“I can have it if you bring it,” the Reverend said. “Who’s to know?”

  Antonia had begun to find the old man a source of amusement. And something more. She took his hand in parting. He still had a strong grip. “Maybe. As long as you don’t turn me in to the nurses.”

  “Don’t forget the cake,” he called after her as she left. He was certainly stubborn, and Antonia admired that. He wanted what he wanted at this point in his life, that much was clear. “The one your aunts make,” Antonia heard as she let the door close behind her, suddenly craving chocolate herself.

  * * *

  When Antonia stopped to check on the house on Magnolia Street, she found the Merrill brothers at work in the garden, which was already wildly overgrown with plumy weeds and a dense tangle of thorny vines that could leave a gash if the person weeding wasn’t careful. The brothers softly cursed the thorns as they piled up bundles of branches that would later be tossed on a bonfire, but when they caught sight of Antonia their dispositions changed. She was a beauty and her youth cheered them and made them feel young again. “All’s well,” they shouted optimistically, though it was clearly not the case. Why, just look at the shingles on the porch, ragged and ready to blow away in the next storm. Examine the height of the overgrown phlox. The place was a vision of neglect, as if Franny and Jet’s presence had held the house together. All the same, Antonia appreciated the jolly sentiments. She waved and called out a hello, then found the hidden house key behind the twisted wisteria.

  Several Post-it notes had been attached to the front door by disappointed clients in search of Franny, whom they planned to make do with now that lovely Jet was gone. When will you be back? I need you. My son. My husband. My daughter. My life. How can I find what I’m looking for? Children were ill or disappointing, husbands strayed or lost interest, love was wished for or wanted extinguished. Antonia collected the notes, shaking her head as she did so. People were always looking for magic. She’d sat on the back stairs and listened to the nonsense of local women who visited the aunts. They wanted to blink away their tears and stretch out their hands to receive a pardon or a cure or the key to love and fortune. Good luck, she thought. You’re on your own now. Try going to a therapist or a doctor or a pharmacy because no one can help you here.

  Antonia had decided to become a physician because she wanted a life buoyed by facts rather than an ancient art that left one rooting around in the darkness of could-bes and maybes, untested possibilities that might easily lead to disaster. This was the price of being the older sister. She was vigilant and always looked before she leapt. She was the one Kylie depended on when their mother was preoccupied. Should they walk into the dim woods? Absolutely not. Should they leap from the flat ledges above Leech Lake? Not on your life. There were bees and poison ivy to watch out for, broken limbs and concussions. This is the way a doctor is often formed, an individual aware of possibilities others chose to ignore.

  Gillian, who often spoke about topics that Sally kept off limits, always argued that science and magic were twin arts aiming for the same results. “But one is proven!” Antonia would insist, to which Aunt Gillian would defiantly fling back, “And one has no need to be!”

  Now as Antonia entered the darkened hallway of the old house, exhausted by dragging her extra baby weight around, she wondered what the Reverend knew about the curse. He was aware of much of what had transpired in this town, both within his family and theirs. When Antonia first heard about the curse at Jet’s funeral, she’d imagined it was little more than a joke, another odd bit of history that had come down through the generations, a story twisted over time, with details that had always been sketchy. There was no law against believing in magic; she’d come upon ingredients that her aunts used for enchantments in the greenhouse, and it did no real damage, or so she’d thought until her sister went missing. Everything was now topsy-turvey, even her own usually calm psyche. She was exhausted and wished she could stretch out on the window seat on the stair landing to nap. She both wanted sleep and feared it. Who was the drowning woman in her dream and what was she trying to tell Antonia?

  In the front hall, Antonia stumbled over the mail that had come in through the brass letter slot to collect in a messy pile on the rug. Most of it was from Hardy and Hardy, the law firm that handled the Owens estate, all addressed to Frances Owens. Since Franny was unreachable, Antonia sat in the parlor and tore open the most recent envelope.

  Dear Miss Frances Owens,

  We have tried to reach you via phone and mail to no effect. Your sister’s will is here with us and it must be reviewed by someone in the family so that her wishes can be seen to properly.

  Yours respectfully,

  A. S. Hardy, Esquire.

  Antonia folded the letter into her pocket. She might have ignored it completely, but she was the practical sister, the dutiful daughter, the niece who looked after the family obligations. She toured the house to make sure there were no leaks, no mice, no lights left on, no faucets dripping, no birds trapped in the parlor, no fluttering moths behind the curtains, no racoons in the attic, no teenagers sneaking into the greenhouse to look for herbs or have fumbling sex, then she took the time to write out the monthly check for the brothers for their groundskeeper fees, even though they always made a fuss and said that Miss Frances Owens never needed to pay for their services.

  * * *

  She hoped the stop at the attorneys’ office on Beacon Street would be brief. Traffic was bad in Boston, as always, but she managed to fit Gillian’s Mini into a tiny space. The law firm had been at the same address since the late seventeenth century when there were cow paths rather than roads. There had been at least one attorney in every generation. Antonia remembered the old man, Arthur Smith Hardy, from the time she was a child. He’d been Isabelle Owens’s lawyer, a rather intimidating gentleman who wore a gray pinstriped suit and a black tie, clothes appropriate for both legal work and funerals. Antonia felt the sting of anxiety as she was ushered into his office. To her surprise the only one in sight was a young woman with shining pale hair, who was sorting through files spread out on the floor. The woman, not quite thirty and extremely attractive, looked up, somewhat indignant at having been interrupted, pushing her hair out of her large expressive eyes.

  “I’m here to see my lawyer,” Antonia informed her. “A. S. Hardy.”

  “I’m A. S. Hardy.” The woman on the floor had the darkest eyes imaginable, nearly black. You could fall into them if you weren’t careful. She had a reputation among other attorneys for her fierce presence both in a courtroom and in her practice. It was said that any client who looked at her directly would be unable to tell a lie. She arose from the carpet and reached out her hand. “Ariel,” she introduced herself. “Ariel Samantha Hardy.”

  “I thought I would be seeing the old man.” Antonia was so matter-of-fact she was often perceived as rude, as her aunt Franny was. Be a forthright woman and all hell could break loose. Still, she assumed that lawyers were used to blunt conversation, and, in fact, her tone didn’t seem to faze Ariel Hardy in the least.

  “My grandfather,” Ariel said. “He passed away five years ago. This is my father’s office. Mine is down the hall, but it’s a mess. When I heard you had set up an appointment, I thought you’d be more comfortable here.”

  Ariel gestured for her to take a seat in one of the worn leather chairs. Antonia, who’d been sleepy for months and had been impatient about getting home so that she could take a long nap, bad dreams or not, was suddenly wide awake.

  “I’m sorry to hear about your grandfather.” She wasn’t really, she barely knew him, but Antonia knew well enough to be polite.

  There were twenty-three overstuffed files on the desk and even more in the basement; that was how long the families had been doing business. “Grandpop was ninety-seven and he passed in his sleep. Not a bad way to go. Now I’m following in his footsteps.” Ariel handed over the most recent folder. “Your aunts owned all the real property jointly, therefore Miss Frances owns everything now. The house is in a trust that pays for itself, regarding taxes and expenses. Once Miss Frances is deceased the property can never go outside of the family. If no one chooses to live there, it is to remain empty.”

  Antonia was stunned by the mention of her aunt Franny’s eventual demise. She certainly wouldn’t think about that now.

  Ariel Hardy dropped her voice. “I hear the house is haunted.”

  “Not at all. That’s the local people’s nonsense.” Antonia found that she was dying of thirst. “Do you have any water?”

  Ariel fetched a glass of tepid, cloudy water. “If you don’t mind, this is supposed to be a reading of the will, so I’ll just get on with it.”

  Since Antonia was the only member of the family available, she would have to do, and of course she agreed. “Read away.”

  “There’s a trust for the house, as I said, and another trust will continue to support the library. As for Bridget Owens’s personal belongings, your aunt wanted everything to go to your mother and your aunt Gillian, except for her personal library, which is to be sent to Rafael Correa. She also left him a packet of letters that can be found in her night-table drawer. If you deliver them to me, I’ll have them sent on.”

  Antonia was baffled. “Who is Rafael Correa?”

  “Apparently someone she was quite close to. I suspect they were separated by the curse.”

  “There is no curse,” Antonia was quick to say. She wondered if this Rafael Correa was the handsome older man she and Kylie had spotted lingering around the edges of the funeral and the luncheon afterward, leaving with the little lost dog Jet had brought home.

  “I’m just repeating what my grandfather told me.” Ariel clearly meant no offense, but when she had information, she felt it only right to share it with a client. “Maria was said to be a witch.”

  “There are no witches,” Antonia said. “Only people who want to burn them.”

  Ariel grinned and handed over a small tarnished key. “Although you might want to see Maria Owens’s papers. They’re in a locked box in the basement. As far as I know no one’s gone through them, but you’re welcome to take a look.”

  “Maybe another time.” As in never. Antonia’s entire life had been based on science and logic and the notion of a curse was preposterous. Yes, she knew her aunts made remedies and teas, and that her aunt Gillian believed in amulets and enchantments, but they certainly didn’t call down curses and deal with the Black Art. Antonia slipped the key into her purse, where it fell among other items she would likely never use: throat lozenges, paper clips, pens that no longer worked. Her hand still felt oddly hot and she found she was quite dizzy, which anyone in her condition might be. At this hour of the day she often had a snack to keep her energy up. “Do you have any fruit?” she asked.

  “Of course.” There were some plums and bananas in a ceramic bowl, which the attorney offered Antonia. “I’m sure the curse is just a story.” Ariel laughed. “I mean, do you feel cursed?” Their eyes met then. Big mistake.

  Antonia devoured a plum, but she was still starving. She was shaking as a matter of fact.

  “Do you want me to order sandwiches?” Ariel asked. “There’s a place around the corner.”

  “Yes.” Antonia no longer had the urge to leave. “Cheese is fine. No mayonnaise. No mustard. Lettuce, but make sure they wash it and double the tomatoes. Pickles would be great.”

  “Perfect,” Ariel Hardy said, although she didn’t move to make the call.

  The baby kicked Antonia without warning, swiftly bringing her back to the here and now. The Reverend was right. You didn’t know if you had the ability for some things until they happened to you. You could surprise yourself with what emerged from inside yourself. It now occurred to Antonia that perhaps she herself was the woman in her dreams who was drowning, the figure with red hair, her white blouse floating out all around her, going under fast. Antonia sat back in the leather chair, her head swimming, her carefully planned future utterly disrupted. She made certain to bite her tongue. She was usually too quick to give her opinions and now it seemed as if it might be best for her to be quiet for once in her life. Everything was the same and everything was different. It was then she knew what her current situation was. This is what happened when you fell in love.

  IV.

  The professor’s office was in Notting Hill, just off Westbourne Grove, at the end of Rosehart Mews. It was easy enough to miss, and meant to be so, as Ian Wright didn’t wish to be disturbed when he was writing, and he was always writing.

  There was an indistinct pentagram formed of gray bricks set into the cobblestone, but the image was faded and the stones were old. Anyone who didn’t take careful notice could easily miss the address, for there was no number marking it, only the faint star that disappeared on those rare occasions when snow drifted down, but which stood out in the rain, for it was darker when wet, gleaming and nearly black. Sally spotted the sign in the window right away, but of course she was looking for it. Control and removal of black magic.

  The front door, painted black, opened from left to right. There were bells above the threshold, but they were rusted and the jangle they made was more of a cough than a chime. It was just Sally’s luck to be the one who must beg for assistance, exposing her broken heart to a stranger. They’d begun the afternoon in London at the pub at the crossroads, a cozy place called the White Bull. Franny had insisted they draw straws to decide who would approach the professor. The Owenses were no good at asking for help, it was not in their nature, and no one wanted the task of seeking it out. Sally had won the draw, which, in her opinion, meant she had lost. She was frustrated, but it was fate that she should be the chosen one. Her daughter was missing and it was her responsibility to find Kylie. She had no choice and set off for the mews, despite her anxiety about approaching an alleged expert on left-handed magic.

  “You made that happen,” Vincent declared to his sister once Sally had gone.

  Gillian had gone up to the bar to order sandwiches and drinks and was out of earshot. The pouring rain outside had stopped, but everything was damp, the streets flooding with murky puddles. The usually busy neighborhood was all but deserted as it was just past the lunch hour. People had taken shelter and stayed where they were in case another round of rain struck, as was predicted. So much the better in order to pick up one another’s thoughts. Vincent grinned. He had distinctly sensed a silent incantation for luck emanating from Franny’s direction when it had been Sally’s turn to pluck a straw. He’d seen his sister’s lips move as she whispered, and he’d known Sally would choose the short stick.

  “I don’t know what makes you say that.” Franny took her brother’s hand, feeling fortunate to have him near. How had they managed to get so old? And yet, some things remained the same. She flicked her gaze over a man at the bar who was staring at Vincent, nearly swooning, though he was more than twenty years younger. It still happened, just as it had when they were young. People fell head over heels for Vincent and he didn’t even notice. How had he managed to remain so handsome? Franny supposed that wasn’t due to magic. It was simply who he was.

  “I know you,” Vincent scolded Franny. “Nothing’s done by accident.”

  “Do you think I can control a damned thing in this world?”

  “I believe you can. Every now and then.” Vincent felt his deep love for his sister. She’d always been the one to rescue him when they were young. “I’ve always believed in you.”

  Franny lowered her gaze so that he wouldn’t see the sting of tears in her eyes, as if she could trick him. She, who was known for her cool demeanor, had somehow become a person at the mercy of her emotions, which was not like her at all. Or at least it hadn’t been. The transformation had begun with Jet’s passing, and now she blamed Vincent for her complete undoing. Ever since spying him on the Boulevard de la Madeleine, her love for him had opened her heart. All the same, she rapped his hand as if he was still the wild, fearless boy who had never adhered to any rules. Still, it was no mistake that Sally would be the one to leave them behind. Franny knew that something awaited Sally if she went to seek out the professor. Something unexpected and rare. Something that happened only if a person followed her fate.

  “Hush,” Franny told her brother. “It’s my last good deed.”

  “You!” Vincent laughed. “Doing good? That’s rich.”

  Gillian finally returned with three glasses of port and some chicken salad and tomato sandwiches. She’d enchanted the bartender without trying, having inherited a fair share of Vincent’s magnetism. “On me,” the bartender had told her, but she knew what he meant. I’ve fallen for you in an instant, I don’t know what’s happened to me, but I’ll leave my wife, my job, my home. It was the Owens charm. Some of them had it in overabundance, while others, such as Sally, hid their inner light. Gillian had always been a firefly, drawing men to her when she was young, and trouble along with it. By now she was used to rejecting men’s overtures. She grinned and said, “Taken.”

  “Lucky bastard,” the bartender said gloomily about whoever had her hand.

  Gillian wasn’t so certain of that. Ben expended considerable energy trying to make her happy, hiding their marriage, living apart, but it was a thankless task when only one thing could make her happy, the arrival of a child, and there seemed no magic strong enough for that.

  “Don’t ever fall for a woman like me,” she’d advised the bartender.

  She still had the urge to ruin things, and some inner neurosis made her consider gesturing for the bartender to follow her into the ladies’ room for some hot, insane, and ultimately disappointing sex for which she would hate herself afterward, but she had changed. Now she merely considered it and walked away. However, if she thought she was trouble, her great-aunt and grandfather were far worse. They didn’t just find trouble, they conjured it. Now as she observed them sitting near one another, she understood they were a closed circle. “What are you two plotting?”