“Can we stay with Aunt Gwyneth, Daddy, until all the ghosties meet us?” Becca asked her father. She knew better than to wheedle. Instead, she fell back on logic and reason.

  “I’d like to play with the ravens again, and pretend I’m a wolf,” she continued. “And there are lots of chipmunks and squirrels in the wood—more than in England, even. We could go on an overnight hunting trip and stay in one of the tree houses.”

  Becca, who already showed signs of a Scholastic bent, was mounting an excellent argument in favor of her proposal. Matthew’s efforts to share his medieval education with his children had, like the raven in the wood, come back to bite him.

  “I think Philip would prefer to go to England, moonbeam. So would your mother,” Matthew countered.

  Would I?

  “I don’t mind. There are woods and fields here.” Pip shrugged. “And Ravenswood already has tree houses. We just need to fix them up and make them nice again. Apollo’s happy to stay, too. He wants to meet the herons who live out there.” Pip used the spell-loom he’d removed from the wall to gesture toward the marsh.

  “You mean The Nestling,” Gwyneth said. “That’s where the herons hatch their eggs. We can walk out there at low tide.”

  “Tamsy was right, Pip,” Becca said. “Aunt Gwyneth does know how to find the herons, and she said Aunt Julie will take us out there on her boat if the water is too high to walk.”

  A touch of magic washed over me, faint but distinctively Becca’s, with its honeysuckle sweetness and blackberry bramble core. With Tamsy in her arms, Becca didn’t need oracle cards. She was relying on the spirit of her ancestor to see the future. I thought of Bridget Bishop, and the poppet the authorities had found tucked into her wall. Perhaps training in higher magic began with dolls, then moved to oracle cards. If so, then Becca was right on track.

  “Aunt Gwyneth no doubt has her own summer plans,” Matthew said. “We don’t want to disturb them.”

  “This was my summer plan,” Gwyneth replied, squashing Matthew’s penultimate line of defense. “Welcoming you to the family, and showing you the magic of Ravenswood.”

  “And learning how to sail,” Pip chimed in, “so Apollo can meet the herons.”

  Gwyneth chuckled. “And sailing. And herons. And clambakes. And playing with your cousins. And even going to magic camp, if your parents want some well-earned peace and quiet.”

  The prospect of magic camp was met with enormous enthusiasm.

  “Settle down, or I’ll use my mother’s troubled waters spell on the pair of you.” Gwyneth waggled a finger for emphasis. “She used it on your grandpa Stephen and aunt Naomi. They were twins, too, and as wild as grimalkins when they were your age.”

  “What does the spell do?” Pip asked, wide-eyed.

  “It makes you tired for days,” Gwyneth said. “All you’ll want to do is nap, and I don’t imagine you’d like that one bit. You might miss something interesting.”

  Matthew laid down what he hoped was his ace.

  “Your mother has important work to do in the library,” Matthew said firmly, drawing the discussion to a close. The whole family knew that if I didn’t get regular boosters of the Bodleian’s unique magic, I was no fun at all.

  “But I have a whole new library right here,” I said, sweeping my arms out, “just waiting to be explored.”

  Matthew’s face darkened like a thundercloud scudding across the marsh.

  “I have a lot to learn from Aunt Gwyneth,” I said. “We can all be students together. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

  The twins’ nods indicated they agreed. Ardwinna’s tail thumped as she cast her vote to stay where we were.

  “Daddy needs to learn about the magic, too.” Becca’s remark was not a question. It was a statement. “He’s a vampire, but he knows a lot of witches. It would be polite for him to understand them better.”

  Poor Matthew had been outvoted again.

  “I think that’s a grand idea,” Aunt Gwyneth said.

  “It’s your decision,” Matthew told me, still hoping I would choose another path.

  I weighed familiarity and safety against curiosity and the unknown. I balanced Matthew’s reluctance to uncover the secrets tucked into our children’s lineage against my own horror at the thought that Becca and Pip might be swept up into the Congregation’s desire for power and control. My fingers itched to begin doing alchemical experiments and learning curses—not to mention preparing some adequate wards to use when Meg challenged me at the Crossroads.

  “Let it be the twins’ decision,” I said, reminding him of his earlier words.

  “Very well,” Matthew said, his expression one of grim resignation. “We’ll stay at Ravenswood. For now.”

  There were whoops and hollers from Pip, Becca, and Granny Dorcas. Ardwinna barked along with their exuberant cries. Apollo took flight and soared between the rafters, coming to perch on one of the oak beams.

  “Three came by land, and one by sea, and two were already present—blessed be!” Julie beamed at us from the entrance to the barn. She was wearing one of her wide-brimmed hats, knee-length white shorts, and a poppy-red shirt. “What’s all this racket?”

  “We’re staying all summer,” Becca said, dancing around Julie. “We’re going to go to magic camp, and Mommy and Daddy are going to magic school—”

  “Can we sail on your boat?” Like his father, Pip was dogged in pursuit of his objectives.

  “Of course you can!” Julie conjured up two sparklers and gave them to the twins. “That means you’ll be here for the Midsummer potluck.”

  “Potluck?” Matthew said, his face blanching.

  “All the Proctors on the North Shore get together on Midsummer Eve to celebrate the summer solstice,” Julie explained, conjuring up a couple of additional sparklers. She handed both of them to Matthew. “Here. Take two. It looks like you could use some brightening up.”

  “And it’s not just a potluck for grown-ups,” Julie continued, sticking more sparklers through the ventilation holes in her bucket hat. Thankfully, the sparks were made of witchlight, otherwise Julie’s hair would have gone up in flames. “All of your cousins will be there, too. Everybody brings a signature dish, and sometimes all we get is dessert, but nobody minds. There are three-legged races to see who can fly the farthest, and egg-and-spoon games to test your prognostication skills, and cousin Rachel tells fortunes that will make your eyeballs fall out.”

  It sounded like a witchy version of the June Fete held at the children’s school in New Haven. Except for the eyeball-popping predictions.

  “Which reminds me,” Julie said, handing Gwyneth another sparkler. “I thought we should gather at Ravenswood this year.”

  “Absolutely not!” Gwyneth exclaimed.

  “It’s been years since we celebrated Midsummer here,” Julie said, her bottom lip pushed out in a pout.

  “You children moved out and moved on,” Gwyneth said, “tramping around Europe in the summer instead of staying at home. William has done a superb job hosting the annual picnic.”

  “I guess,” Julie said. “But nobody likes his deviled eggs, and he can’t light a clean witchfire so the barbecue always smokes. Besides, his backyard is too small for a proper egg-and-spoon contest, and we have to get in the pickup truck and drive for three miles just to dig for clams.”

  Becca and Pip listened to every word Julie spoke, dazzled by the prospect of the wonders in store. Julie had transformed a family reunion into a magical theme park, complete with rides and too much heavy food.

  “Julie Proctor Eastey.” Aunt Gwyneth was horrified. “What have you done?”

  “Everything!” she said cheerfully. “It won’t be any trouble at all. You won’t have to lift a finger except to put on fairy wings and join the party.”

  Gwyneth did not find this reassuring, but it brought the twins to new heights of excitement.

  “Can I wear wings?” Pip asked.

  “Everybody wears them,” Julie explained, as the children peppered her with additional questions. “Wait until you see Aunt Sally. She looks like a giant bumblebee, but she can still clear the tops of the trees when she flies.”

  “It’s too late to change plans,” Gwyneth protested weakly. “William’s already bought the charcoal.”

  Matthew, for whom revenge was a dish best eaten cold, smiled with satisfaction as Gwyneth failed to persuade Julie to her point of view.

  “Will’s delivering it here tomorrow.” Julie beamed at her aunt. “I told you. Everything’s taken care of. Trust me, Gwynie. I know how to throw a party.”

  Chapter 14

  After a few days of humid, variable weather, thick clouds rolled into Ipswich and the temperature plummeted once more. It was now part of our morning routine to gather in the barn after breakfast and make family plans for the day. The children drew logs from the woodpile and heaped them on the fire, bringing welcome warmth to the overcast day. Gwyneth presided over the teapot, while Matthew—who had made a second coffee siphon out of distillation equipment—made a fresh pot of his own favorite hot beverage. The happy buzz of family life filled the air, and Granny Dorcas puffed contentedly on her pipe in the rocking chair, stroking Ardwinna and then Apollo, who sat at her feet and gazed at her with soft eyes.

  “I thought I’d get up on the roof and look at that leak,” Matthew said, drawing a cup of coffee for Granny Dorcas. She couldn’t drink the stuff, but adored the smell, which reminded her of long-ago evenings spent by the fire at Sparks’ Ordinary, telling fortunes and fencing stolen goods.

  “That would be fine.” Gwyneth sighed with relief and eyed the dented kindling bucket placed in the corner to catch the drips. “I’m worried that if we have more rain the books might be damaged.”

  I was at the central worktable, shuffling the black bird oracle cards to see if they might reveal any insights into Gwyneth’s teaching plans for the day.

  “I don’t think the oracle is awake yet,” Gwyneth said with a yawn, bringing me some tea. “Patience, Diana.”

  Matthew deposited the mug of coffee at Dorcas’s elbow, casting a wary glance in my direction. When I’d first shown him the cards, they flew at him and fluttered all over his face and body like butterflies drawn to a particularly sweet patch of buddleia. Since then, he’d kept a healthy distance from the deck when I had it in my hands.

  Not so Becca, who had finished feeding the stove and was now hovering at my shoulder. The cards fascinated her.

  “Can I try, Mommy?” Becca’s fingers reached for the black bird oracle. The Sulfur card flew out of the deck and rapped her smartly across the knuckles.

  “Granny Dorcas gave the cards to me, sweetie,” I said looking across the room to make sure I was right to keep them away from my daughter.

  She’ll get her turn was Granny Dorcas’s somewhat ominous reply.

  “One day, someone will give you a deck of your own,” I said, not wanting to bathe the cards in the allure associated with forbidden fruit. “Maybe it will be this one, maybe it will be one of the other decks in the barn.”

  “This summer?” Becca demanded.

  “Rebecca,” Matthew growled.

  “When the time is right,” I said firmly.

  “Why don’t you make a set of oracle cards for Tamsy to use?” Gwyneth suggested, steering our family ship out of troubled waters. “You can put your special pictures on one side, and write their meaning on the other.” She set a pile of index cards on the table, along with a pot of colored pencils and crayons.

  “Like what?” Becca said, clambering onto a nearby stool.

  “Things that hold meaning,” Gwyneth said. “Colors, books, food, songs. Anything you like. There’s no right or wrong.”

  I wondered if all the Proctor decks had started this way, with a child drawing out their inner hopes and fears and refining them over a lifetime until they sang with power and insight. It was a good way to guide a young witch on how best to use her intuition. By freeing Becca to do whatever she fancied, Gwyneth had cleared any obstacles that might stand between my daughter and her witch’s sixth sense.

  The look on Matthew’s face suggested that Gwyneth might have steered us out of troubled waters only to land us in the belly of the whale. My aunt had crossed one of Matthew’s lines, and her plan for Becca seemed like coercion in his eyes.

  “Would you like to color with Becca?” Gwyneth asked Pip, smoothly including her brother in the project to divert Matthew’s attention.

  “Nah,” Pip said, his fingers tangled up with a ball of string. Gwyneth had been teaching the twins string games like Cat’s Cradle, the Moth, and Jacob’s Ladder. They were good for finger dexterity, which pleased Matthew. The games also taught the twins the basics of the Proctor method for building spells geometrically rather than relying solely on complicated knots. I, too, was learning this complex four-dimensional method as part of Gwyneth’s curriculum covering protection spells and basic wards. It was unlike the weaving that Goody Alsop had taught me in London, but it helped that I had always seen spells in shapes and colors rather than words like most witches.

  “Are you ready to learn the Witch’s Broom?” Gwyneth asked, releasing Pip from the web of string. “Or would you like to practice on your spell-loom instead?”

  “Spell-loom!” Pip said, running toward the wall where the family looms had pride of place. He took down his favorite. It was smaller than most of the looms, and simply carved with the initials MP.

  Clever Gwyneth. The spell-looms had been carefully arranged so that those at a child’s height would not tax their skills too much. As the children grew, they would have access to finer and more complicated looms.

  Watching Becca and Pip with their great-great-aunt, I was struck by the physical similarities between Gwyneth and my father. They had the same crinkle around the eyes, the same patient expression, the same pursed smile that conveyed mischief as well as mirth. What might Dad have thought of his grandchildren? It was a question I’d asked myself many times over the years. Seeing the twins play with Gwyneth provided a kind of answer. Even though Dad would have disapproved of Gwyneth’s subject matter, he would have been delighted by how their minds worked, and ready to guide them toward success with a light hand.

  “This is hopeless.” I kept shuffling the cards, but to no avail. “The black bird oracle isn’t sleeping—it’s gone on a cruise to the Bahamas.”

  Nobody gave my griping a moment’s notice, or a drop of sympathy. Matthew tied on a leather belt with a pouch that held the tools he would need and climbed up into the rafters, scaling the bookcases and traveling across roof beams like an agile cat.

  “Very nice,” Gwyneth said, looking over Becca’s shoulder at her drawing of a feather. “Did you see that on your walk?”

  “No, it was in Penny’s paddock this morning.” Becca examined her drawing with a critical eye. “Only it wasn’t black—it was greeny-bluey-blacky.”

  “Layer the colors,” Gwyneth said, pulling out a green and a blue pencil and shading the feather. “See?”

  Becca was amazed by the transformation and eager to try it herself. She was soon absorbed in her work.

  “Everybody seems settled.” My voice twanged with envy.

  “You need something more active to do than brood over your cards,” Gwyneth observed. “Come with me.”

  Happy to be excused from my chores, I tucked the black bird oracle into its bag. “Where are we going?”

  “Mommy and I are going to the Old Place for the rest of today’s lessons,” Gwyneth told the twins. “Granny Dorcas will check on you while your father is up to his teeth in hammers and nails. She knows a great deal about oracle cards. I’m sure she’ll share her knowledge with you if you ask nicely.”

  Granny Dorcas waggled her fingers, which set off a shower of sparks and tiny bubbles that popped when they burst.

  “Bye, Matthew!” I called up to the rafters. I gave each child a kiss on the nose. “Have fun, you two. Learn things!”

  * * *

  —

  At the Old Place, Gwyneth opened one of the doors in the tiny front hall to reveal a twisting flight of stairs. My aunt made slow progress up the uneven treads, pausing every few steps to catch her breath. She swore often, making her feelings on stairs, attics, the moon, the goddess, and the spirits of willful ancestors abundantly clear.

  My eyes watered at her vehemence—not to mention the extreme detail—of her proposed remedies and retributions.

  “Where are we going?” I asked again.

  “To see to the ghosts,” Gwyneth replied. “I’m jumping ahead in the lesson plan to the subject of living with the dead.”

  I wasn’t supposed to study that until after I chose my path at the Crossroads. I clambered up the stairs after my aunt, tripping over my own feet in my excitement to learn Gwyneth’s methods for keeping the Proctor ancestors in such good condition.

  When we reached the top landing, Gwyneth removed a ring of keys from her pocket and pushed open the thin door into the attic. I was surprised that it was unlocked, then noticed the fuzzy ends of broken wards hanging from the lintel.

  “Our dearly departed did that the night of the coven meeting,” Gwyneth said. “No man-made lock will keep this bunch inside when a Proctor is in need.”

  My aunt cast an iridescent blue witchlight and sent it across the dark space. It hit an ancient tin sconce, the metal absorbing the magic and casting a bright glow throughout the rafters that revealed neat rows of trunks and boxes laid out like coffins in a graveyard.

  “You’ll find most ghosts pale in modern lighting,” Gwyneth commented. “It dims their luminosity.”