The Trouble With Magic

The universe is full of magical things,
patiently waiting for our wits to grow sharper.

–Eden Phillpotts

CHAPTER ONE

I don’t know what it was that made me abandon my usual path to work on that particular October Tuesday. The morning had dawned misty and gray—my favorite kind—and it made me groan all the more about heading in to the grim Collections job I had desperately come to dread. Four plus years of pressuring-slash-coercing-slash-browbeating tightfisted customers into paying our invoices, working to solve problems and inconsistencies ad infinitum, and pouring a never-ending stream of coffee for a boss who viewed every female in the office as slave labor—well, it was enough to drive anyone over the edge. Lately I’d been having to drag myself out of bed in the morning . . . but it was futile to resist. I was nothing if not responsible.

That morning the whispers of reluctance proved too insistent to ignore. Despite what I considered near-saintlike intentions of swinging in to work early (my boss, more commonly known as The Toad, would have inserted a snide for once at that point), I found myself cranking the worn steering wheel of my old 1972 Bug at the next intersection, leaving the straight and orderly procession of Main Street to veer off downhill on the lesser traveled River Street.

A blatant avoidance tactic, granted, but sometimes a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

Stony Mill, Indiana is your typical Midwestern town, with typical Hoosier idiosyncrasies. Staunchly proud of its position in the Bible Belt of the north, it is a place where going to church on Sunday means you’re forgiven for your visit to the hooter bar on Friday night. I know this town like the back of my hand . . . or at least, I used to. A shadow had fallen over my home town; I hardly recognized it any more. They say that change is good. That it keeps a place from stagnating. In the case of Stony Mill, that meant opening our arms to a flood of big city expatriates who saw my quiet town as a way of building their expensive homes free of the burden of city-sized taxes. With them came problems. Too many problems. Why the interlopers all seemed to feel this town owed them for the honor of their presence was beyond me.

Behold, people, the Me generation is alive and well.

One good thing to come out of it was the district along River Street, the oldest thoroughfare in the county and a once thriving trade center whose ancient and rustic warehouses now sheltered a bustling antiques trade. I loved antiques, but I rarely allowed myself the luxury of even window shopping down this way. First of all, I worked for a living, and the shoppes (someone had added an extra P and an E to the word in advertising a few years back because they thought it sounded erudite) catered to those with far more padding in their purses. Second, I worked for a living; hence, I had better ways to spend my hard-earned pennies. Like paying the rent. Or, if I was feeling a little crazy, squandering it on something really frivolous. Like peanut butter, or mac ’n cheese.

As always, the storefronts looked like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Weathered gray clapboards and multi-paned windows bordered with shutters and cascading flower boxes worked together to score major points with the yuppie crowd. (That would not be me.) Yet as much as I abhorred the bustle of the crowds, I loved the quiet dignity of the old buildings, the gentle whisper of the river currents, the riotous colors of mums and still-thriving geraniums spilling from the windowboxes, and the come-in-and-sit-a-spell homeyness of the store displays. The combination was pretty hard to resist.

With a last rueful glance at the cheap digital clock Velcro-ed to my dashboard, I parked the temperamental car I laughingly called Christine and stepped out into the damp.

Just for a minute or two, I told myself. Just long enough to soak up the atmosphere of the place before it was overrun by the country club set that generally kept me at bay.

Designer separates and hundred-dollar-an-ounce perfume really try my patience.

Overhead, darker clouds had begun to gather, a warning of even wetter weather still to come. Ever hopeful, I dug behind the frayed bucket seat in the off chance that I had left some sort of jacket or—was it too much to ask?—an umbrella back there, but after two minutes of muttering beneath my breath, I came up with nothing more than a few desiccated French Fries and an overdue library book I thought I had returned weeks ago.

I flipped it over, only halfheartedly considering. It was a thriller, and not a very good one. It did have a plastic sleeve over the cover . . .

I discarded the thought immediately. Somehow I suspected the library would frown upon one of its prized potboilers being used as a rain shield. Besides, my love for books wouldn’t allow it, no matter how desperate I got. Better to get back in the Bug and drive on to the office.

I wanted to. I really did. It would be the sensible thing to do. But something inside me, some burgeoning impulse I didn’t understand, prevented my feet from doing the sensible thing.

A little exasperated, a lot bemused, I instead found myself stuffing my hands into the pockets of my slacks and hunching my shoulders up against the wind and damp as I walked up the rejuvenated brick-and-concrete sidewalks, silently praising those few store owners who had thoughtfully erected awnings.

At first I scarcely looked at the shops. I thought if I just got out and walked around a bit, whatever it was that was compelling me to be there might leave me the hell alone and let me get back to the mundane existence I grudgingly led. Eventually the wind and mist seemed to lessen as I pushed on and I found myself pausing to gaze longingly at tall, gothic cabinets and sparkling glass bottles, bookshelves and bureaus with lace doilies dripping from them, enormous earthen crocks overflowing with dried bittersweet, and more. So much more.

I looked. I dreamed. I lusted.

Suddenly, lightning cracked open the dark sky over Stony Mill, Indiana.

“Shit!”

I raced for my car, digging for my keys as my legs pumped, harder, faster. I hadn’t found them by the time I reached the car, but through my wilting bangs I could see the telltale knob poking up from the door panel—I hadn’t locked the driver’s-side door. Laughing with relief, I reached for the latch and jammed my thumb against the chrome push button release.

Nothing. It didn’t budge.

Christine strikes again.

I didn’t even bother to curse this time as the rain plastered my hair to my scalp; I bolted in a blind panic. I was hoping to find an open store somewhere along the riverfront, but it was only a few ticks past eight. Most of the stores didn’t open for another hour. I was doomed.

Shivering, I ducked into a small alcove, pressing my back against the old wood-and-glass door in hopes that the rain couldn’t reach me there. My efforts were only halfway effective—raindrops still pelted my face, gathering reinforcements by the minute. I sighed, resigned to a long, cold, wet wait . . . but . . . there was a part of me that gleefully accepted the delay. After all, my boss could hardly complain if I came in looking like a wet version of my Great-Aunt Frances’s ancient fox stole. And then there was that little niggle at the back of my mind that told me I was right where I was supposed to be today.

Confused, weary, I turned my face to the sky. What? I demanded in silence of the universe at large. What are you trying to tell me?

Without warning the door I was leaning against opened and I fell backwards, pinwheeling my arms in a futile grab for balance, into a dark space that smelled strongly of cinnamon.

Hardwood floors, I noted as my all-too-ample backside made contact. Ouch. (Mental note: Must borrow Melanie’s Buns of Steel video.)

I sat there a moment, wondering how my day had come to this. I’d started out with such good intentions. Really I had. (Approaching the Big Three-Oh sometimes does that to a girl.) Get in to work early, make a serious attempt to show the Toad that I wasn’t the lackluster reprobate he thought me to be, press my nose firmly to the grindstone, and maybe, just maybe, start working my way up in the world. I surrender to temptation for one brief moment of weakness and look what happens: I end up late for work, soaked to the skin and sprawled on a scuffed wooden floor that might as well have been concrete.

Obviously something went wrong somewhere.

But self-pity serves no woman’s purpose and we Hoosiers are nothing if not hardy, so I gingerly dusted my palms against my cheap black slacks (Wal-Mart, $14.95, you okay with that?), wincing at the sting of scraped skin. I was about to scramble to my feet when a pale face suddenly floated into view before my eyes, swooping out at me from the darkness.

“Holy-Mary-Mother-of-God!” I yelped, scrabbling backwards in surprise.

A gentle laugh halted my retreat. “Hardly. Are you all right, dear?”

All right? My heart was beating faster than Thumper’s hind feet and I’d conked my right shoulder on something hard and unyielding, but all things considered I was no worse for the wear. The woman’s voice—my poor, numb brain worked to decipher its nationality . . . Irish? English?—was a soft coo, as soothing as a mother singing a lullaby. Well, someone’s mother, anyway. Someone else’s, that is.

I squinted as a match flared three feet away, the bitter odor of sulfur for a moment overpowering the cinnamon bun scent of the store.

“The electricity is out.” The woman touched the match to a candle. The flame sputtered once then caught, casting warm light in a small golden circle. “That last bit of lightning must have taken out a transformer or some such nonsense. The gods are having a fine time up there this morning, if I do say so myself.”

Seeing that my wits had fled and still hadn’t returned, she extended a slender, beringed hand to me. I took it, gratefully, and scrambled to my feet. Only when I had let go of her hand did the heat of it register. My hand tingled with the impression of hers.

Something trembled on the edge of my awareness, the kind of watchfulness you get when you know something is about to happen. The hairs at the nape of my neck prickled. My senses perked. And yet, I felt no sense of danger.

“I’m terribly sorry to barge in on you this way,” I began, finding my voice at last as I tried to make sense of the impressions battering at me from all directions. “I’m not sure what happened, actually. I’d taken refuge from the storm in your alcove, and the next thing I knew—”

“Ah. I have been meaning to get that lock fixed,” the woman said simply, setting the candlestick on a wooden countertop. She opened a cabinet and took out several more, arranging them precisely in an arc, then used the first to light the lot of them.

Slowly the circle of light grew in circumference, warm, shimmering. Welcoming. For the first time I could see the woman who had for a moment scared the daylights out of me. Sleek coppery hair, liberally streaked with silver, was combed away from her face in rich waves that curved around her ears and tickled her nape. Her clothes were not the designer togs of the yuppie contingent, but they exuded a classic kind of elegance that I thought of as timeless, and they suited her to a tee. A pair of half-moon spectacles hung on a long silver chain about her neck. On her, I bet they looked magnificent. She was of average height, willow-slender, but from her emanated a quiet strength that had nothing to do with the physical and everything to do with character. On the whole, she was everything I wanted to be when I grew up.

“Do I meet with your approval?”

I snapped my gaze up to her twinkling blue eyes. Heat rushed to my cheeks. “I’m sorry. That must have seemed terribly rude.”

She waved aside my apology, her rings shooting sparks in the shimmering candlelight. “Rudeness is in the eye of the beholder. I would be doing the same if I were you, given the circumstances.” She held out her hand to me. “Felicity Dow.”

Hesitating only a moment, I took her hand. “Maggie O’Neill.”

“Charmed, my dear.”

I shifted, wondering what time it was and wishing I had found a way to afford a cell phone like everyone else in the civilized world. The Toad would be grinding his crowns to powder by now.

“I should be going,” I said, gesturing half-heartedly toward the door. Actually, I’d rather catch my death of pneumonia standing out in the rain than go in to work at this late hour, but I couldn’t tell my benefactor that. I did, however, need to call in, and soon. Maybe if I tried very hard, I could muster a passable scratchy throat for effect.

“Nonsense. You’ll catch your death in this weather.”

A shiver went zipping up my spine as she echoed my thoughts. Déjà vu. “The rain is letting up.”

It was a half-hearted attempt at best, and it received just as much attention as it deserved. She had been bustling about in the dark, just beyond the bowl of candlelight. Now she came forward, a delicate china cup held out toward me, complete with saucer.

“Here. You’ll be wanting this.”

She definitely was not from around here. No one slid saucers under their teacups anymore. In fact, hardly anyone I knew drank tea.

The spicy scent of Earl Gray wafted up on tendrils of steam. Bemused, I looked down into the clear brown depths. The steam swirled before my eyes, like a cloud that had been stirred by the finger of an angel.

Her laughter tinkled on the air around me. “Don’t you just love it when it does that?”

From the moment I had entered this store, nothing had seemed quite right. I felt like Alice when she fell down the rabbit’s hole, and I couldn’t figure out why.

“If you’re looking for a job—”

I stared at her, trying to focus. Had I said anything about looking for a job?

“—I could use someone here. Full time, of course. I can’t promise you’ll be a millionaire by the time you’re forty, but I can say that the company you’d keep is delightfully effervescent.” She flashed me an elfish smile. “And, you’ll never be bored.”

Her clear eyes gently probed mine. I lowered my eyelashes self-consciously. Somehow I got the feeling that this woman rarely missed much.

Even so, a sudden swell of yearning rose within me, filling my throat with desire.

A job. Here.

I glanced around, thirstily drinking in as many details as I could make out. Neat shelves lined the walls, their bulging contents tidy and yet wonderfully chaotic. Delightful scents promised a trove of treasures to be discovered and experienced, one by one. Candles and antiques. Books. Trunks large and small, begging to be opened. It was as if the entire store had been created with me in mind. Who knew what wonders I would find when the lights came back on?

Temptation burned within me, steady and sweet. I longed to accept. Oh, how I longed to.

Did I dare?

“The hours?” I squeaked out.

In the blink of an eye, the benevolent stranger became the smart business woman as she strode briskly behind what I could now tell was a rustic antique counter with a scarred but well-oiled top. From a file cabinet hidden beneath the counter’s ruffled chintz skirt, she withdrew a single sheet of paper.

She handed it to me. “This will detail the job duties, as well as the benefits. I can’t offer much, but I do the best I can.”

Matter-of-fact, not embarrassed or apologetic, and not arrogant. I liked that. It was more honest.

The letterhead showed the name of the store—Enchantments—in bold, swirling letters, and beneath it in italics, Antiques and Fine Gifts.

Enchantments. I liked that, too.

Outside, the line drive of wind and rain had begun to abate, a sign that I should let the nice lady get back to her shop while I got back to reality. Who knew, maybe I would be back.

Things were certainly looking up.

I gave her my thanks and told her I would give her a call that evening about the job, one way or another. She nodded in a way that said she had expected no less of me.

“By the way,” she said in an off-handed tone, “I hope this won’t affect your decision in any way, but I should like our working relationship to be based on honesty and mutual trust. In fact, I insist upon it.”

I nodded, sneaking a glance at my watch. Eight thirty-six. The Toad was going to kill me. “I appreciate the sentiment.”

“Quite. You see, my dear, I am a witch.”

The second hand on my watch might as well have frozen. I blinked at her, not quite sure what I should say. “I, uh, don’t suppose you mean in the cranky, take-no-prisoners sense.”

She smiled a patient little smile. “I mean in the metaphysical, magical sense.”

A witch in Stony Mill. Holy crap, was she crazy? Trying not to stare, I dredged back through my hazy memory for all I’d learned about the American Witch Trials, thanks to a long ago English Lit lesson surrounding Miller’s The Crucible. Paranoia, power plays and politics came immediately to mind. I’d lived in Stony Mill my whole life, and from what I’d seen, your average, everyday Hoosier hadn’t progressed much beyond that puritanical state.

But it was all make believe anyway, right? No one believed in that kind of thing anymore.

In the end I decided not to hold it against her. It wasn’t my place to sneer if she wanted to play Harry Potter. When Judgment Day came, everything was in the hands of God anyway, if you believed in all that, which, even after eight years of catechism I wasn’t entirely sure that I did. Besides, what did it matter if she was a bit of a loon? She was a likeable loon, didn’t seem at all dangerous, and she was willing to hire me on the spot, which made her more than all right in my book.

I gave a magnanimous wave of my hand and smiled cheerily back at her as though I heard such claims all the time. “I could use a little magic in my life.”

I couldn’t have known at that moment just how true that was.