She’d seen it grow and change. It was available, and forgiving.

She started at the beginning and wrote until the well was dry.

Something was missing in her all those years, it was clear now. Her rejection of magic and her power had splintered her, in a way, and they refused to be diminished any longer. She might never have known it if she hadn’t come to the cabin and Carla and Liz. It couldn’t have happened anywhere else. Healing Liz would be her acceptance, her gratitude. She wanted to give back, and take it back.

She recalled the times she’d been afraid of it. She’d felt affinity with many people and she’d turned them away. The more obvious it was, the faster and farther she’d run. She’d sensed a difference in herself and ignored it. Magic and her past had been all of a package in her adolescent view, and she’d rejected them as a whole. She’d fashioned a new self and a new life, but it was built on fear and distrust.

She hadn’t been able to divorce one from the other until now. She wrote it down.

The wind swelled in gusts.

She drew her cloak tighter and lifted the hood over her head. She gazed from tree to tree and she drew from them. The bright fall leaves were thick on the ground, the newly fallen covering the long dead. The weakening light wavered on the leafy carpet in a drowsy dance. Here and there, all around her, leaves sprang from the ground in spirals.

She talked to the trees without uttering a sound. She took cleansing breaths, closed her eyes, and listened—hard at first, then softly in surrender. She reached toward them with her fingers splayed and the dark cloak spread like owl wings. She lifted her face and she soared and floated among them.

Time dissolved. It was that moment that every thing and every cell in the universe must come to, when each becomes all. She knew everything and nothing and it was freedom. She was at the globe’s core, and poised on a cloud, everywhere at once in motion, faster and higher. Every particle, intention, and thought conjoined in her world and far worlds and beyond to a place that made your heart burst to ponder. She wrapped herself around the earth and it held her. She heard every cry, tasted the earth, smelled the sky, saw all souls, and touched the ocean floor. The vortex of spirit cradled her, slowly sighed, whispered, and revealed itself as knowing.

She was out of breath, as if she’d run a mile. She touched the gems on the hem of her hood and she looked around the woods. It was dusk. She listened.

Whisht, she heard, three times.

She stayed on the rock bed for a while before she strolled back to the cabin in the dark, holding her books close. She glanced at the full moon through the trees. She wondered why she’d resisted for so long, and she also believed that it had come to her at the right time. It wasn’t up for analysis. She wouldn’t associate regret with this day.

She had no idea what she’d written in her Book of Shadows and she wouldn’t read it for a while. She had to give her full attention to her work and the rest of her energy to Liz.

She still hadn’t opened her grandmother’s book, but she would. One step at a time. She had to stay in a forward momentum. Carla was the only piece of her past that she could handle right now, and Carla came fully loaded.

There was just enough light to avoid a headlong fall over a rock or stump. The leaves were damp in dips, and crisp on the gentle rises. She shivered when a cold wind blew over her. She heard an owl call. She wrapped the cloak around her and drew it up from the ground a bit. Winter was close.

She saw the cabin ahead and she wished someone were there to tell about her afternoon. Or not even to tell, really, because she wanted to hold it to herself for a while. But she was in the mood to celebrate.

It had taken ages to get here.

Chapter 22

“Well, how old do you think I am?” Hannah asked in response to Dana’s question, knowing that it would make her squirm.

“That’s mean, but I’ll give it a shot.” Dana studied her face and gave her an all-around assessment. “Not a day over thirty-three.”

“Right, you’re funny. No, forty. And I would say you’re thirty-eight.”

“Carla?”

Hannah nodded and they smiled.

“This is good,” Hannah said. “I haven’t had Mexican food in a while.”

“Thanks. My specialties are burritos, salad, and chicken Dijon. Quite the chef.”

Dana pulled a blender half-filled with fresh margarita mix from the freezer and she refilled their glasses. She glanced at Hannah while she poured. She’d been mistaken before. She didn’t look at all like Rachel, except for the full texture of her hair. She wasn’t as thin as Rachel and her skin tone was olive. Hannah was self-contained, more reserved on the surface, and certainly no drama queen. She had, however, cracked up when Dana told her about the moose. It was always a kick, and a pleasant surprise, to get someone as low-key as Hannah to really laugh.

“Are you coming to Samhain at Annea’s tomorrow?” Hannah asked. “Same place as before.”

“Carla asked me, but I don’t think so. I have a ton of work to do before, um, I’ll be gone for the winter.”

Hannah didn’t comment. She cut into the thick burrito with a sharp knife, and proceeded to slice half of it into bite-sized pieces as if it were her life’s passion.

Dana eyed her dedication to the task as she scooped grocery-store guacamole, sour cream, and salsa onto her plate.

Hannah finally looked up and smiled. She sipped her drink.

“You know about it,” Dana said.

“Yes, Carla told all of us about Liz, but I’m the only one she told about the healing. She thought someone outside should know.”

“Makes sense. So, you approve?”

“Completely. The three of you have a strong connection. If you don’t overdo, you’ll be fine.”

“We’re starting out slow and we’ll go from there.”

Hannah nodded. “Mind a little advice?”

“Go ahead.”

“It could get intense, even among the best of friends, and you’ll be stuck in the house the whole time. Unresolved issues can flare up, aggravation sets in, emotion can erupt all over the place.” She paused and glanced at Dana. “Liz is the patient and you’ll need your energy focused. You can love her to the ends of the earth, but don’t make it sexual.”

“No, it’s not like that with us.” She wondered if Hannah knew about her history with Carla. Not many secrets.

“Okay, just please be careful and… one more thing. Give me something of yours, an object that means a lot to you.”

Dana looked around from where she sat. She saw the spent tiger’s eye pen on the windowsill where she’d left it as a reminder to buy cartridges. She gave it to Hannah.

“I’ll give it back when you’re finished.” She tucked it into her bag. “My concern is for you, but I know you’ll do it with confidence. It’s important to listen to your whole self for signs on how to pace. This is your first healing, right?”

“It is. Confident, not cocky.” Dana smiled. “I did some reading on it.”

“This one with Liz is as intense as it gets. Total focus. My friend Ivy Wynn knows about healings, and she’s so impressed with what you’re doing. She’s an advisor for Path, and she wants to meet you.”

“I’ll be careful. A month ago I had serious doubts, panic even, but I’ve come around. I can do it.”

Hannah sat back. “Listen, I don’t want to intrude, but I think you should meet with her before you go to Liz’s.”

“Why?”

“A strong healing power like yours often has an opposite aspect that can take you by surprise if you’re not aware.”

“Destructive?” Dana felt a flush in her face.

“Yes. She can answer questions, give you some guidance. She knows it all. She’s a High Priestess turned semi-solitary. Her description.”

“It’ll have to be soon. Do you want to come?”

“No, you should go alone. Open up to her. I’ll set it up for next week and call you?”

“Okay, yeah, I do have questions.” Dana didn’t want to complicate things, but her curiosity won out. A High Priestess, and one whose name was most likely on a stone in the Murphy plot.

Hannah looked around the big room. “This place is sweet.”

“I’ll miss it, but I’ll be back soon.”

“You’re doing an amazing thing for Liz, and Carla.”

Hannah’s eyes were unguarded and warm. She was sincere and strong. Her physical appearance wasn’t the first quality that Dana found so appealing, but it didn’t hurt.

“How about this,” Hannah said. “Just for one night, let someone take care of you.”

And she reads minds.

Rue Run was a longish dirt road off Pond, east of Campton, about a mile past the red bridge, Hannah had said. Ivy Wynn was the only resident. She should look on the right for a street sign, an Ivy original, that was probably upright now, but it tended to fall over completely during the winter. It wasn’t far, just southeast of Fern.

By the time Dana was cruising up Pond Road the following Tuesday, she was giddy about meeting her. She envisioned a statuesque, wise elder wearing a flowing black dress, bedecked with meaningful jewels, a divine face, and long white hair. Her eyes would be hypnotic. The house would be chock full of magic. They would sit on her back porch near an herb garden, sipping yarrow tea.

The sign was standing. She turned right and entered a leaf-covered road that was more thickly treed than Broomstick. She drove through a tunnel of red, yellow, and orange that played tricks with her eyes. The road split to accommodate an oak tree, merged, and soon emptied onto an open space that overlooked the hills. To her right, the woody land sloped down. She turned left toward a small white house with black shutters and a red door. A barn thrice its size loomed not far from its rear right corner.

It was familiar.

She parked at the side of the house, facing the barn, and she took a deep breath when she got out. She touched her amethyst earrings to make sure they were hanging properly, and she felt for the scarab under her shirt.

She started for the door and caught movement from the corner of her eye. She turned toward the barn, where she saw a tall woman in knee-high green rubber boots, baggy jeans, and an oversized brown tee shirt. A bushy gray ponytail hung from the straw hat on her head.

“I’m looking for Ivy,” Dana called.

“That’s me.” She waved her forward.

“I’m a little early.”

Ivy watched her, smiling, wiping her hands on a colorless rag. “No matter, I’m finishing up. Happy to see you, Dana.”

“Likewise, Ivy. I’m thrilled.”

Ivy hooked her arms out to her sides and checked her garb. “Fall barn duties. I’ve tried to make it clean itself with magic. So far, nothing. Let’s go in.”

Ivy deposited Dana in the living room with an iced tea, and left her alone. The room was awash in jewel colors, much like those of the cloaks in Carla’s shop. A glass-topped mahogany music box table sat under the front window. Dana lifted the top and examined the shiny workings, and she lowered it carefully. She sat in one of the purple-and-beige flame-stitch chairs that flanked a tree trunk table.

Ivy came out wearing a long black knit dress, black tights, and a silver necklace. Her wiry hair was down. She sat in the other chair and turned toward Dana. She had pale green eyes and a ruddy complexion.

Dana thought she was beautiful.

“You have admirers here already,” Ivy said. “Carla and Hannah told me a lot about you, but I know there’s more to the story.”

“Yes. You know about Liz?”

Ivy nodded. “A few things I want to tell you. First, I trust what you’re doing. You must do the same. This is a serious undertaking, not a parlor game. Always let your whole self tell you how to proceed. All are equally crucial in a healing such as this.”

“I read about the risks,” Dana said.

“I don’t know what’s in print, but I do know the consequences of taking an intense healing lightly. You’ll do well to heed what I told you. Liz is very sick. It’s crucial that you take this seriously, especially for your sake, or don’t do it at all.”

“I will.”

Dana showed her the gold scarab. Ivy examined it, smiling, as if she were seeing an old friend. Dana told her about her initial experience with it when she was young, the time in between when it was stored, the grove, the circle on her chest, and the first night she’d seen handprints on Liz’s back.

She told her about finding the scarab again, and Allie, and leaving Texas. She described the two-pronged hand gesture she’d made at Allie a month before she was diagnosed with cancer, and how Allie had flinched from across the room when she did it.

“It came from nowhere,” Dana said as she demonstrated the position of her fingers and the jabbing motion. “I’d never seen it, heard about it, read about it, had certainly never done it before, and it just happened when we were arguing. I’ve sure as hell never done it that way since.”

Ivy smiled. “That’s a common beckoning gesture, not a death sentence. It’s a bit of magic that awakens in you during a time of intensity. It was about you. Magic is intention.” She paused and looked into Dana’s eyes. “You didn’t kill your friend, cancer did. At worst, I’ll bet she never repeated the deed that caused the trouble in the first place.”

Dana sighed and laid her head back for a moment. That day, Allie had been angry about Dana’s plan to go to California, among other things, and she’d called Dana’s desire to finish her degree a silly pipe dream.

Dana told Ivy about the moose, and asked if the waving motion had worked, or if it was coincidence.

“Very possible that it worked the way you say. A shaman might tell you that the moose signified alternate paths to a goal. Fitting, yes?”

Dana nodded.

“It’s good that you recognize the limits you must put on your power,” Ivy said. “It’s as important as honing it. Get to know it. Nurture it.”

“I’m overwhelmed by it sometimes.”

“As you know, you’re free to reject it.”

“No chance of that.” Dana smiled.

Ivy studied her face. “We’re all behind you in this. Know that.”

“Thank you, that helps immensely.”

Ivy sat forward. “Hannah, hm?”

“I like her.”

“It’s mutual, I believe.” Ivy nodded. “And Carla. What do you think of your old friend Kit?”

“She’s full of surprises. I’m so glad we reconnected.”

“She’s a lovable sprite, and strong-willed. Have you seen the Sound of Music, Maria as the wild nun, running around the hills, breaking all the rules?”

“Yes.”

“That’s Carla, especially after she lost her mother and brother, when she first joined the coven. She has calmed down a bit with Liz, and maybe maturity, but she goes after what she wants.”

“She does that. Here I am.”

They laughed and Ivy patted Dana’s arm.

“I like you,” Ivy said as she pushed herself out of the chair. “More tea?”

She took Dana’s glass and went to the kitchen. Dana thought about what she’d said as she wandered around the room. Intention. It had never been to harm Allie, she was certain of that. She admired an oil painting in gray, green, and blue tones of a cloaked woman facing the wind under a full moon on an ocean cliff. The artist had painted motion into the deep purplish-blue brocade fabric. There were touches of red reflected on the sloped sleeves, and pale washes of purple-gray streaked her white hair.

Dana picked up framed photos on a table in the corner. One of them was of two women standing near a horse in front of the barn outside. One looked like a younger Ivy, same facial features, and the other woman… Dana brought it to the window. She tipped it back and forth and squinted. She recognized the strong jaw, wide-set eyes, and stance.

Dana guessed Ivy’s age at seventy-five, maybe eighty, or a thousand for all she knew. If Dana’s grandmother were still alive, she’d be ninety-three. She held the frame and sat down. Ivy returned with two glasses and she handed one to Dana.

“Is that you?” Dana asked, holding it out to her.

“Ah, you found it. Yes, that’s me.” She sat, smiling.

“And her?”

“My greatest friend and love, Tessa Bell.” Ivy’s face softened. “Your grandmother.”

She stared at Ivy. “I knew your place was familiar.”

“I saw you several times when you were a child. Tessa and I lived here for years. She brought you over, just you, when you came up. We watched you and we knew. Oh, she loved you.”

Dana was speechless. She only remembered the pungent smell of the horse barn, and how small the house had seemed so close to it. She held up the photo. She glanced over at Ivy’s wistful expression. She liked saying her grandmother’s name, Dana thought. She liked talking about her.

“Did anyone know?” Dana asked.

Ivy chuckled. “No. It was unnecessary. Now you’re the only one in the family who knows for sure.”

“That’s your headstone next to Gran’s.”

Ivy nodded. “We set them up long ago.”

Dana stood and held out her hands. Ivy took them and stood to hug her. She felt strong to Dana, not at all frail, and she smelled like lavender laced with a hint of barn. Dana pulled away and held her hands. Their eyes met and Dana saw sparkles.

She fished her keys out of her pocket. Ivy picked up the photo and propped it up on the log table.

“This was so random. What if I hadn’t come here today?” Dana said as they walked to her car. “I almost didn’t.”

“I don’t believe it’s random. Trust yourself, about coming here today, your sessions with Liz, and all things.”

“Thank you, Ivy.” Dana hugged her. “I’ll see you in the spring.”

“Yes, please, and take care of yourself. Remember what I told you. Listen.” She held Dana’s face and she kissed her on the forehead, between her eyebrows. “I’ll have a gift for you when you come back. Even if you already have one, I’d like to make you a wand.”

Dana was getting into her car when she caught Ivy’s expression. She flicked the lever to pop open the rear door, found the small branch, and handed it to Ivy. Dana smiled and Ivy winked.

When Dana passed through the tunnel of kaleidoscope colors and pulled out onto Pond Road, she thought about the High Priestess in green rubber boots. Ivy and Tessa. For the rest of the drive home, she thought about the two of them and how happy they looked in the photo. They’d lived and loved, simple as that. Dana wondered if her mother knew.

Gran was a dyke-witch. Ivy was making her a wand. She hadn’t killed Allie.

Dana lowered her window, put on KD Lang’s Recollection, and sang like a freed bird as she flew through the brilliant autumn leaves.

Chapter 23

Snow spit during the first weeks of November, but it didn’t stick. They watched. Dana drove up the hill without a problem when she visited Liz to perform the weekly ritual. She followed a delivery truck up one day and noticed how it strained up the steep grade from her place to Liz’s, even on dry road. She kept her distance in case it had to roll back a few feet when the driver shifted gears.

Each session wiped her out, but Liz flourished. She insisted that Dana stay at her house for as long as she needed so that Liz could dote on her, usually with food and as much water as Dana could guzzle. The frothy warm water in the hot tub seemed to revive Dana. Liz assured her that it was insulated for winter and they would be able to use it even in sub-freezing temperatures.

Carla had moved back to Liz’s house soon after their meeting, but she spent most of her time at the shop and in her workroom at home to finish works in progress, organize inventory, and get her accounts in order for the time when her stand-in manager would take over. She called Dana at least once a day to check on her or to ask questions about the upcoming winter.

They didn’t socialize much during those weeks. Dana worked twelve hours a day and took one day a week off for the ritual, or she would run out for an iced mocha or to the Feast.

One afternoon, Carla asked her to be her seamstress model for the dresses she was finishing. She had Dana stand on a low wooden platform in her workroom. Carla slipped a sexy black-and-red temptress dress over Dana’s head, and she stood back to assess it. She saw Dana’s Nikes, short white socks, and bony ankles sticking out at the hem of her exotic creation, and she had to leave the room. She returned with a camera.

During those weeks, Hannah came over twice. Dana wowed her with chicken Dijon the first time, a Finnegan salad the second time, and she stayed the night both times. They were compatible in every way Dana could think of, and the only sentiment they shared was that they liked being together.

Dana felt a balance between them—a calm—that was new to her. She sensed a slight hesitation in Hannah, though, and Dana knew it was because she was leaving temporarily for the winter and eventually for good. They finally agreed to put things on hold until spring. Hannah didn’t want to distract her from the dissertation or the sessions. She would be away on several business trips in the first three months of the new year, anyway. Dana promised that one of them would call her, or someone else, if they needed help.

Several days before Thanksgiving, Dana clicked on weather.com just when the mail truck arrived for its weekly stop. The carrier, Pete, set the blinking lights, which always amused her. She didn’t know who or what exactly the warning lights were for, except the deer and squirrels. Maybe it was automatic, she thought, or a post office regulation.

She held the door open and greeted him as he walked up to the door with two large boxes. She took them from him and placed them on the floor in the front of the dining table.

“Two more,” he said.

Dana followed him to the truck. He handed her one and lifted the other. They stacked them on top of the first two.

“So, what do we do about mail in the winter?” Dana asked.

“Oh, well, if you can’t get to town, we have someone come up here a couple of times a month, on a snowmobile.” He chuckled and repositioned his cap over his thinning hair. “One time, a couple of the young guys came up here on cross-country skis.”

“Even to the top of the hill, the Abbott place?”

“Yep, we’ll get it to you. You know what they say, through rain and sleet and snow… anyway, January and February are the worst, but there’s always a way to do it.”

“Good to know. Thank you so much. I’m thrilled to have my stuff.” She handed him a gift envelope. “I’ll be closing up the cabin soon and staying at Liz Abbott’s for a few months. Can you send my mail up with hers until further notice?”

“Consider it done.” He tapped the envelope on the bill of his cap. “And thank you. Happy holidays.”

“Always a way to do it” was what she’d wanted to hear, but not necessarily regarding her mail. She made a mental note to ask Liz if she had a snowmobile. She turned her attention to the boxes after she watched the mail truck ascend the hill.

Two of them were from Office Depot. She’d ordered a dozen white legal-sized pads, ink cartridges, pens, reams of paper, a laser printer/fax/copier combo, and a large package of yellow Post-Its. She left them closed for the move.

The other two boxes were from Amazon. She was a quarter of the way through her second draft, so she’d rewarded herself with a dozen novels and several reference books. She opened them first, and spread the books out on the table over her papers. She ran her hands over the shiny, colorful covers. She liked her Kindle, but there was nothing like a new book. She cracked open the one she would read first, and breathed it in.

She picked up her laptop from the sofa and checked the seven-day weather forecast. Ten to twelve inches were predicted in five days, the weekend after Thanksgiving.

Carla and Liz came out to help her unload her car. Dana lugged her suitcases past a twig-and-pinecone wreath and she entered the warm house. The scent of cinnamon, apples, and turkey made her mouth water. They each made two trips outside, and they piled Dana’s things behind the stairs before they migrated to the kitchen.

Liz lined up three crystal flutes and uncorked a bottle of champagne. She poured, handed them out, and raised her glass.

“There are no guarantees and no matter where this journey takes us three, you will always be the loves of my life. Thank you, Dana, for giving your gift with courage and for bringing us all together. Carla, for whatever part you played in this, and I know you’re in there somewhere, thank you, and welcome home.”

They tapped their glasses and drank.

“To having you both back in my life,” Carla said.

“Here’s to each of us getting what she wants,” Dana said. “And to the food.”

After they stuffed themselves with a gourmet holiday meal, they brought desserts and rich black coffee into the study. Liz put on the movie Home for the Holidays and they half-watched it while they ate and talked.

Later, Liz gave Dana the extended-stay tour of the house. She started with the four-car garage, where she had Dana move her car. It was heated to forty degrees, the door worked by remote or button panel, and it was attached to the house at the laundry room. Dana noticed a new Polaris snowmobile in one corner, which Liz said she’d never used.

In the laundry room Liz showed her the built-in freezer closet. She pointed out the electrical panel behind the door in the same room. They walked along the back of the house, beneath the loft, and she explained that there was no security system, but the locks on the doors and windows were the best. They walked through each room and Liz pointed out pertinent features along the way. A well-stocked, very organized walk-in pantry divided the kitchen from the dining room. Upstairs, Liz opened another closet lined with shelves—linens on one side and every bath product imaginable on the other.

Carla joined them in the loft. “Let’s show her.”

Liz took Dana’s arm and they all walked into Dana’s bedroom and through the doors to the shower.

“Close your eyes,” Carla said.

They led her through the shower and into the next room.

“Okay, open.”

The adjoining bedroom in the rear corner was now Dana’s office, with a view, furnished with a light-walnut desk with curved legs, an ergonomic desk chair, a tall bookcase, two black taborets, and a mini-fridge. A colorful abstract painting hung on the wall behind the desk and smaller framed prints hung around the room. The back wall was made of the same glass as the shower, and looked out on the same hills. On the opposite wall was a working fireplace with an oval braided rug in front of it, and Dana’s boxes and bags were there.

“Did you carry my things up, Carla?”

She nodded. “The rest is in your bedroom. So, you like it?”

Dana inserted herself between them and put her arms around them. They each wrapped an arm around Dana’s waist.

“I love it, thank you, but you run the risk that I’ll stay here forever.”

“We know,” Liz said, and their eyes were wicked.

Dana glanced from one to the other. A year ago she would’ve choked on her coffee if someone had said she’d be spending the winter in this amazing place with these two women, she and the talisman doing a healing.

None of them worked that holiday weekend. Dana called her sister and told her where she’d be for the winter, but she didn’t tell her why. Liz talked to her parents, who lived in Boston, but she said she didn’t tell them about Dana. Carla called her favorite aunt in Massachusetts, and several friends in Path, and, to her credit, she didn’t mention the healing.

They went to bed late, slept late, watched movies, ate, drank, and played games. They sat in the hot tub and watched the snow fall. Their conversations were full of excitement and curiosity, with a tinge with anxiety, for what lay ahead.

They’d skipped the weekly ritual on Thanksgiving Day to see how Liz would fare, as a measure of their progress and an indicator on how to proceed. By the holiday, Dana had done six healings, one each week since she’d found Liz in bed in early October. If skipping this week had no affect on her, they would stay with a weekly ritual for another month, and increase the frequency slowly. If she showed signs of weakening right away, they would step it up immediately.

By Monday morning, a foot of bright white snow covered their world, and it stuck.

Chapter 24

“I’m fading,” Liz said on Tuesday morning.

She was thin and pale, and even her freckles were washed out. Dana dreaded stepping up their rituals, but she didn’t show it. Her work would get done somehow. It was almost December and she had a solid hold on it.

“Ready for twice a week?” Dana asked. “Once isn’t even maintaining.”

“Yes, as long as it doesn’t hurt you.”

“Okay, we’ll start tonight.” Dana wiped a tear from Liz’s cheek. “Let’s dance in the snow.”

Liz choked out a laugh and sobbed onto Dana’s shoulder. It was the first time that Dana realized that, as hard as the sessions were on her for a short time, Liz was on a rollercoaster ride of hope and dread. She hid it well most of the time. Cooking calmed her and she spent much of her time in the kitchen. Carla had told Dana that Liz’s obsession with making food had followed her diagnosis. She was a great cook before, Carla said, but not fixated.

The first session of their new regimen was ordinary, with the expected effects on Dana’s stamina. After each session she slept for half a day and she woke up lethargic with a pounding headache, but within a day she was back to her old self.

Dana wondered how back-to-back rituals would affect her. She simply didn’t know what to expect from now on, whether it would get cumulatively harder or easier or stay the same. There were no Google answers, but she would take the general advice she’d been given from Ivy and Hannah. She carried on in-depth conversations with herself to trust and stay positive. She would have a better sense of it after tomorrow’s ritual.

Twilight was best, they’d decided, so that if something went wrong they could get help faster than they could late at night. The curtains were drawn and the candles were lit. Carla sat in shadow on a dark blue wing chair in the far corner of the bedroom.

They lay down facing each other, the same position they’d taken when Dana had found her in October and in every ritual since. With her hands on Liz’s back, their faces an inch away from each other, they closed their eyes. Dana focused. She felt the strong sensations in her chest and head, and she sank into the sounds.

She thought she’d dreamed all night. Her most vivid memory was the recurring mansion she tried to get to, where Carla was standing at the double doors reaching out to her. It wasn’t Liz’s house, but a brick colonial with white columns and trails of neon green ivy. This time Dana was trudging through deep snow trying to reach her. No sky, no trees, just a world of blinding white with the mansion floating in it like an anchor.

Allie appeared dressed in white swirling ribbons, and she filled Dana’s vision. She said the word “okay,” laid a finger against her mouth, and disappeared. Allie. Dana cried out that she could help her now. As Dana reached for her, she tore at her chest for the necklace. It wasn’t there. She shook blood from her fingers and it speckled the snow. Allie was gone. Dana said her name over and over, and Carla waved her forward.

She heard herself mumbling “help” when she was waking up.

“Dana.”

She saw orange light behind her eyelids and lifted them enough to see who was nearby. Her vision was blurry. She squeezed her eyes shut, and they fluttered open. Carla.

“Hey,” Dana said in a scratchy voice. She coughed and closed her eyes. “How’s Liz?”

“Great, but we’re worried about you.” She stroked Dana’s forehead and hair.

“Mm, have to pee. What time is it?”

“One in the afternoon.”

She hitched herself up on her elbows and Carla held her arm while she sat up. Dana adjusted her black knit top, rubbed her face, and mussed her hair. She yawned. She saw a wristwatch, a glass of water, and a blood pressure unit on the nightstand. Candles flickered around the room. She was seeing double and her head hurt. She pressed the inside corners of her eyes. Better.

“I smell food,” Dana said.

Carla bounced over the footboard and came around to face her. She took Dana’s hands and helped her up. Dana shuffled to Liz’s bathroom and pinched her blue-plaid flannel shorts away from her backside. When she emerged, she squeezed Carla’s arm before she walked down the wide hall toward the back of the house. She stripped in her bedroom and walked into her shower.

“Guys, I’m fine,” Dana said. She rested her head against the edge of the hot tub with her arms resting along its edge. She gazed at a thousand stars. “You took my vitals, right?”

“Yeah,” Carla said, “but you’re so tired. Liz thinks we should slow it down.”

Liz thinks. Dana squeezed her eyes and left them closed. Why do couples quote each other? Liz was sitting right there, she could speak for herself. She thought of Becca. Marshall says. She swore she would never do it herself, if she were ever in a real relationship. She took a deep breath.

“That happens every time. It’ll go away,” Dana mumbled.

“We’ll watch you, honey,” Liz said. “Closely.”

“I know you will. I’m okay. That meal set me up, and the Advil.” She peered at them through the steam, snuggled together on the other side of an ocean. She looked past the stars to the black void. She was the ultimate spectator, closer to identifying with space stations that floated and watched from afar than with earthly beings.

And at this rate, she would never finish her work. She was drained, and they’d just begun the twice-a-week schedule. She couldn’t put off her work. It was now or never, and she was sick at the thought of becoming too weak. That’s why she was here, for chrissakes, to get the thing done.

She wondered if she was doing this simply to test the mettle of her newfound power, as if it were a toy.

And it might not work at all.

She couldn’t let them down. That’s why she was doing it, right? Yes, she loved them, that was why. She was just tired.

She could do both. It would be all right. She could do it. She wanted to crawl back into bed and bury herself under the covers.

“This beats Hot Pockets,” Dana said the following morning. She rubbed her hands together before she picked up her fork. “I’m going to gain a ton of weight here.”

“You look much better,” Liz said.

“So do you, wow,” Dana said, after doing a double-take at her wild red hair framing her glittering green eyes. She reached over and scratched Liz’s back. “I’ll be upstairs all day.”

“Let me know if you need help with your writing,” Carla said, smiling. “I’ll bring up some grub later. Take a break with me.”

“And more coffee?” Dana asked.

“Absolutely.”

They asked Dana about her work and watched her inhale a mushroom-cheese omelette, sourdough toast, and a bowl of pineapple. She pulled a partial quart of orange juice from the refrigerator, shook it, and finished it off. After she rinsed her plate, she did a full-body stretch on her tiptoes. She smiled at them and raised her eyebrows as she jogged out of the room.

In her office, she sat at her desk and opened her laptop. She slid a stack of bulging folders toward her over the glossy wood and she found the one she needed. She pushed the rest of them away. She clicked on her “paper” file and scrolled a third of the way down. She read the section and squeezed her eyes to clear them. She enlarged the size of the font.

She flipped through the photocopies she’d made of renowned critics’ analyses of great works of literature, and she rolled her eyes. She wrote and edited and tweaked the text all morning, and she finished three more sections. She checked the scroll bar—nearly halfway done. She sat back and rubbed her face. She stretched her arms up and glanced at the novels beckoning from the bookshelf beside the fireplace.

Carla knocked at the door that led to the hall and opened it. She balanced a small turquoise tray in the crook of her arm.

“Coffee, yes,” Dana said.

“You know it.” She set the tray next to the laptop and poured from the carafe. “How’s it going?”

“Good. Oh, thank you.” Dana swigged the coffee. She groaned with pleasure as she popped two big blueberries into her mouth. They were tart and she winced. “What are you up to today?”

Carla stood at the window and Dana watched her. She heard Ivy’s words about Carla getting what she wanted. A sprite.

Carla spun around. “Walk with me. It’s thirty degrees out there, like spring, and we need to get out.”

“Here, split this muffin with me.” Dana saved her work and shoved papers into folders. “Yeah, let’s. I could use a walk.”

The snowy grounds were level compared to the land surrounding the house, and from a distance the women looked like Elizabethan actors on nature’s stage. They walked away from the house with their cloaks billowing, one dark and one red. Their boots plunged into the crusty coating of snow. It actually did feel warm out, Dana thought, and she let her cloak fly open behind her. They walked in silence until they stopped near the grove of white birches.

“I know you’re tough,” Carla said, “but I’m afraid this is too much to ask.”

“Tough, yes, me mountain woman.” Dana saw that she wasn’t laughing. “I’m doing this because I want to.”

“I’m serious. Can I ask you a personal question?”

“Mm-hm.”

“What happened in Austin? I told you I had some pretty powerful visions around the time you were leaving.”

They faced each other. Dana went for the truth. Carla probably knew the answer, anyway. “Allie was sick and I left her behind to take that job in California. Not because she was sick. I wanted the job.”

“You said her name in your sleep. You feel guilty, but you didn’t know what you could do back then.”

“A little guilt. I feel like I should’ve known, or that I knew on some level but was too selfish. I shouldn’t’ve left her, but I had to. And I didn’t find the talisman until I was packed to go, and even then…” She stopped herself from making more excuses. “Anyway, I’m not doing this out of guilt. You two are like family, and I know you would do it for me. I mean, yes, you did help it along, but I was coming here. I was.”

“I won’t sacrifice your health for Liz’s.”

“That’s not going to happen.” Dana put her arm around her and Carla circled her waist. They let go because it was too hard to walk that way in the snow.

“Let me ask you,” Dana said, “and I’m not being critical, just curious. You said you have visions, but why didn’t you sense that Liz was in trouble that day in October?”

“I don’t always get them,” Carla said without apology or defense. “I don’t know. Plus, I was at my aunt’s that day.”

They walked a few steps to the dirt road, at the top of the ribbon of snow sloping down to the cabin. A herd of deer appeared in the distance, picking their way through the woods.

“Look at that,” Dana said. “What do they eat in winter?”

“They fill up in the fall and get their body fat way up, and when it gets colder they eat less. They use the stored fat and move around less, and they know where the warmer areas are.”

“Moose are part of the deer family,” Dana said. “I researched them.”

“I bet you did,” Carla said, smiling. “I so wish I had film of you that day.”

They watched until the last white-tail was out of sight. They returned to level ground and scuffed at the snow on the driveway to find the red stone.

“Let’s get the snowblower out and clear a path up to the porch,” Dana said.

“Okay. I’m going to change into a jacket.”

“Me, too.”

On their way back, they lifted their cloaks and kicked the snow at the outer edges of the driveway to mark their path.

“Dana?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you ever think about that night?”

“No.”

“Me neither.”

Dana took her hand and they walked up the porch steps.

Chapter 25

By Yule, Liz’s face was as full and bright as a harvest moon and she could be heard singing around the house. They’d finished six more sessions since they’d stepped up the schedule, the latest being the night before. Her clothing no longer hung like sad rags. An outsider might say she was the picture of health, and the women would all agree.

One would not say the same about Dana, given the dark circles under her eyes, her dull brown hair, and sunken cheeks. She didn’t know how much weight she’d lost. She was now sleeping for a full day after a ritual. Liz or Carla would wake her every six hours to help her to the bathroom, and back to bed to feed her a small, healthy meal. They took her temperature before they fed her, checked her heart rate often, and monitored her blood pressure.

By the time she felt human again, it was time for another ritual.

Carla walked with her downstairs for their holiday dinner after Dana had showered and dressed. When Dana smelled food, a string of drool escaped her mouth and she caught it with her sleeve. She coughed and sneezed onto the tissue that was peeking up from the box that Carla handed her. She pulled the used tissue out, threw it away, and yanked out three more to bring to the dining room.

Liz pulled out a chair for her and Carla stood nearby until she was seated. The table was covered with every food that Dana liked: pork roast, mashed potatoes, broccoli, green beans, homemade sourdough bread, fettucine alfredo, black olives, and a large bowl of everything salad. A three-layer cake with fluffy white frosting sat in a glass cake dish on the sideboard. A cut-log candleholder with three tapered bayberry candles sat in the center of the table.

Dana stared at a flame, thinking she’d like to bring her laptop and papers down so she could work while they ate. She chuckled at the absurdity, and she coughed. She thought back to the last time she’d sat at her desk, and she couldn’t remember how much progress she’d made. Maybe half, yes, she might be halfway through. She changed her mind. She didn’t want to think about it. There was another Dana who worried about things like that. This one was only half alive, had been for weeks. She should stop. They were so close, though, she could feel it. Listen to yourself, Hannah and Ivy had told her. Pace.

“Wine?” Liz held a bottle of dry white near Dana’s glass.

“Yes.” She tasted it and set it down. She picked up the water glass and drained it. “Let’s eat. This is amazing.” She made an effort to smile.

Carla talked about the new clothing designs she was working on in the studio she’d set up in one of the guest rooms. She’d had requests for knee-length jackets and floor-length dusters in a light, webbed material, so she was researching and experimenting with them. She could sell them in the shop in the spring, she said. Dana said she wanted to see them.

Liz said they would open gifts after dinner and maybe sit in the hot tub later.

Dana ate enough for three people, drank two more glasses of water, and sighed when her head began to clear. She sneezed again and her eyes were watery.

“You have a cold,” Carla said.

“No, probably the soap I used. Allergies. It’s nothing.”

They moved to the harp room where a lush eight-foot balsam fir stood at the center paned window. Gifts were arranged on a red felt tree skirt. Liz and Carla had moved the furniture to accommodate the tree for the occasion. Dana stretched out on a dark green leather chaise and Carla sat on the sofa. Liz brought in a tray of coffee, spoons, china cups and saucers, and set it on a round coffee table. Carla skittered to the kitchen and came back with cream and sugar, and a plate of cookies and chocolate truffle candies.

They’d agreed to give each other one joke gift and one serious gift. Liz opened a box from Dana and pulled out three pairs of flannel boxer shorts.

“Is this the joke or the serious?” Liz asked, holding up a pair of red plaid ones. Carla and Dana whistled and clapped when Liz slipped them on over her black skinny pants.

Liz and Carla opened small boxes from Dana. She’d given them each a silver locket with the other’s picture inside, engraved on the back with a simple triquetra. They put them on and descended on her.

Dana escaped and reached under the tree for Carla’s joke gift. Carla shook it and unwrapped it slowly while she sat at Dana’s side, giving her suspicious looks. She opened the box and pulled out a miniature pool table, and she rolled off onto the floor.

“I’ll never live it down,” Carla said.

“Not a chance,” Dana said.

Liz plucked an envelope from a tree branch and handed it to Dana. She pulled the greeting card out and read: I can never repay you, but when we’re past this and you’ve finished your work, you can escape to the Maine coast for a while. I love you.” Dana read the sheet that was inserted. It was an open reservation for a week at The Tides Inn on Goose Rocks Beach in Kennebunkport.

“Oceanfront, Dana, all expenses covered for two,” Liz said. “It’s indescribable. I stayed a couple of weeks.” She sat next to Dana and hugged her. She whispered, “Thank you so much for what you’re doing.”

“This is perfect, and so generous. Thank you.”

“Look at the place online,” Liz said, “but the real thing is a thousand times better.”

“I will. I’ll be back to use this. Maybe we can all go.”

Liz handed Dana a huge box with an elaborate white bow. Dana pulled out a black pea coat and a red-and-black-striped cashmere scarf. Liz explained that she didn’t want to give her a joke gift, because, well, Dana was trying to save her life. Liz’s expression and tone were so serious that they all laughed.

Dana opened a square box from Carla and lifted out a large, faceted citrine ball with a footed red stand. She held it up and turned it, gazed into it, and she laid it on her chest. She reached her arm out and Carla lay beside her.

“For healing, it’s citrine quartz,” she said. “Same as on your cloak.”

“I love it. And the cloak,” Dana said.

They drank coffee and talked and admired the Yule tree, which Carla had decorated with tiny white lights, acorn and popcorn strings, red bows, and glittered pine cones. They’d added a few of their favorite ornaments for tradition’s sake. They scrunched the paper and threw it onto the tree skirt. After they dropped off the tray in the kitchen and took turns in the bathroom, they went outside to the hot tub.

It crept up, and by the new year Dana had a full-blown cold. She sat at her desk in long underwear, flannel pajamas, thick socks, and a fleece blanket, though the room was warm. She pounded away at the beast—cutting, adding, reading, cursing—and she stopped to blow her nose only when mucus threatened to run down her face. Her head throbbed, her throat hurt, and she ached all over. Her hair was matted on one side and spiked on the other.

Carla brought her coffee, then hot tea every hour. She carried up trays of food throughout the day, and Dana nibbled. In the late afternoon, Carla insisted that she go to bed, but her watery eyes were fixed on the screen. She shook her head and continued to work.

“I’ll be right back with a thermometer,” Carla said.

“Don’t.”

“Please.” Carla paced in front of the desk, wringing her hands. “Listen, you wanted me here to watch you, to help you if you needed it.”

“I don’t need it.”

“Bull. Have you looked in a mirror?” Carla walked around the desk and put her hand on Dana’s forehead. “You’re burning up.”

“Stop, Carla. I have to get this done.” She kept her eyes on her work. She didn’t know that she needed a tissue until Carla snapped one out of the box and held it in front of the screen.

“You’re being stubborn,” Carla said, “and stupid.”

“Right, I am. Now leave me alone.”

“No!”

Dana made a loose fist and stuck out the two fingers like prongs. She relaxed them. She held out her hand and flicked her wrist in front of Carla.

Carla stumbled back to the gold-and-red braided rug in front of the fireplace, and she regained her balance. She glared at Dana.

“You should be careful with that,” Carla said.

“I was.”

Carla slammed the door on her way out.

It was hideous, this paper, her writing, the reading, the topic, these damned old writers who, honest to God, blathered on and on about fountains and drawing rooms and every one of them could’ve used a good editor. More than that, she loathed the critics, who’d never learned the value of clear prose. The elitist bastards should be forced to make sense. She wanted to throw the laptop against the wall and sleep on the desk.

She was so cold and it was hard to breathe. She brought a corner of the blanket up and wiped her eyes. She stayed into the night.

What if she couldn’t work for a while? She had to finish the second draft, and go through it a third time for polishing. She had to get it to Gen for a reading in March and make revisions again before she sent it to the committee by mid-April.

She could do it. It was only January, though she didn’t know what day.

She coughed hard into the dark blue blanket and didn’t see the blood she left.

Tomorrow was the next ritual.

“No way,” Carla said.

“No,” Liz said.

“We have to, we’re close,” Dana said. “And I got a lot done yesterday. Ryan still coming by ’copter this weekend?”

Liz nodded. “He’ll take blood, and we’ll do MRIs and other tests next week.” She and Carla went to the kitchen and returned with three heaping plates of fettucine and asparagus.

They sat down and looked at Dana with solemn expressions.

“Jesus, it’s just a cold. It doesn’t affect my energy, not in that way,” Dana said. She glanced at the wall clock. “Okay. We start in a few hours. If I feel completely horrible by then, we’ll wait.”

They agreed. Dana ate her tasteless food.

“Carla, I’m sorry about yesterday,” Dana said.

“It’s okay, Dane, I get that it’s hard.” She smiled. “We’ll talk about the hands another time.”

“How are you feeling?” Dana asked Liz.

“I, uh, almost hate to say it, but I feel better than ever in my life,” Liz said. She turned red and teared up.

“Oh, no.” Dana laughed and covered her face with her napkin when it turned into a coughing fit. “Liz, I’ll be fine. This will be over soon and we’ll all be toasting you with one of your umbrella-fruity-boozy drinks. And you’ll be well.”

“Both of you will be,” Carla said. “We’ll take care of you, Dana.”

“We’re close,” Dana said. “We can’t postpone this. If we wait until I’m better, we might have to start over, and I can’t do that. And I don’t know how stopping would affect you. We’re on a roll. Let’s go with it.”

“What if it works,” Liz said, and she covered her face with her hands and cried.

It was eighteen degrees outside while they were eating, and it would dip that night. Dana took a hot shower and bundled up in layers. They gathered in the study and watched television and played gin. The wood crackled in the fireplace. The wind battered the house and whistled through any minuscule space it could find. It was the worst, they said, the wind.

Later, for the last time, Dana lay down with Liz and released her energy into her hands with all the psychic strength she could muster.

Carla sat in the blue wing chair in the corner and leaned her head back.

Unnoticed, the gold scarab glowed like a tiny sun against the pink circle on Dana’s chest.

Chapter 26

A red digital 11:11 wavered in front of her. She was burning. She dropped a leg out from under the covers, down the side of the bed. She felt cool air on the bit of bare calf between her sock and the cuff of her thermals. She brought an arm out from under the covers and rubbed her eyes. Her forehead felt like warm paper.

She moved the covers aside and struggled to sit up on the edge of the bed. Carla was asleep on the blue chair and Liz was asleep on the bed. Dana stood and waited for the dizziness to subside. She walked out of Liz’s room, down the hall to her own.

She would melt. Her head pounded. In her room, she put on her boots, gloves, and cloak, and she started down the stairs in the dark. She coughed out a clump that flew somewhere in front of her. She grabbed the banister and moved her legs, her stumps, she thought, and continued down like a child, one foot joining the other. An anvil sat on her chest.

She didn’t know where she was for a minute, but she had to get out.

She opened the front door and closed it behind her. She wheezed and coughed into her hand. The wind blew against her face and it felt good at first. She was light, like the blowing snow. Her chest was still hot. The wind bit her face when she left the porch and she forced her arms up to lift the hood. She walked down the buried driveway and stumbled, and she fell to her knees and stayed there, waiting for the strength to stand. Snow whipped and whirled in all directions around her. She looked back at the house, and she pushed herself up.

More to do.

She trudged through the snow in her deep purple cloak toward the grove of white birches. She stood in their midst, finally, looking up at their tangled branches and odd, familiar shapes. She wondered if they suffered in winter, or if they were hot like her. She reached out to one of them, and it swam before her as she spiraled down to the snow.

The road was better as Hannah and her brother Zack neared the state park in Franconia, south of where they’d been cross-country skiing all day. There was a spinout somewhere on I-93 and they’d been stuck at a standstill for an hour. Zack turned down the heat and they were finally able to relax. The snow turned to flurries and Hannah let the speedometer creep up to thirty miles an hour. She gripped the steering wheel. They were both exhausted, but it had been a good day on the trail.

They talked about which muscles hurt the most and they commented on the time. It was 11:30 now and they’d headed north from Manchester at dawn. Hannah said she didn’t know how she was going to be in Boston by noon the next day. The mandatory meeting was with a new client, or she’d skip it.

At the same moment that the headlights shone on a highway sign for the Old Man memorial site, Hannah was struck with a vision of Dana. Her head filled with images and she broke out in a sweat.

“Give me my bag,” she told Zack. “Open it.”

He picked it up from the floor behind her seat and he opened it wide. Hannah fished out the tiger’s eye fountain pen and clutched it. It was hot. She pulled over and set the emergency flashers. She closed her eyes and held the pen, and she saw Dana at the top of the hill where the dirt road met the driveway.

“It’s Dana. She’s near Liz’s,” she said. “Get ready to strap on your skis again, bro, and we’ll have to move fast. Get my phone out, will you, and try Carla.”

Zack didn’t argue. He knew his sister well.

“She didn’t pick up,” he said. “What about a ’copter.”

“You can try, but they’ll be out tonight.”

Hannah pulled a blanket and a heavy-duty flashlight from the back of her Jeep. She turned up the heat and Zack laid the blanket on the floor between his feet. She dumped out the contents of a duffle bag that was on the back seat, and she told him to stuff the blanket into it when they got there.

She got back on the road. The charter service wasn’t picking up. She was certain that they could reach Dana and get her to Plymouth General before anyone else could. The streets were slick, but at least the snow had let up.

“Forget the skis, now that I think about it,” Hannah said. “You brought snowshoes?”

“Yeah, they’re in the back. Can we bring her into Liz’s?”

“No, we can’t mess around with that. We have to get her wrapped up and into the car as fast as possible. She’s in the snow. It’s bad.”

She drove as fast as she could and turned right onto Broomstick. The road was fairly clear as she passed Carla’s house. She said a quiet “thank you” when she saw that it was plowed all the way to the bridge.

She left the car running and turned on the flashers. Less than a mile to go.

Chapter 27

Dana saw a stocky redhead in bright pink when her vision cleared. She turned her head further to the right. The woman looked like someone on television, a sitcom. She saw tubes wiggling and a metal pole holding plastic bags of liquid. She turned her head to the left and saw daylight between the parted curtains. She coughed and her head swam.

“Well, hello, sugar,” the woman said. She fiddled with a monitor before she turned her attention to Dana. “Guess you’re wondering what’s up. Your friends will be right back, they went to the cafeteria. I’m Gina.”

Dana mouthed “what” and it came out in a breath.

“You’re at Plymouth General. You have pneumonia and you had a touch of hypothermia. You were brought in night before last and you came out of critical care this morning.”

Dana eyed the pitcher on the cart behind Gina. “Water.”

“You’re going to be fine,” she said, patting Dana’s leg. She rolled a table to the bed, and she placed an adult sippie cup and a small container of pills on it. She produced a bendable straw.

“Take them, please, so I can get back to the cranky man in the next room.” She whispered the words “cranky man.” “Your belongings are in that closet.”

She felt pressure on her chest, but no pain. Probably worse without the meds. She tipped the pills into her mouth and washed them down.

“Necklace.” Dana looked at the closet.

Gina opened a pressed-wood cabinet and rummaged through Dana’s things. She brought her a plastic bag that held the talisman and small silver ball earrings.

“Get some rest, sweets. I’ll tell your friends that we talked. And here’s the button if you need us. Doctor will be in later, and I’ll let him know you’re awake.” Gina placed the control near Dana’s hand and she left without making a sound.

She woke later to Carla on her left and Liz on her right, leaning against the bed. They looked at each other, then back at her.

“Don’t make me laugh,” Dana said in a raspy voice.

Liz wiped her eyes with a tissue. “Oh, Dana.”

“How are you?” Carla asked. She moved closer and kissed the top of her head.

“Good. Medicated.”

“The nurse said if we stay longer than a minute she’ll call the National Guard, so,” Carla said, “you have to stay a while so they can watch you and you can get stronger. We’re in a hotel down the street and we’ll be back in the morning.”

Liz laid her hand on Dana’s leg. “Before we have to leave… Ryan is meeting me here tomorrow and he’ll do a full battery of tests. We’ll have some results right away, and the rest in two days.”

“I have a good feeling,” Dana whispered.

They heard a noise, and Carla and Liz jumped. They laughed nervously, and Dana turned onto her side and coughed.

“Did you bring me in?” Dana asked. “Last thing I remember is starting the ritual.”

Liz and Carla exchanged a look. “No, the hospital called us,” Liz said. “Apparently a man carried you in, and there was a woman with him. They left after she gave the desk nurse your name, and our names and phone numbers.”

Dana raised her eyebrows. She remembered the trees wavering before her, and the overwhelming heat. She flashed briefly on a man’s face and being in a car. Who the hell had brought her in? She didn’t know anyone else in Fern that well, and no way had someone stumbled over her on a midnight stroll.

“We called for an emergency helicopter from the charter place and we packed fast,” Carla said. She opened the closet and pulled out Dana’s black bag. She held it up for Dana to see and she put it back. “Your phone is in there and I grabbed some books and clothes.”

Dana smiled. “Thanks.”

“We’ll talk about what happened,” Carla said. “I’m so sorry I fell asleep.”

Dana took her hand. “Not your fault.”

The door opened and they waved goodbye. They grinned at Gina like bad children as they swept past her.

Gina shook her head. “Those two… they carried on so when I told them you were awake. Your sister Hannah in Boston calls to check on you. Told her this morning you’re out of the woods and doing great.”

“My sister Hannah?”

“Yep.”

“Gina, can you get a description of who brought me in?”

They quieted down when the nurse stuck her head in the room and shushed them. Ryan had just broken the news to Liz. She had a clean bill of health except for one small spot on her uterus. He’d set up emergency surgery to have the section removed the next morning in the same hospital. Liz was on her way to check in.

“Tell me you didn’t out me,” Dana said.

“It wasn’t easy, but no, I didn’t. I told him I was using alternative methods and he was skeptical, to say the least,” Liz said. “Except for the MRI, he ran the tests twice. And I’m okay. He’s coming to the house in a few weeks to check on both of us.”

Carla leaned on the bed and put her face close to Dana’s. She blinked her big blue eyes. “You did it.”

“Wasn’t just me,” Dana said. “Well, get in here, damn it.” She lifted both sides of her blanket and they piled onto the bed. Liz cried, and Dana handed her a box of tissue.

“You could do this for a living,” Liz said between sniffles.

Carla looked at Dana and they groaned.

“That’s like telling a new mother on the baby floor to start on the next one,” Dana said.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” Liz said.

“You don’t. It was supposed to happen. Ask Carla, she knows.”

“You amaze me, both of you,” Carla said. “Liz, let’s check you in and get that stuff out of you.”

Liz hugged Dana, and Dana whispered, “Take care.”

“I’ll be back in the morning.” Carla blew a kiss as they were leaving. “Call me if you need me.”

When she was alone, Dana buried her head under the covers and had a long, satisfying cry. It was the best news. She knew she couldn’t do any more for Liz, at least not for a while. She was sapped. Liz was okay, and Dana would have time to finish what she started.

She was back on track.

Chapter 28

They heard the whir of the helicopter fade to nothing when they closed the door. They were in the house for the first time in more than a week. They left their boots in a haphazard pile on the rug inside the door.

“Listen up, sicklings, I’m officially your nurse and you have to follow my orders,” Carla said with her arms open. “I’m all yours. Both of you will be going to bed now.”

“The dreaded butch nurse,” Dana said. She dropped her bags on the floor and sat down on the stairs. She admired the hell out of Carla for taking over in the past week, and had told her so.

“I need my helicopter license if I’m going to live here,” Liz said. She leaned against the banister near Dana.

“Know what I love about this?” Carla said. “You both have a two-week recovery time, nice and neat. You have to rest, take your antibiotics, vitamins, and drink plenty of fluids, especially you, Dana. No hot tub, either of you, off limits. I want you ship-shape by the time Ryan gets here.” She took a deep breath. “It’s all about you.” She pointed to each of them.

“But I have to—” Dana said.

“No, uh-uh, Dane, this time you’re going to listen to me,” Carla said. “No overachievers in this house for a while. And mind the hands.” She crossed her arms and planted her red-socked feet on the floor. She added, “Which is so awesome, by the way. We’ll talk.”

“Sorry again.”

“Never mind that. Now, up you go.”

Dana and Liz looked at each other. Dana buried her face in her hands. Liz reached over and patted her shoulder.

“What,” Carla said.

A welcome calm descended over the house during the recuperation weeks. Carla worked on her pieces for the shop when Liz and Dana rested, and she brought their pills on time. She gave them partial freedom after they’d rested in their beds for a full week. She listened to Dana’s lungs with a stethoscope every five minutes, it seemed, and she monitored their vitals and diet. Carla succumbed to their requests for meat, but she faked a gag when Dana asked her to stuff a couple of Cornish hens.

After the first week, they gathered in the kitchen or the study, comfortable just eating and watching movies. Suddenly it would occur to one of them that Liz was well, and that one would smile out of the blue, or they would hug each other for no apparent reason, or someone, usually Liz, would sing. One morning Dana stood at the kitchen window and watched Liz on the deck, gazing at the hills.

Dana read and hung out with them. She didn’t work on her dissertation at all. She didn’t think about it until the first week of February, and only thought about it then when she wasn’t engrossed in a novel. They played Scrabble, gin, backgammon, and watched movies.

They brought out Carla’s DVD of Boys on the Side because none of them had seen it in ages. Carla liked Whoopi, Dana liked Mary-Louise Parker, and Liz was in love with Drew Barrymore. Dana teared up at the courthouse scene, when Mary-Louise told Whoopi about the gulf between herself and the rest of the world. When Whoopi said, “I’m holding you,” Dana left the room after she asked the others if they wanted anything from the kitchen. She blamed it on antibiotics or hormones. She’d never been one to cry.

Liz played the piano for them one evening as the snow fell and the fire crackled. They turned down the lights and filled the living room with candles. Carla and Dana got comfortable on the sofa.

Liz wore a black cotton tunic over gray tights. Her hair looked like burnished red waves in the candlelight as it fell over her shoulders and down her back. They had a three-quarter view of her as she played. Her face was healthy and beautiful and serene, one seemingly reserved just for this.

She was a skilled pianist and the instrument was obviously one of her greatest joys. She played a Chopin concerto and glanced at Dana before she went deeper into a world of her own with a series of haunting pieces. Carla whispered that Liz had written them. Liz closed her eyes and played by memory even though she hadn’t touched the piano in a year.

Dana leaned back, but she wanted to watch Liz’s face. In this case, the artist equaled the art, and she was as mesmerized by her face as she was by the music. Carla rested her head back and smiled. Liz was playing again.

Afterward, they locked up and went upstairs to bed, each of them in an altered state induced by the magic of the private concert in the candlelit room. Dana admitted to herself as she lay in bed, still hearing it, that she was completely infatuated with Liz that night.

She gave Gen a firm date, March 17, when she could expect to read her work. She relayed postcard sentiments to friends and family who asked how she was doing. She stayed inside to give her lungs the best chance to heal. She rarely checked her phone. She read. She lit candles. She slept.

It was already mid-February and she would be leaving in three months. She stood at the window and watched the snow fall. She turned around and looked at the office, at the low fire in the fireplace, and she thought of Liz and Carla.

She would have this kind of life.

In May, she would go back and defend her work. She would teach great works of literature over and over to students who—ninety-percent of them, anyway—would rather be tweeting, and probably were. She would get tenure and publish scholarly pieces of tripe. She would make a life with someone, in a house with a garden squeezed into the narrow perimeter of a back yard.

She thought of Gen, who’d shown a scrap of interest in Dana only when she was three-thousand miles away. And Rachel’s new life. And the ease with which she’d left Allie. She’d always liked people who would leave or be left, or the chronically detached, like herself. She thought of her three years in California, when she couldn’t even achieve a temporary relationship.

Things would be different.

She sat at her desk and opened her laptop. She stared at the keys and ran her fingers over them. She walked to the window and shook her hands at her sides to release the anxiety and negativity that tainted the task before her. She returned to the desk and glared at the screen as if challenging it. She booted it up and got to work, once again wondering why anyone cared what the critic Bloom or any of them had to say about Shakespeare or Castillo or the price of fish.

She plodded through to the end of her second draft by early March. All she had left was a once-over for small fixes. She copied “paper” onto a CD, stored it, and stretched her back and shoulders. She felt stronger than she did a month ago and she needed to go out. The pneumonia combined with general exhaustion from the healing rituals had kicked her butt. She still wasn’t back to her previous weight or stamina, but she was getting there.

She dressed in layers and grabbed her winter gear. A pair of gray thermal gloves peeked out of the deep pockets of her old brown barn coat. They were a fixture in pockets here.

She found Carla in the kitchen.

“Hey, you’re smiling. Did you finish?”

“Almost. All but the shine,” Dana said as she pulled on her boots.

“I expected handsprings.” She placed her glass in the sink and brushed crumbs from her hands.

“I’m going for a walk.” She saw Carla grimace. “I’ll cover my face.”

“Can I go? We’ll have to wear snowshoes.”

“Yeah, I’m going down to the cabin and maybe the bridge. Snowshoes?” She pictured large wooden things shaped like tennis rackets.

“If you’re up to it, we can go down to my house. I want to check on it.” Carla glanced at the clock on the microwave. “Maybe we can walk to the shop?”

“Sure. If I start gasping for breath on the way, just roll me down the hill and call for help.”

“You seem better.”

“I am,” Dana said. “Snowshoes.”

“I’ll show you. Liz has a bunch of Crescent Moons in the garage, nice ones.”

Dana nodded and watched Carla write a note to Liz.

They high-stepped through the snow with the odd contraptions on their feet. Dana was relieved when she didn’t feel a pull on her chest or labored breathing. Carla wore a pink knit hat with a flaccid knob at the top, and earflaps and strings on the sides. The knob was decorated with shiny pink spangles that flipped when she walked. Dana laughed at her and Carla flipped them more.

“How’s it going with you and Liz? I haven’t had a chance to ask,” Dana said when she was unlocking the red door.

“Great.” Her smile said it all.

Dana checked the faucets for the thin stream of warm water that would prevent the pipes from freezing. She looked around the big room and went into the bedroom.

“No one uses it anymore,” Carla called.

“Uses what?” Dana came out.

“This, the cabin. Remember how busy it was all the time, summer and fall?”

“Everyone got a life, I guess.”

“Your uncle told me he wouldn’t be coming up here that much. Something about his wife being sick.”

Dana gave her a questioning look. “He didn’t tell me that.”

“Ask him.”

“Yeah, I will. They’ve only been married for five years, second marriage for both.” She sat on the couch and took a deep, trembling breath. Tears rolled down her face.

Carla sat next to her. “What’s going on?”

Dana grabbed a red throw pillow and cried into it. “I don’t know.”

Carla rubbed her back until Dana came up for air. She went to the refrigerator and pulled out two bottles of water and plucked a box of tissue from the table. She sat next to Dana and offered her both.

“Talk to me.”

Dana wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Carla said with a heavy sigh. as she played with Dana’s hair, “if you’re ever not fine, you know where to find me.”

“I’ll never have it.”

“Have what?”

“Any of it. What you and Liz have, that… I want that. Everyone else in the world has it and I never will.” She buried her face in the pillow. “I don’t know why.”

“Well, have you ever wanted it before now?”

Dana turned to Carla and hiccupped. She wiped her face. “No. But now that I want it, I have to have it. I have this image…”

“It’s all around you.” She placed a hand on Dana’s head.

“I’m too old to be searching for a niche. It’s ridiculous.”

“No, it’s not, and you’re not old. You’re working on it, that’s all. Be patient. You’ve been through a lot this winter.”

“Yeah, patient.” She blew her nose.

“If you don’t think you’ve accomplished a lot, then I don’t know what to say. Liz is doing great, your project is almost done, and don’t forget what happened with us. I don’t even want to think about you not coming here.”

“I’m glad I came, I am.”

“It’ll happen, Dane, whatever you want. Don’t think it to death.”

Dana leaned back against the sofa and sniffled. She looked at Carla. “I’ve been running ever since I left here a million years ago. My last stop will be California. I’m done.”

Chapter 29

She carried her laptop around the house for days, cleaning up her manuscript. She stretched out on her bed or on the sofa or rug in the study. She brought it to the cabin once and worked at the table, then she moved to the floor in front of the stove. It was actually fun, the editing phase—a breeze compared to the first chapter, which was agony, the citations, the grueling index, and the text itself. She finished a few days ahead of time.

At the end of the week, she sat at the breakfast bar with Carla and Liz, eating French toast and strawberries with real maple syrup.

Dana closed the laptop and picked up her coffee cup. “Fini, my friends.”

Carla and Liz looked at each other.

“What’s wrong? Where’s the love, the woohoo…” Dana trailed off when she saw their faces.

“My stomach just turned,” Carla said. She dropped her fork on her plate and pushed it away. She put her elbows up on the bar and rubbed her face. Liz patted Carla’s shoulder.

“We don’t want you to leave,” Liz said. “We’re selfish, horrible people. And we’re very happy for you. Proud.” She picked up her plate and walked to the sink.

Carla slouched over her arms and stared at her plate.

“I’m not gone yet. I have two months.” Dana stuffed a dripping hunk of French toast in her mouth because she didn’t know what else to do in the silence. She waited. “I’ve only been trying to get this done for ten years, people.”

Carla groaned and stood up. “I’m sorry.” She kissed the back of Dana’s head. “Congratulations. You worked so hard.” She laid her head on Dana’s and wrapped her arms around her midriff.

Dana reached back and pinched Carla’s waist. “Thanks.”

Liz stood at the sink with her back to them, mumbling.

“Liz?” Carla said.

“Nothing.” She turned around. “Carla, we need to talk about this.”

“About what?” Carla asked. In Dana’s ear, she whispered, “She really doesn’t want you to leave.”

“I got that.”

“I’m sorry, Dana, but those people in California don’t appreciate you. You need to know that,” Liz said. She leaned against the counter, wringing an orange towel, her eyes blazing emerald green. “That boss of yours is a crazy bitch.”

“Whoa,” Carla said, “watch out.” She sat in the chair next to Dana’s.

Dana tried to keep a straight face to avoid pissing her off further, but she had to laugh. Liz was so right. “Most of them are crazy,” Dana said, “but it’s the nature of the beast. I have to work, and Gen’s at least a known devil.”

“I don’t mean work,” Liz said. “She led you on for how long? She doesn’t deserve you.”

“How’d you know about…”

Carla coughed and squirmed in her seat. Dana raised an eyebrow at her.

“Big mouth.”

“We don’t have many secrets.”

“So I’ve heard.”

Dana looked at Liz. “I’m over it. Gen was like some irresistible unbalancing act, which led me here, in a way. That’s how I see it. No regrets.”

“Well, I don’t like her,” Liz said. “But I don’t despise her if she’s in any way responsible for you coming here.”

“Thank you,” Dana said, smiling at her. “We’re good?”

“Yes, but—”

“You never say ‘bitch’,” Carla said to Liz. She turned to Dana. “She never says that.” Carla’s eyes twinkled and she tapped her fingers on the bar.

“What can I say,” Liz said, “I’m healed.”

The new layer of snow was marked only by the occasional twig or small branch that had blown across the back yard. There were the four feet her sister had mentioned eons ago. The temperature was in the mid-twenties, and the wind blew vaporous streams of snow into the air. Puffs of white flew from the branches of the pines and firs and whirled in the air to places unknown.

She had to go out. The snowmobile. She turned away from the office window and went downstairs, where she found Carla and Liz in the usual place.

“Ready to sled?” Dana asked. She piled scrambled eggs, cheese, and bacon onto an English muffin. “I hope you have helmets or goggles. A manual would be great.”

“Ready,” Carla said. She walked over to Dana and kissed her cheek.

“Me, too,” Liz said. “After we eat, let’s look in the garage. I think everything’s in the cabinet out there.”

“Gas?” Dana asked.

“I think so,” Liz said. “One of the guys in town used it once last winter. And there’s a gas can about half full.”

They found what they needed in a metal storage locker in the garage, including full-face helmets and keys. Dana flipped through the manual and put it back in the locker.

“Let me try it alone,” Dana said. “I’ll be right back.” She rolled the Polaris Trail outside and sat on it. She put on the helmet and pulled thick gloves from her jacket pockets. It started right up and she gave it a little gas. She picked up speed and was soon racing around the grounds practicing, getting the feel of it before she crossed the field of snow and disappeared down the hill. It was like flying.

Ten minutes later she topped the crest and zipped over to Liz and Carla, who were still standing near the garage.

Carla put on a helmet and gloves and sat behind Dana.

“Be careful,” Liz shouted.

They whooped and hollered as the sled took off. They rode around the level ground so Dana could try it with the extra weight. She stopped and asked Carla if she wanted to go down to her house, and Carla nodded. Dana took it slow. Someone had marked the bridge with slender orange poles that were stuck in the ground before it froze, months ago.

They reached the bottom of the hill within minutes and they stopped at the white house. Carla went to the back door, kicked snow from the stoop, and unlocked the door. She came out several minutes later and hopped back on.

She wrapped her arms around Dana. “You okay?”

Dana turned and smiled. She accelerated a bit more on the way to the bridge and they buzzed up the hill and over to Liz.

Carla handed her helmet to Liz before she dismounted.

“I love it,” Carla shouted, and she and Dana slapped their gloved hands together.

“Want to go down the hill?” Dana asked Liz.

“Just around here,” she said, pointing at the grounds. She put on the helmet and got on. Carla waved at them and watched Liz’s hair whipping in the wind.

Long after they’d gone inside, Dana rode around the grounds, to the back yard, and up and down the hill. She became the buzz and bump and glide of the machine and she tried her best to think about nothing. She ran in once to have lunch and to gas up, and she ran back out.

She stopped at the cabin and kicked hard at the snow on the patio and in front of the door, but she didn’t go in.

The picnic table should’ve been moved to the storage space, or covered. She batted snow from it until she saw red wood.

She trudged to the edge of the buried brook and meditated on the clear slate of snow. She imagined what lay beneath it. She wished for hibernation, a dream state in a cold cocoon into which she could disappear and come to some magical understanding of why she was less excited about her project and prospects now than she’d been when she arrived.

For hours she rode up and down the hill, over the grounds, and circled the house. It was dark when the headlamp peeped over the crest and wiggled its way toward the garage.

“It’s been a long winter,” Carla said. She placed three kings on the rug.

“You got that right,” Dana said. She snapped three fives down. “Cabin fever much? And I used up all the gas for the snowmobile.”

“Good grief, I’m going to get wine,” Liz said, and she laid her cards face down on the coffee table. “I’ll put a load in the washer, too.”

They were sprawled out on the red rug in front of the fireplace in the study. It was snowing again. They were getting to that point in winter that most northerners reach in March, when they’d pay a fee to walk outside and feel fifty degrees. They’d gone for a walk that day, but it wasn’t as much fun as a walk in December, or even January. They could taste spring.

“Bet I could siphon gas out of my car,” Dana said. “Or we could emergency ’copter some in.”

“I want to see you siphon gas,” Carla said.

They started laughing and couldn’t stop. They slapped each other’s legs and held their stomachs. Dana rolled onto her back and drew her knees up, and Carla tipped her onto her side.

Liz passed the study on the way to the laundry room, and shouted, “What’s going on in there?” and they started again.

They wiped their eyes on their sleeves and caught their breath. They lay back down on their stomachs and picked up their cards.

“I love winter here, but come on, you know?” Carla said. “We’ve never done this. Liz usually stays at my place January through March and at least we could drive and I could work.”

“I can’t think of a better place to be for the winter, but I know what you mean. You crave a warm day.”

“A patch of dirt.”

“A blade of grass.”

“I keep grass plants in the house in the winter,” Carla said seriously.

Dana felt hysteria growing in her chest. “What…”

“Regular green grass.”

“Grass plants,” Dana said, and they howled and rolled on the rug, gasping for air.

Liz came in with a tray of glasses and a bottle of wine when they were on the floor, trying to stop. “You didn’t look at my cards, did you?”

They turned to her and groaned. “I can’t laugh anymore, or I would,” Carla said, patting Liz’s leg.

Dana sat up and poured the wine, and they settled into their places with their cards. Liz threw more logs on the fire and sat back down.

“Well, this has been the best winter of my life,” Liz said, “but I’m dying to get out, too. Figure of speech.” She raised her glass.

“What will you do first?” Dana asked them.

“I’ll go to the shop,” Carla said.

“I need new clothes,” Liz said. “That was some turbocharged healing. I’m five pounds over my lifetime max, thank you.”

“I’ll go for a walk, first thing,” Dana said. “And Liz, you are ravishing, woman.”

“You are,” Carla said. “I wish I could marry both of you.”

“She means it,” Liz said. “Big love.”

“Big,” Carla said.

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” Dana said, “and so hot.”

They laughed.

“I’d love it,” Carla said.

“So, what’s so great about California?” Liz asked.

Dana had to think. “It’s pretty.”

“Like here,” Carla said.

“It’s familiar, I know the area,” Dana said. “I know people.”

“Like here,” Liz said.

“The beach.”

“We have that, well, not far,” Carla said.

“I have a place to live already lined up.”

“Easy to find here.” Carla said, and she and Liz shot a look at each other.

“A job.”

“You got me there, but you could find one,” Carla said. “And, just note, same-sex marriage is legal here.”

“You got me there,” Dana said, “but they’re working on it out west. Slow.”

They went back to the card game and Liz spread out three queens.

“You two are my relationship models, you know,” Dana said. “I think I’m a little envious.”

“Whoever you end up with is going to be so damn lucky, Dana,” Carla said. “Then I’ll be jealous.” She made a pouty face.

Dana sipped her wine. She smiled at Carla and said “grass plants,” and they were off.

Chapter 30

Two snowplows made their way around the grounds in early April, clearing as much as they could in the middle, and doing a more thorough job on the section of driveway that led from the dirt road to the front of the house. Ryan was expected soon and he would be able to drive up the hill in his truck. He wanted to take Liz’s blood again, and if the results were good, she would be granted a reprieve from testing for six months, and monitored after that.

Dana stepped out the door and watched the trucks jerking and backing up. They had cleared the dirt road on their way up and it had taken hours, Liz said, because they had to take smaller trucks over the bridge.

Dana wanted to see the cabin but she would wait until the doctor left. Maybe she would catch a ride down with him and he could drop her off. She wanted to get the place ready for her to move back in.

She looked at the grounds, once a wild place where they’d waded through grass taller than any of them. They’d picked blueberries with their innocent hands, filling buckets, or eating most of what they picked then and there. She remembered their excitement over a new game to play in the woods, or riding up the hill for a summer weekend, or fireflies on a warm night.

She wrapped her jacket tightly to her and crossed her arms. The trucks bumped over the grounds and disappeared down the hill, leaving behind palisades of snow along the driveway, and at the outside edge of the property in a lumpy crescent. Liz had hired them from a private company to encourage the melting process, even though more snow would fall, and she’d asked them to clear around the cabin and Carla’s house. She knew Dana wanted to get back to the cabin, and Carla had to get back to the shop. And they all wanted to go anywhere but here, just for an hour, a day, to a mall or to the Feast or for a drive.

She walked down the driveway and peered at the road, which was open and sanded, and she returned to the porch. She was about to go inside when she heard the doctor’s truck seconds before it bounced onto the driveway. She shaded her eyes and waved.

“Thanks for the lift, Ryan,” Dana said when he pulled into the cleared space next to the cabin’s patio. They both got out of his white truck and Dana was unnerved. She should ask him in. He would pass.

“Would you like to come in for coffee?”

“I would, if you don’t mind. I’m nosy, but I like to call it curious.”

“I’m the same way.”

Dana unlocked the door and motioned for him to sit at the table. She pulled off her boots and threw them onto the rug. She plugged in the coffeemaker. She shook her jacket off onto the sofa.

“And I have questions, but I’ll wait for coffee,” he said. “I like your place.”

“Thanks. It started out as a hunting camp a long time ago. The 1940s, I think,” she said as she dumped scoops of coffee into the white filter. “Liz is doing great, huh? She’s gained at least twenty pounds, and her energy’s way up.”

“Mm, yes, a miraculous reversal.” He spotted the Victrola. He lifted the glossy mahogany lid and inspected the crank on the side. “This is a beauty. If you ever want to sell it, let me know.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s been here ever since I can remember. It’s not mine to sell, actually.”

He walked around with his hands in his pockets, and he returned to the table. Dana set two mugs on the counter in front of the chugging machine and willed it to hurry the hell up while they talked about the weather. She had an idea of what was coming. She poured when it was half done, set the mugs on the table, and sat down.

“What questions do you have?” she asked.

He sipped his coffee and thought before he spoke.

“You know our history, I assume. I’ve known Liz and her father and their whole family for, well, since she was a girl. Her father’s a surgeon in Boston.”

Dana nodded.

“I was thrilled to learn about Liz’s turnaround, as was her family. You can imagine.” He put his big hands around the mug. “How did it happen? I’m mystified. Happy, for sure, but I’m also curious as hell about how you did it. I’ve read cases, but I haven’t seen it before.”

“Me?” Dana smiled at him. “She meditated, took care of herself, and visualized…”

He squinted an eye at her and screwed up his mouth. He looked like Santa when he made that face.

“It wasn’t Carla,” he said.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“She would’ve helped Liz from the start if she could have. And I’ve done some research. For healing to work there usually has to be a connection with the patient, but not a deep, emotional, romantic-type connection.”

“Oh, healing, as in metaphysical?” Dana asked. She followed the wavy reflections in her coffee.

“Yes.” He smirked.

“Why, Doctor Ryan, you’re a believer.”

He chuckled and reached into his shirt pocket. He handed her a card.

“If you ever want to talk.” He stood to leave. “Or if you’re available for consultations. I’m fascinated, I really am.”

“I’m afraid there has to be affection in the mix. For me, anyway.”

“Thank you for whatever you did,” he said. “You could be a wealthy woman, you know.” He gently shook her shoulder, and he lumbered over the short flagstone path and past the picnic table. He waved after he settled into the truck.

The cabin had been in deep freeze, so Dana didn’t have much to do except to scrub a shine into the kitchen sink and the bathroom. She ran the dust mop over the soft wooden floor and promised herself not to have beige carpet in her future house. A new goal.

She had started a fire in the stove and she moved her boots close to it. She sat on the sofa and thought about her trip back to California. The year had flown by. Six more weeks. Maybe she would go the southern route to see Georgia and visit New Orleans, and dip down to Austin and stop in Albuquerque to see old friends. She would think about it. She was nowhere near ready to pull out her maps.

She set her coffee cup on the table and walked into the bedroom. She dropped to her haunches, pulled the drawer open, and felt the velvet bag. She slipped her grandmother’s Book of Shadows out and brought it to the sofa.

She was an artist, Dana saw first. How had she not known that? How had none of them known that? A detailed charcoal portrait of Ivy was on the first page. She read the spells and notes and journal entries. Drawings graced the margins of every page, many of them as kids, and some were of her mother and aunts and uncles. There was one of Kit. There were small landscapes, buildings, symbols, the house in Massachusetts, the cabin, flowers, and animals—on every page, all around the writing. There were trees, lots of trees.

On the last page there was a portrait of Dana, a drawing of the gold scarab, and a sketch of the Old Man, surrounding a short note in the middle, penned in black calligraphy. She wrote:

Dearest Dana,

It’s been said that the gravest sin lies in wasting our precious gifts. If you’re reading this, you’ve probably found yours and you’re acquainted with the talisman. The power is in you—the scarab will help you strengthen it. I knew when you were a wee one that you were magical. You were different, which comes with the territory, and it’s the highest compliment one can be paid.

There are three keys: Be true to yourself, find your people, and mind the Rule of Three.

You are one of my greatest joys. I’m with you. Whisht, child, listen.

Gran

Her drawings were lively and enchanting. She and Ivy were probably the only other people to see them. Fifteen years it had taken her to open the book.

She returned it to the bag. When she slid it into the armoire’s drawer, it hit against something that knocked against the wood. She pulled the bag out and reached into the back corner, thinking it was probably a block of cedar. Instead, she was holding the white rock, which she knew she’d placed on the windowsill when she’d found it in June, and she hadn’t touched it since. She smiled. So she’d had company that night on the bridge. She returned the rock and the book to the drawer.

She washed the cups and the coffee pot. She smothered the already cooling wood in the stove. She put on her boots and jacket and stepped outside.

The snowplowers had mostly cleared the picnic table. She brushed off the rest with her gloved hands, and she slapped them together. She looked up and down the cleared road. She meandered up the hill, where Liz was preparing yet another feast and they planned to fire up the hot tub again.

She stopped and turned to see what was in front of her. The cabin sat on a rest, and she hadn’t noticed that before. She had told Ryan when it was built, but she’d left out the best part: the story went that the carpenters had been her maternal grandfather and uncles and they’d built it drunk off their butts in one summer’s weekends. You didn’t have to look closely to see it, either. It was part of its charm.

She listened and realized how silent it was here in winter, that it had, in comparison, been quite lively in the summer with moving sounds of birds, animals, leaves, and the brook. Winter was restful and heavy and dead quiet. She caught the faintest whiff of burning wood.

She continued up, watching the slush flick up from her boots. She recalled the time she’d taken a five-dollar ski lift ride up to Mt. Baldy in California in the middle of summer, high over the canyon. She was overwhelmed by it. Later she realized that it was the first time she’d heard total silence since she was a kid. Peace. She’d found a quiet place in the sprawl of Southern California and it had been quite a coup.

She watched mud collect on top of her boots. She remembered her tanned legs dangling from the lift over the silent, scrubby canyons at the age of twenty-three, deciding, This is where I want my ashes scattered.

It would be a good place to go when she had to clear her head, when her partner was mad at her for forgetting the lawn seed or for working too much, or when the students were tweeting, totally unimpressed by Macbeth. Maybe she would learn to ski, just to ride the lift up in the winter months.

She pulled off her boots and left them on the bar. When she was inside, she heard Liz and Carla at the back of the house, laughing and talking, and the clattering of pans and utensils. It always smelled good here. Luckily, Liz hadn’t abandoned cooking as her favorite pastime. Dana sat at the harp and plucked the strings. She smiled when the kitchen sounds stopped and they skidded around the corner to greet her.

“It’s completely passable,” Dana said. “I was down there, you know, all afternoon.” She laid her head back and stretched her arms out along the edge of the spa.

“Yes, we know,” Carla said. She splashed water at Dana, and turned to Liz. “Let’s have big boulders trucked in and block the road so she can’t leave.”

“Ryan asked me about your miraculous recovery today,” Dana said.

“Oh, I knew he would when I saw you two take off together,” Carla said.

“He knows, but we didn’t go into it. I like him.”

“We have a proposal, or two of them,” Liz said. “We have a backup if you say no to the first one. It’s serious. I’m not blowing smoke.”

“Okay,” Dana raised her eyebrows at Liz. “Blowing smoke? Cable?”

“Stay here with us,” Liz said.

“See, you knew I’d say no. Thanks, but duty calls. I’ll be a plane ride away and I’ll visit.”

They sighed.

“Okay, the second one,” Liz said. “You live here and we’ll live down at Carla’s.”

They watched Dana.

“Well…” Dana turned her head to the left to look at the house, then to the right. She grinned and opened her eyes wide and moved her head slightly up and down. “No. But thank you.”

They pulled her arms and dunked her under the water. She grabbed their legs and brought them under with her. They came up, choking and laughing, and they sat down and swept water from their faces.

“That’s a generous offer, but I gotta go, guys. Life awaits. But… can I stay with you for winter break next year? I’ll have a month off if I get that job, mid-December to mid-January. Travel will be a bitch, but if you’re willing.”

“Yes,” Liz said, “and any other time you want to come. I’d be happy to set it up. You can take a car from the airport to Plymouth, well, you know the drill.”

Dana looked at the moonlit hills. She would miss it. Carla leaned her head back and Liz rested her hand on Carla’s shoulder.

“Let me tell your cards,” Liz said to Dana.

“Yep, bet they’ll tell you to stay here,” Carla said. She stepped out of the water and Liz followed.

They wrapped themselves in thick white towel-robes, shoved their feet into slip-ons, and ran inside to the harp room.

Dana hadn’t noticed the round inlaid table before. It was in front of the window now, where the Yule tree had been. Carla sat in the chair that faced outside. Dana sat to her right, and Liz brought a deck of cards after she started a classical piano CD. She sat across from Dana. Carla pointed at the moon.

Liz shuffled and told Dana to focus on what was most important to her at this time. Dana touched the Tree of Life design on the table.

“Let’s do a Celtic Cross and you’ll select the cards,” Liz said. She shuffled while Dana focused. She placed the deck in front of her. “Cut in threes.”

Dana cut away from herself and restacked them. Liz fanned them out across the center of the table.

“Hand each card to me,” Liz said.

Dana’s moved her hand over them, and she chose them with care.

The core was the six of swords covered by the Sun. Below that, for the distant past, the three of swords; to the left, the recent past influence, the Magician; at the top, the crown, the nine of pentacles; at the right, the near future, the three of cups. For the pillar, Dana chose the Empress for Self, the Lovers for environment, the ace of cups for advice, and the nine of cups for the outcome.

Liz leaned over them and rested her arms on either side of the layout. After a minute, she sat up and moved her left hand over the reading. She looked at Dana for a few moments before she lightly touched each card.

“A long time ago there was an event that shocked you, put you in distress. It was painful. It trapped you somehow and made you withdraw. It resurfaced recently and made you examine your life and your motives. You’ve taken, are taking, an inner journey and it’s probably, in its own way, as hard as the original pain, but necessary.

“Your found healing power is here.” She pointed to the Magician. “A resurfacing facet that was buried.

“If you take the core and distant past cards, the psychic bondage I told you about, and compare them to the future card and the pillar, you can see that you emerge with some peace, more whole, as far as that’s achievable for us. You’re in the process of healing yourself, but not without a great deal of effort.

“You’ve taken on aspects of the Empress—growth, nurturing, creation. That card, followed by the Lovers, the ace of cups, and the wish card as the outcome… well, whatever you’ve been searching for and working for will be yours if you want it. I strongly sense some type of creative endeavor for you.”

Dana let out a breath. “And the three of cups, that’s future?”

Liz nodded. “You didn’t pull a court card, so I can’t say that it’s romantic love, though it could be, but I see you surrounded by people. You won’t be alone.”

Liz tipped her head and closed her eyes. Dana tapped her fingers on the table.

Carla smiled with her lips closed and she stared at the moon.

“Pull one more card,” Liz said. “I want to see something.”

Dana closed her eyes and waved a hand over them. She pulled a warm one and gave it to Liz.

“There’s the lady,” Liz said. She laid the Queen of Wands next to the three of cups.

Chapter 31

Dana had waited until the agreed-upon mid-March date to e-mail the file to Gen. They’d figured a month for her to respond, at which time Dana would turn it around quickly and get her final copy to the members of the committee. She’d refused to think about it until she heard from Gen, which would be soon.

She set up the printer and loaded it with paper to print out a hard copy. If there were minor revisions she would rerun the new sections and insert them. She hoped for minor.

When it finished chirping and churning, she picked up the three-hundred-page manuscript and carried it with her to the bedroom to find a small box.

She stopped halfway through the shower. She held the papers to her chest and leaned her shoulder against the glass. She watched Carla and Liz in the back yard, deep in conversation. They walked a few feet, stopped to face each other, walked, stopped.

Dana smiled at their animated movements. Carla would throw her arms in the air and Liz would nod or shake her head. They held hands, and they stopped again when Liz spoke. Carla answered. Liz pulled her hair onto the top of her green hat, and she let it go. Dana thought she saw Carla have a good idea when she faced Liz, grabbed her arms, and opened her eyes and mouth wide. Carla talked while she counted off very good points on her gloved fingers, and Liz looked at the sky. Liz held out her arms and bent her knees, and they grabbed each other.

Dana shifted the stack to her left arm and placed her hand on the window. She flicked the edges of the paper with her thumb. She watched them from behind the one-way glass and they seemed to recede. Everything seemed far away. She thought of the ghosts she’d spent so many years with, the dead masters and hundreds of others, then and now. It was all floating away—the stories, her future, Liz and Carla, the house with the manicured lawn, the respectable job. She was leaving them, or they were abandoning her, and she wasn’t ready. En masse, gone, and she knew it was crazy. She would never say it aloud.

She leaned her head on the glass. She saw them moving snow from the deck with push brooms. The shadows crept over the hills behind them, turning the brilliant white into melancholy washes of purple and blue.

She couldn’t imagine having that, or not having it. She felt like a fool, always having one foot in, one foot out of every job, relationship, situation, every crappy apartment that was exactly like the next one, stamping it all with some semblance of a life. She’d been satisfied that she was moving forward, that she was fine.

None of it lasted, nothing worked. It was twisted. She would never cross over into a steadiness that seemed to come so damned easily to everyone else. She’d settled, watched, taught, never demanded anything for herself. She was no more than a temp teacher with a long-gone love in every port. Years wasted.

A nagging embarrassment had crept up and she hadn’t noticed until she was reminded in more frequent, veiled condescensions of friends. You’ve never been in a long-term relationship? You’re not getting any younger. You don’t want a house, Dana, it’s such a burden. And the stories about when they’d been single, like her, seemingly nostalgic and all well-meaning.

It was a farce, the wandering, and now she couldn’t fix it. She would never be able to sustain the legitimate life—fretting over a house, a lifestyle, a lawn, portfolios, having the cars, pets, kids, making the right moves. It would eventually make no sense to her and she would let it fall apart.

She should be able to do it. Not long ago she could taste it. Tears fell onto the paper.

The life she’d imagined and tucked away as her “someday” was drifting away like a bloated storm cloud. She couldn’t see herself teaching the same stories year after year to the chronically uninterested, just to go home and quibble over a paint color or the best hotel for the yearly vacation. She’d half-wanted it all those years and now it was out of reach. There was nowhere to go from here.

Too late. There was no magic for this.

She watched them, brushing snow off each other and laughing, as solid as the boulders that had settled into the brook. They made it look effortless and right.

She didn’t know how.

The stack of papers bobbed over her arms as she shook in silent grief. She thought her ribs would snap. She was breaking apart and also oddly condensed into one dying molecule. Her throat strained and her temples throbbed. Her heart was bloodless.

She slid to the floor and the crown of her head tapped against the glass as her body wracked.

She heaved the stack of paper at the exquisitely tiled wall and it burst across the shower floor.

She spent the next day on the sofa in the study, staring at the television—cable news, The View, soap operas—and she did smile once, by mistake, when she realized she was fantasizing an acting career in her future. She could play a teacher who has no life, a sitcom about a flailing woman on the cusp of middle age. Or a drama, either one. They could call it Sad Sack. It would be canceled after the first season.

She imagined going corporate, a desk job. No, not that. She’d listened to too many horror stories about office politics that far surpassed anything she’d experienced. They were a treacherous bunch, so she’d heard, the gore of a King novel. Terrifying. Drowning in a sea of beige cubicles was not how she wanted to go.

Carla brought her a cup of tomato soup, a BLT, and iced tea. Dana said she was fine, puffed up the bed pillow she’d brought down, and jammed her head into it. Judge Jeanine was on, or Judy, or something. She wasn’t hungry, she said, and for a moment she was offended by Carla’s surprise.

When the house was quiet, she padded into the kitchen and ate leftovers while she stood at the open refrigerator. She drank milk from the carton, belched, and returned to the sofa. She’d left a blank yellow legal pad and a pen on the coffee table. She picked them up and poised pen over pad before she threw them to the floor, and channel-surfed.

At seven, she picked up her pillow and went to bed.

She did the same thing the following day, and the next. By the end of the third day, she reached her limit on daytime television. When she went up the stairs, dragging her pillow like a teddy bear, she vowed to find a better venue in which to feel sorry for herself. Daytime tv sucked. Jesus. But there was something deliciously morose and compelling and self-indulgent about not wanting one damn thing in this world except to wallow in misery.

She would be moving back to the cabin soon, and back to California in five or six weeks.

An e-mail popped up from the manager of her old apartment complex. Dana had inquired about renting there again because it was close to the university and it had been a decent place. She didn’t want to wait until the last minute. The manager had a two-bedroom for her for June, one that she would like, and she would hold it for her. She would fax the paperwork to Dana the following day, and Dana replied that she would mail it all back to her with a check.

She picked up a book and lay on the bed. A place to live, a job, and a new degree weren’t exactly horrible, and she liked California. Gen posed no problem for her. She realized that her fascination was a dead end. The “someday” she’d been shooting for was almost here. It wasn’t the whole picture, but it would do, and she vowed to be positive about her future and more open to possibilities.

She would be patient. In June, she would start preparing for her fall classes and it would be good.

She adjusted the pillow under her neck and lost herself in the story.

The changes were minor. Gen raved about Dana’s “work of art,” as she called it in her e-mail, wished her luck on her drive back, and told her that she was welcome to stay with her until she found an apartment. Dana thanked her for reading it, and for the generous offer to put her up.

She revised it in a day and sent electronic and hard copies to the committee members on April 15. She also confirmed the committee meeting and that was the last of it until the event itself. She sat at the desk and thought about meeting with them next month, how it would go, how she would defend her work, and what to expect of the process. She had some idea, but she suspected it was different when you were on the spot. She would prepare her presentation before she started back.

She responded to some e-mails and cleaned up her desk. She unplugged the printer, boxed it, and packed her books and papers. She would move her things back to the cabin later, or tomorrow.

She would be on the road to California in exactly a month. She hadn’t seen the Maine coast, but she would come back for a summer visit and spend a week at The Tides. She also wanted to tour the lighthouses and the Isles of Shoals, specifically Smuttynose Island. The name alone was irresistible.

There was one place she wanted to see now, though, not far north on 93. It was the one sight she’d managed to avoid when she and Liz had gone up to the Notch in the fall.

It seemed like the perfect place to go.

Chapter 32

Dana parked her car at the side of the road when she saw the familiar slope that curved like a wave. The Old Man used to look out from the tip, but he’d fallen in 2003. She closed her eyes and she could see him, and saw him still when she looked up where he’d been for centuries, his visage inspiring myths and legends and stories.

She remembered Hawthorne’s story. The character, Ernest, was deeply influenced by his meditations on the stone face. He waited his whole life to see a man who embodied the majesty of the Old Man. Finally, a great poet told Ernest that the majestic, wise person who embodied the Great Stone Face was Ernest himself, and Ernest was too humble to hear it. He searched for majesty in others, but never in himself.

Dana thought about Hawthorne and the centuries-old landmark, how his story made its spirit live forever. Her eyes followed the slope of the mountain to its tip and she could see the Old Man’s long forehead, sharp nose, and full mouth, not only because she’d seen him with her own eyes years ago, but also because the story brought him to life. She imagined Hawthorne sitting at his desk, face candlelit, hands ink-stained, quill fluttering as the nib of his pen flew across the page.

Stories were brave and crazy as they sang through their creators, who put their guts and hopes and fears on the page and held their breaths and sent their words out to the world. She loved their message and their heart, all those dead white men and women and the writers who followed, for their passion and faith and struggles.

She remembered Hannah’s tentative approach to her at the party in the mountains, and her steadfast approach to life. She saw her grandmother’s art and her swirling black words of advice, and her mother’s demand for a new life when she was the same age that Dana was now. She thought of Carla’s creations for her shop and her spirit and selfless passion, and Liz’s big heart and her fight and her music, and even Ryan’s willingness to see what he couldn’t see.

Courageous acts, all of them, and they had nothing to do with a piece of paper. Twenty degrees might cover the cabin’s bathroom wall, but none would give her what she truly craved—the messy, scary leap that was so cliché unless you were standing on the cliff’s edge—and the certainty that she would be okay no matter what.

She closed her eyes and thought of the grace in the disfigured white birch trees, the rock bed, the rushing water, the surety of the seasons and the assurance of nothing.

She opened her eyes and saw the Old Man—he was there—at the tip of the slope that curved like a wave, where he’d kept watch over the mountains for centuries. He was right where the sun hovered and winked before its slow descent.

It was dark when she’d driven up the hill the night before, too late to move the rest of her things, but she’d finished packing and cleaned up her office and bedroom. She’d answered e-mails from her uncle and her sister.

In the morning, she strode into the kitchen dressed in jeans, a loud purple-and-black flannel shirt, and white socks. She was humming and fluffing her wet, messy hair. She saw Liz and Carla, stopped short, and ended with a wolf whistle.

“Okay, you were gone all afternoon and crept in here at, what, ten last night.” Carla walked over to Dana and bumped her hip. “And you’re humming. Who is she?”

“Not a she. A he,” Dana said.

“Don’t tell me that. I cannot take it,” Carla said.

Dana laughed and piled food onto a heavy plate.

“I went to see the Old Man.”

“What old man?”

“As in ‘of the Mountain.’ The Old Man of the Mountain.”

“Uh, he’s not there, Dane. You did hear about that,” Carla said.

“Yes, he is.”

“He fell ages ago,” Carla said.

“I saw him.”

“Well, you may have seen him, but he’s gone.”

“Exactly,” Dana said. She chewed and smiled.

“You’re both crazy,” Liz said. She was using a laptop at the breakfast bar. It was the first time Dana had seen her use one.

“You moving back to the cabin today?” Carla asked. “I’ll help.”

“Yes, I am.” She raised a hand. “No help needed, but come if you want to. I don’t have that much to move.”

“Let me at least pay for your trip back to California,” Liz said. She walked around the bar and stood near Dana.

Dana rinsed her plate and put it in the dishwasher. She dried her hands and turned to her.

“Liz, you don’t owe me. We owe each other, everything and nothing.” She folded her arms around Liz and laid her face against her red hair. Dana felt her thriving.

“Deep,” Carla said.

Dana grabbed Carla and swung her around before she danced some of her cool new moves out of the room. She’d been practicing in the shower, which she’d found therapeutic, and slippery. Carla stuck two fingers in the corners of her mouth and whistled.

“Come up when you can and don’t forget supper on Sunday,” Liz said.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” she called from the stairs. “Be ready in a couple of hours, Carla!”

After noon, they carried the last of Dana’s boxes into the cabin and shut the door. They draped their coats over the captain’s chairs. Dana threw wood into the stove and had a fire going within seconds. She now kept a bag of shredded paper on the other side of the room and she’d become a first-rate firestarter.

Dana made coffee. She leaned against the counter. “Home sweet home.”

“I’ll always love this place.” Carla stood in front of her.

“Me, too.”

“Now are you thinking about that night?”

“No.” She cleared her throat and looked at Carla’s clear blue eyes and dark eyelashes. Emphatically no. Probably no. But they’d said many times that it had been a long winter.

“I am.” She leaned against Dana. “I think about it a lot. And about when we were kids. You’re the love of my life and I don’t care if it sounds corny.”

“I think about it, too, you know that. What about Liz?”

“She knows.”

Dana drew her head back. “Knows what?”

“About us here.” She tipped her head toward the bedroom. “And back then.”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“She’s fine with it. She doesn’t believe in monogamy, says it’s stifling and soul-crushing.”

“Really. Has she always been that way or is that because…”

“Yes, always, but more now. Life is too short and all that.”

Dana filled the cups with coffee. She sat on the sofa and Carla joined her. She wondered how Liz really felt about it.

“She doesn’t get jealous?”

“No, it’s not in her. Sometimes she sees a woman in Path. You met her. Deirdre, long blond hair, tall. And when she goes to Boston to visit her parents, she sees an ex or two.”

“And you?”

“I knew going in.” Carla said. She picked up a pillow and picked at the fringe. “It works.”

Dana put her cup on the side table. “It does for a lot of people, I guess, and it makes perfect sense until…”

“It never would’ve worked with Elise.” Carla rolled her eyes. “Liz has never been monogamous, but in every way she’s kind and loyal. I don’t have to tell you.”

“No, she’s great.”

Carla pulled her legs up and tucked them close to her. She propped her head on her hand and looked at Dana.

“We really do want you to live with us,” Carla said. She shifted again and lay on her back with her head on Dana’s lap.

“It sounds like heaven, but I doubt it would work for me,” Dana said. “You know damn well I’d get jealous and want to steal you away. I’d hide you here in the cabin.” She played with the light streaks in Carla’s hair.

“I wouldn’t mind.”

“You two are good together,” Dana said. “And I’m leaving.”

“We are.” Carla sat up. “But the offer stands, forever, and it’s from both of us.”

Dana stood in front of her, grabbed her hands, and pulled her up. “I’ll remember that. I’ve never had an offer quite like it.”

They went for their coats.

“You were my first love, Kit. Thanks for helping me get here.”

“Kit. Seems like another lifetime.” Carla threw her scarf over her shoulders. “You were my first and always.”

They stood at the door and held each other for a long time.

Dana drove her home and said she’d be over on Sunday, if not before. She drove to the bottom of the hill and headed to Pingree’s, thinking of Carla and Liz and the interesting dynamics of their relationship. Dana had suspected something was up. They just weren’t your everyday couple, but whatever they were doing worked for them.

She shivered when she recalled the tiniest trepidation in Carla’s description, or defense, of their arrangement. It wasn’t in her words, but in her averted eyes and controlled voice.

Dana wondered what it would be like, the three of them in the same house, living as a triple instead of a couple. Outstanding in some ways, no doubt, but the day-to-day might be tricky. It could fill a book. As she drove, she played with a story outline instead of making a shopping list in her head. She sighed and smiled as the tires crunched over the icy holdouts on the grocery store parking lot.

Chapter 33

The roads were clear all the way to Salem and no snow was expected for a couple of days. She’d called Hannah to invite her, but she was in Chicago visiting her parents and would be back in a few days.

“We’re getting ready to go out gallivanting in the city,” Hannah said.

Dana chuckled.

“What,” Hannah said.

“Nothing. I like you.”

“I want to hear how it went at Liz’s, but in person.”

Dana had told Hannah the outcome, but she hadn’t gone into detail. She told her briefly about her plans for the next month and Hannah said she had a gift for her. They agreed to get together as soon as she returned. Before they hung up, Hannah recommended the Waterfront Grill at Pickering Wharf.

Just as well. She would like to see Hannah, but that day she wanted to take off on her own and wander from place to place. It was exhilarating to be out on the open road with traffic, and she thought she’d never say that. The drive took less than three hours. She parked near the Commons and put on her black pea coat and the red-and-black-striped scarf.

She went to the Waterfront Grill for lunch, where she ordered lobster risotto and iced tea. For a weekday in April it was busy, but it wasn’t packed the way it would be in a month or two. She sat at a window with a view of Salem Harbor.

She started with the House of the Seven Gables and Hawthorne’s house, and she tried to see every artifact and piece of furniture, as much as she could from behind the velvet ropes that protected them. They wound up a narrow, steep staircase to the second floor. Everything seemed to be smaller and closer as if people didn’t need as much space, or they liked to use it more efficiently. She’d heard or read somewhere that people were generally smaller back then. She felt like a giant.

She went on to the Witch Museum and read the persecution histories. The title of their special exhibit was “Witches: Evolving Perceptions.” It showed a progression from the Celtic midwife, who was the community healer of ancient times, to the popular, pointy-hatted witch in the Wizard of Oz, to the Wicca and witchcraft practitioners of today. The exhibit closed with a comparison of seventeenth-century witch hunts to modern ones: the internment of Japanese-Americans, the McCarthy era, and the persecution of gays and other groups.

She wanted one of everything in the museum store, but she picked out a few items: a book on the Salem trials, three delicate witch balls for her three favorite witches, and a handmade quill pen-and-ink set made by The Salem Quill Company.

On her way back to the car, her eye caught a rainbow logo on a sign for Out Night in Salem at the end of June. She read the name of the website and saw another one for gaysalem.org. She was struck by the fact that she hadn’t come face-to-face with gay issues or ads in a year. She couldn’t recall hearing the words “gay” or “lesbian.” She wondered if Hannah or Carla had been to Pride in Salem or anywhere else. She doubted that they were tribal. In Fern, it was simply a facet of life. Granted, she’d had her nose in a book or her hands on Liz most of the time, but she liked to think it was that way.

She enjoyed Salem in spite of the stereotypical witch motifs. An undercurrent of mystery and magic played with and subsumed the commerciality. The history was palpable.

As she drove north, she thought about the phone calls she had to make the next day. She had a lot to do. She had to turn her focus to the future, and going back.

The next afternoon, Dana walked away from the hideaway in the light April snow. It was, as Carla had said, a good place to think. She stood in the woods, uphill from the cabin. She’d never seen it in a snowy setting before this year, and she decided it was more of a cottage the way it looked with the yellow light in the windows, not a cabin. Smoke drifted out of the screen-capped metal wall chimney, a special cinder-blocking contraption whose other end was connected to the back of the potbellied stove.

She stopped at her car and pulled her bedraggled maps out of the glove box. Inside, she tossed them on the table with the rest of the clutter, and she surveyed the scattered boxes and familiar disarray. She straightened up the room a little and put coffee on. She’d filled the hod with wood from the long covered rack in the storage space beneath the cabin’s rear. She threw another short piece into the stove and stood near it, feeling the warmth on her legs. She paced, and looked at the slightly crooked windows in the big room.

She dumped the dregs of her lukewarm coffee down the drain and refilled the cup. She pulled on her boots, put on a jacket, and picked up her phone. Her mind raced and her heart beat strong. She pushed through the screen door and let it slam behind her.

She called Gen.

“Honey, are you on your way back already?”

“Hi, no, I’m still here, standing in the snow. I have some news.”

“What’s up? Your work is excellent. You’re in.”

“Thanks. Listen, I appreciate everything you’ve done, but I’m not going to take that job. I wanted you to know right away so you can move forward—”

“What’s wrong? You’ve got to be kidding.”

“No, but I am coming back. I’ll be there well before the committee appointment.”

She was silent for a moment. “Oh, Dana, no. Why?”

“I’ll tell you about it when I get there. I got a different offer.”

“What? You don’t know what you’re saying. I’ll talk you into it when you get here. You’re staying with me, right?”

“No, Gen. It’s all set up and I rented a place. Thank you again for everything, I mean it, and I’ll see you next month.”

“Well, uh…I… call me. God, Dana.”

Dana looked across the road toward the brook. She felt snowflakes land her face. “I will. I’ll call you when I arrive.”

After they hung up, she smiled and shook her head. She was proud of herself for not putting Gen on the spot, for not saying with great enthusiasm that they could see each other now that Gen wasn’t her boss. It was enough fun imagining Gen wriggling out of it. You know.

She lifted her cup from the picnic table and sipped her coffee. She set it down and watched the snow melt in a ring at its base.

She checked the time and found another number. She lifted her boot onto the picnic table seat and stared at it, waiting, with the phone at her ear.

“Hi, any word?…Yes… Is it a go?”

When she finished the call she threw her arms up, shouted, and improvised a new dance on the patio. It was a fierce, freestyle combination of modern jazz and the twist, maybe a little salsa and cha-cha. She would’ve done it in a crowd. She’d scored the winning point in the final five seconds—that was how she danced in the snow and into the cabin, her coffee sloshing all the way.

At the start of the last week in April she sat at the table in the cabin, tapping away at the keyboard. She would have to stop in a few hours, around dark. She jumped to her feet and skated across the floor in her thick socks. She grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator, guzzled some, and sat back down.

A silver sedan pulled up and she glimpsed a man coming to the door. He handed her a red-white-and-blue cardboard envelope, nodded, and left.

She held it while she walked back and forth across the big room. She fanned herself with it. She leaned on the back of the rocking chair without rocking it. She opened the refrigerator and chugged more water. She picked at the corners of it, tapped her chin with it, and grinned. She read the address: Dana Quinn, 2 Broomstick Lane, Fern, NH.

She zipped it open. She slid the papers out and propped them upright on the table behind the crystal bud vase. She touched the tulip’s limp, pale-brown body and two shriveled petals fell. She picked them up and placed them inside her Book of Shadows.

Her maps were spread out on the table like playing cards: the United States, the Southwest, and California. She swept them up. She marched them to the trashcan, kissed the top one, and dropped them in. She pulled the United States back out and set it on the table. She threw it out again. She needed a new one.

She sat down and wrote. Occasionally, she looked at the file’s name at the top of the screen: white mountains novel.

Hours later, she heard a car approach from downhill. She read the last paragraph, made a change, and saved. She whispered the word “novel” before she stepped to the door and opened it wide.

Hannah stood there in a long black coat, holding the screen door with one hand and Dana’s tiger’s eye fountain pen with the other.

“Just what I was looking for,” Dana said. “Come in.”

They hugged. When Dana set the pen on the windowsill she flashed on the day in the hideaway, when the black ink had flowed over the cream-colored parchment. She had soared.

Hannah picked up the gold scarab from the front of Dana’s black sweater and she turned it over. “You have to tell me the story.”

“I will. My charm,” Dana said. “Ready to go?”

“Wait.” Hannah pulled her keys out of her coat pocket. “I have something for you.” She went outside to her car and returned with a colorful soft pet carrier and a cardboard box. The carrier was meowing. She placed them on the sofa. “The box has food, litter, toys.”

“Who’s this?” Dana asked.

“Her name is Feef, but you can rename her if you decide to keep her. She’s a sweet girl, and smart, very wise. I thought you two were a match.”

Dana sat on the sofa and put the carrier on her lap. She peered inside and two bright green eyes met hers. She unzipped the door and the sleek black cat wandered out as if there were nowhere else she should be. She jumped down, did a requisite check, and returned to the sofa to sit beside Dana.

“Of course I want her,” Dana said as she petted her. “How old is she?”

“About five. She’s different. You’ll see.”

Feef started with her paws and settled into an extensive cleaning after being exposed to the offensive pet carrier. Dana stood up and watched her. “She’s so beautiful, thank you. And she seems comfortable. I hate to leave her, but we should go. Think she’ll be okay?”

“Sure, she’s fine. Wear boots, it’s slick in places. Unless you want to drive up.”

“Let’s walk.”

Dana pointed to the paperwork behind the bud vase. She pulled on her snow boots and put on her cloak as she waited for Hannah’s reaction.

Hannah leaned toward the papers for a closer look. “Ah!” She rushed over to Dana, picked her up, and swung her around. Hannah kissed her loudly and they giggled. The cat stopped and stared, one hind leg sticking straight up, then she returned to her bath.

“It’s yours.”

“It’s mine.” Dana looked over at the deed to the cabin for the hundredth time since it arrived. Her uncle had rushed it through, she told Hannah, and the price was so unbelievably fair that she’d bought it outright.

They set up the litter pan and a divided dish of food and water. Feef was an indoor cat, Hannah said, not a tasty tidbit for wildlife.

They walked outside, across the slushy flagstone path to the road. They were having dinner with Liz and Carla. Dana couldn’t wait to give them the news.

“You didn’t tell them,” Dana said.

“Not a word.”

They moved with ease, surefooted. They were silent for a few moments.

“So how did you get me down the hill that night?” Dana asked.

“We carried you in a blanket, my brother and I, and we flew to Plymouth.”

“How’d you know I was up there?”

“It’s a gift.” She squeezed Dana’s hand.

She was in the company of witches. She was known, and she would know them.

“I’m going to Ivy’s tomorrow,” Dana said. “She has something for me.”

“Are you still coming to Beltane?” Hannah asked.

“My first time. I’ll be there.”

“Great.”

“Long winter,” Dana said.

“You did good.” Hannah put an arm around her. “I’m totally holding back, you know.”

“How?”

“I’m so happy you’re staying, and now it’s definite. I want to yell, make a fool of myself. Let’s run.”

Dana laughed. No running. Now, ask her.

“I’m flying to California next month for a couple of weeks. Loose ends. A little business, mostly pleasure. Want to come?”

“Yes.”

They stopped. Hannah laid her forehead against Dana’s. They linked arms and strolled up the road over the icy patches. Hannah skipped, just once. Dana smiled.

The trees sighed.

Dana felt the shape of the talisman through her cloak and she looked all around at her home.

There would be magick.

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