“No worries. Bree’s coming over for a girls’ night. She’s got the holiday blues, and I need someone to talk to about…stuff.” I didn’t want to tell May about Faron. Not yet. I had the feeling that, although she’d be sorry for me, she wouldn’t be all that sorry in general. Faron was Bran’s rival, in her eyes.

  “Oh? Yes, that’s right, her brother died around this time of year. All right, then, I’ll ask Bran to fix the cabinet and then work on putting a new shelving system together.” She kissed me on the cheek and turned down the next aisle.

  I pushed the cart up to the checkout counter and, as the cashier rang up my purchases, I pulled out my credit card, my mind right back on Bran and Faron.

  Grams eyed the groceries suspiciously.

  “Before you start, Bree is coming over. We’re having a girls’ night. Her brother was killed by a drunk driver near Thanksgiving, so it’s always a hard time of year for her. She’s also coming to Port Townsend with us for the holiday.”

  “You want to subject her to your mother?” Grams spit out the words before she could stop herself. She rolled her eyes. “I’m sorry—sometimes my tongue gets away from me.”

  “That’s all right. And yes, with Bree there, it will help keep my mother in check. She’s clueless, but she’s seldom outright rude. Anyway, we’re having spaghetti and meatballs for dinner, with garlic bread, ice cream, and cookies.” I straightened my shoulders, ready to argue the point. I needed an occasional break from a healthy diet.

  “Well, it sounds good. Do you want me to cook, give you girls time to talk?” She said it so softly that I started to argue before I realized she wasn’t fighting me on it.

  “Listen, now and then we need a change of pace when it comes to—wait, you’re okay with the menu? You’ve had me on a lockdown in terms of food.” I didn’t want to admit that I felt better, though I did.

  “Yes, and with the holidays, we loosen up. There’s no need to exclude everything you love, and the meatballs are high in protein, and the sauce, filled with vegetables. So no spice from you, Miss. Go play with the cats or make yourself useful and take out the trash.” She began to unload the grocery bags, then stopped to add, “Oh, I found a house today. I put in an offer, contingent on the inspection.”

  I froze. “You found a house? Already?” Even though I knew she had to move, I didn’t want her to. While I loved my privacy, having Grams around felt safe, and we got along.

  “Yes, I did. And you’ll be happy to know it’s only a few blocks from here. Though I will miss Sir Fancypants,” she said. Grams winked at him, and he giggled. With her Scottish accent, every time she said his name it reminded me of a Monty Python sketch.

  “I’ll miss you too, Grams,” he said, flying over to land on her shoulder. “May I help?”

  “I’m afraid you’re not adept at wielding a knife, but you may keep me company if you like.”

  “I can help make the meatballs,” he said.

  “I think you’re best off watching from the sidelines. You like raw meatloaf and that’s not good for you.” She gave him a wink, and he shrugged.

  “Can’t blame me for trying.”

  As I headed into the living room, I realized I was feeling at loose ends, and I knew it had to do with Faron and his reaction to me. I sat down on the sofa and picked up my tarot deck, then stopped. There was a box sitting on the foyer table.

  “What’s this package?” I called out as I crossed to the table.

  “I’m not sure. It came while you were gone,” Grams answered, peeking around the doorway. “I forgot about it, to be honest. It’s addressed to you.” She went back to making dinner.

  I picked it up, frowning. The handwriting was familiar. Then I noticed the return address—it was from Aunt Ciara. I quickly returned to the sofa and set the box on the coffee table, then ripped off the wrapping. She had wrapped it in brown shopping bags, as one does.

  Once I had the wrapping off, the box looked to be about eighteen inches long by ten inches wide by four inches high. The cardboard indicated the box had originally held some form of office supplies from Office Pro, a warehouse office supplies store. I sliced through the tape holding it closed. Inside, sitting on top, I saw a piece of paper with writing on it. Below that, I saw what looked to be a large journal. Curious, I picked up the letter.

  Dear Elphyra:

  I hope this finds you well. I’m so glad you’re coming up for Thanksgiving. This will be a difficult one for me. Thank you for all you did to make Owen’s wake memorable and for keeping your mother in check. I appreciate it, and please thank Grams for me. You have a wonderful great-grandmother there, and I would love to get to know her better. I wish Catharine appreciated her more.

  I’m writing this to you in private. Please don’t tell your mother. I was helping her clean through some of the things in your attic—well, her attic—the other day and I found this. I know how she feels about your father, and I know she’d probably destroy this, so I hid it away and now I’m sending it to you. This appears to have been your father’s journal. I haven’t read it, but I thought you might like to have it. You know so little about him. I wish I’d known more about my son. I’m sure your father would have wanted you to have this. I’ll see you next week for Thanksgiving.

  Your loving aunt, Ciara.

  I stared at the letter for a moment, then set it aside and turned toward the box. The journal was a letter-size book, with a leather cover and a snap closure. I lifted it out of the box, setting the box aside, and brushed my hand across the cover. It had a slightly grainy texture. Three initials were stamped across the front: MTM. Malcolm Terrance MacPherson. His middle name was in deference to his father, my grandfather. Both men had died too young.

  The journal was a hefty weight, and it must have contained at least two hundred pages. I unsnapped it and carefully opened the cover to see that the pages were sewn into the binding, by hand, it looked. The front page had one of those “This journal belongs to” epigraphs and he had written his name on the blank line.

  I ran my fingers over it, trying to remember if I had ever seen my father’s handwriting, other than on the marriage certificate that my mother kept framed on the wall. I felt like I was trying to get some sense of him through touching his handwriting, but nothing came through except a quiet sense of acceptance, and I didn’t know if that was my own feeling or whether it was coming from the paper.

  “Did you open it?” Grams asked, wiping her hands on a dishtowel as she entered the room. “The pasta’s boiling, Fancypants is making sure the kittens don’t get on the counter or stove, and the meatballs are baking. What’s that?” She frowned, staring at the journal.

  “Aunt Ciara sent this to me. It’s my father’s journal. She said she found it in the attic when she was helping my mother clear out some old things. She didn’t tell Mom about it, but sent it to me instead.”

  Grams considered the news for a moment, then said, “Are you sure you want to read it? Sometimes not knowing leads to more peace of mind. I’m not suggesting that you just stuff it in the closet. But please, think matters through before opening the window into his world.”

  “That’s what I was wondering about. I know so little about him that finding out anything new feels…like a goddess-send. But what if I find things I don’t like? I don’t have many feelings either way about him. I was five when he died. Neutrality is better than disgust.”

  “Well, what do you remember about him?” Grams asked.

  I closed my eyes, thinking back. “The scent of a breezy cologne. He was strong enough to lift me into the air and whirl me around, and he used to laugh when he did that, and I would shriek because it was so much fun… What else? I remember him and my mother arguing, though I don’t remember what it was about. I think maybe money? Anyway, when he was angry, he would shout but for some reason, I was never afraid. It’s like I knew he’d never hurt us.”

  “Your father was a good man, at heart. That I say, not because he was my grandson, but because that’s who he was. As to what happened with his death…it’s never been clear.” She sniffed the air. “I’d better get back and check on the noodles. When’s Bree due over?”

  “Soon,” I murmured, still staring at the leatherbound journal.

  Should I take a chance? Or should I let it rest? Put it away and not think about it? But I knew I’d never rest until I at least tried to learn more about my father. I gingerly touched the front page and turned it, opening it to the first entry, which was dated April 7, 1996. I had been five years old. This was the year my father died, and he had died July 8. So he had started the journal three months before his death.

  I’m writing this in case anyone finds it after I’m gone. I know for certain that if I survive this year, it will be a miracle. I can’t begin to explain the strange things that have been going on, but—when Catharine wasn’t looking—I set about enchanting every piece of clothing Elf owns. I can’t have this fall on her head. I’d rather suffer the worst of fates than have my foolhardiness affect my Elf. I wish I’d never found that secret room. I wish I hadn’t been so greedy.

  I’m grateful I never told Catharine, because I know her weaknesses, and she wouldn’t have been able to fight against the temptations I face daily. I don’t know how much longer I can hold them off, but I keep trying, if only for my wife and daughter’s sakes. It’s not easy, though. It’s never going to be easy again.

  The doorbell rang, startling me out of my thoughts. I stared at the journal, at my father’s handwriting, and—wondering what the hell to think about it all—went to answer the door and let Bree in.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Bree carried a large bag, which included some dog food, crackers, candy, and a bag of chips. “I thought I’d bring along extra snacks.”

  “Can’t ever have too much food,” I said, taking the bag and setting it on the coffee table. My thoughts were still on the journal, and I couldn’t help but wonder what my father had been talking about. Secret room? Where? And what had he been fighting off, that he knew my mother wouldn’t have been able to withstand? As for the clothes…had he really enchanted my clothes for protection? I’d only read the first page, yet it opened up so many questions.

  “You look lost in thought,” Bree said.

  “I am. I’ll explain later, though—don’t mind me.” I wanted to read more before I addressed what I had found in the diary. For all I know, he could have resolved whatever issue it was in the four months leading up to his death. I did know that I wasn’t going to be able to focus on movies at all, not with what I’d read. But Bree needed the distraction, and so I decided that whatever had happened with my father, it had happened almost thirty years ago and it could wait one more day. I set the journal aside.

  “What movies shall we watch? You mentioned Marilyn Monroe?” Bree asked.

  “Yeah, though I’m open. Your choice.”

  She grinned. “I hoped you’d say that. Since you have WatchParty, I took a look at what’s offered.” Picking up the remote, Bree turned on the television and flipped over to the WatchParty app. “I found this—we can’t get much more retro than old monster movies!”

  I glanced at the lineup. I’d never heard of a number of them, but they all looked cheesy-good. Robot Monster, Day of the Triffids, the original War of the Worlds—the latter of which I’d seen, and which had been surprisingly good. I recognized the names of several others, but I’d never seen them.

  “Let’s watch Invasion of the Body Snatchers,” I said, choosing one at random. “It came out in 1958, sixty-six years ago. But first, let me see how dinner’s coming.”

  I headed to the kitchen. “Bree’s here. When’s—oh, that smells good.”

  The spaghetti and meatballs were ready, as was the garlic bread. Grams had skipped making a salad, which surprised me.

  “We’re eating in front of the TV. You’re welcome to join us,” I said.

  “Thank you, but I’m not going to interrupt you two. I’ll eat in the kitchen while I read the news, then I’ll clean up and go for an early bedtime. At my age, extra sleep sometimes is the perfect ticket. And I have a full day tomorrow.”

  Bree joined us, her eyes lighting up at the food. “That smells incredible.”

  ‘Enjoy, girls.” Grams handed us plates and we filled them high with the pasta and bread. In carb heaven, I picked up my silverware and headed for the living room. Bree followed suit. We opened our cans of sugar-free ginger ale and snuggled on the sofa together, plates on TV trays, ready to spend the evening lost in another world.

  We were halfway through the movie when I got a text from Kyle. hey, how are you doing? are you feeling any better than this morning?

  I showed Bree the text. “What does he expect me to say?”

  “You sound angry,” she said, stroking Silver’s back. Gem was curled up beside me, Silver against Bree.

  “I guess I am. I understand why I can’t talk to Faron about our relationship, but Kyle doesn’t seem to understand how upset I am. I wish he’d acknowledge how much this hurts me. That’s all,” I said, debating how to answer. “What should I say?”

  “What do you want to say?”

  “I want to say I’m upset and that I’m trying not to think about it. So stop texting me to find out how I feel.” Impatiently, I shrugged. “I guess I can tell him the truth. I’ll try to be polite. I know he doesn’t mean to sound uncaring.”

  Bree paused the movie. “Go on, tell him how you feel. You don’t have to be mean about it, but you definitely should clear the air and be honest about how this affects you.”

  “All right.” I sighed, then texted: i’m upset at the situation. this hurts, maybe more than you realize. i’m trying to keep my mind off of it right now, so maybe we can talk later? take care of faron.

  Relieved that he didn’t text back, I finished my plate of spaghetti and reached for the chips. “I don’t feel like bread, but man, I could eat the whole bag of these.”

  “Chips always make it better,” Bree said, finishing her spaghetti, too. “Do you want dessert now, or later?”

  “Let’s wait. I’m into salty right now.” I knew my cravings were emotional and I didn’t give a fuck right now. If potato chips helped me cope with my emotions, then bring on the bag. I didn’t feel like working through the pain.

  My phone jangled again and I sighed, glancing at the text. “Stop texting me, dude.”

  i’m sorry. i wish i could say something to make it better. the minute he remembers you—the way you remember him—i’ll let you know. i promise. but we have to trust the doctors. his health comes first.

  i know that but that doesn’t make it hurt any less. tell faron i said hello. Then I added, wait—don’t tell him. he seems to think you and i are involved and i don’t want to misrepresent our friendship to him by letting him think we text a lot.

  Again, there was a lull, then, talk to you later.

  I tossed my phone on the sofa beside me. “I think I hurt Kyle’s feelings, but he’ll just have to deal with that for now. Let’s get back to the movie.”

  We watched the rest of The Invasion of the Body Snatchers, finishing off the chips. Then we moved on to The Day the Earth Stood Still, along with ice cream and the animal crackers. By that time, it was nearing ten.

  “You want to watch another movie? I’m not all that tired,” I said.

  “Me either. What do you want to see?” She flipped back to the menu and we scrolled through the movies.

  “What about Shifter Island?”

  The Shifter Island TV show started with twenty shifters on an island. The Castaways divided into tribes, and ran a variety of obstacle courses and challenges. Each week, the one with the fewest number of collective points became one of the Sacrifices, and left the challenge. At the end of a grueling finale that was worth up to half the points you could earn all season, the shifter with the highest number of points won the grand prize.

  “A new season just dropped. Sounds good.” Bree settled back, focused on the screen.

  I watched, but my mind was now split in two directions: one part of me thinking about my father’s journal, and the other half lingering on the situation with Faron. I was fixated far more on the contents of my mind than on the contestants in the game.

  Morning came, and I woke early, thinking of my father’s diary. Bree was still sleeping on the sofa when I tiptoed out to the kitchen, where Grams was making breakfast. I fixed myself a latte while she dished up an omelet and sausage links for me. As I carried it to the table, Grams plated her own breakfast and joined me. We kept our voices low, so as not to wake Bree.

  “Did you enjoy yourself last night?” Grams asked.

  I nodded. “I always have fun with Bree. But I read the first entry in my father’s journal. Grams, it opened up so many questions.” I picked at my food.

  “Morning,” Fancypants said, flying into the kitchen. He flew over to sniff at the food. “May I have cat food for breakfast?” The dragonette loved cat food. It was his favorite, as far as I could tell. I kept it for special treats, in case we needed to curb some bad behavior that might creep in. I had never dealt before with dragonettes, though May had, and I wasn’t sure what to expect as we went along.

  Fancypants landed on my shoulder and rubbed his head against my cheek. “Morning. Are you okay? I can feel you’re upset. What’s wrong?”

  Our bond was growing. One thing people didn’t understand was that being bonded to a dragonette or a familiar didn’t mean you formed an immediate connection. No, we could feel the bond, but it took time to grow. While we were linked, and being separated by death would be a shock to the system, the deep, lifelong connection had to evolve. Lately, I had noticed that I could feel Fancypants’s emotions easier, yet another sign of our growing bond.

  “I’m all right. It’s true, several things have upset me lately, but I’ll be okay. Thanks, though. You’re the best dragonette I’ve ever met.”