shriek.
Nan looked like she’d seen a ghost, only I bet if she saw a real ghost, it wouldn’t faze her. She swallowed, still speechless.
Something was so, so wrong with this picture. I felt like the two of us were sitting there, waiting for a hurricane to hit our house, to yank it right off its foundation, to sweep us up with it. I quit crying and just gaped at her, thinking, Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. She knew.
“Nan—” I said, and then stopped.
She seemed to come back to herself then, shaking her head and focusing on me. A tiny bit of color leached back into her face, but she still looked pretty whacked. “Clio,” she said, in this old, old voice. “She had your same birthmark?”
I nodded and touched my cheekbone. “Hers is on the other side. It’s exactly like mine. Nan— tell me. ”
“What’s her name?” Nan’s voice was thin and strained, barely more than a whisper.
“Thais Allard,” I said. “She said her dad had just died, and now she lives here with a friend of her dad’s. She used to live in Connecticut. She says she was born in Boston but the day after me.”
Nan put her fingers to her lips. I saw her soundlessly form the name Thais. “Michel is dead?” she asked sadly, as if from far away.
“ You knew him? Was that—he wasn’t my real dad, was he? Wasn’t he just someone who adopted Thais? ” I felt like my sanity was about to rip in half. “Nan, explain this to me. Now.”
At last, her eyes sparked with recognition. She looked at me with her familiar, sharp gaze, and I could recognize her again.
“Yes,” she said, her voice firmer. “Yes, of course, cher. I’ll explain. I’ll explain everything. But first—first there are some things I must do, very quickly.”
While I sat with my jaw hanging open like a large-mouth bass, she sprang to her feet with her usual energy. She hurried into our workroom, and I heard the cupboard open. I sat there, unable to move, to process anything except a series of cataclysmic thoughts: I had a sister, a twin sister. I’d had a father, maybe, until this summer. I’d have to share Nan. Nan had been lying to me my whole life.
Over and over, those thoughts burned a pattern into my brain.
Numbly I watched Nan come out, dressed in a black silk robe, the one she wore for serious work or when it was her turn to lead our coven’s monthly circle. She held her wand, a slim length of cypress no thicker than my pinkie. She didn’t look at me but quickly centered herself and started chanting in old French, only a few words of which I recognized. Her first coven, Balefire, had always worked in a kind of language all their own, she’d told me—a mixture of old French, Latin, and one of the African dialects brought here during the dark days of slavery.
She went outside, and I felt her circling our house, our yard. She came onto the porch and stood before our front door. She came back inside and moved through each room, tracing each window with a crystal, singing softly in a language that had been passed down by our family for hundreds of years.
Every now and then I caught a word, but even before then it had sunk in what she was doing.
She was weaving layer after layer of spells all around our house, our yard, around us, around our lives.
Spells of protection and ward-evil.
Life at the Golden Blossom
S unlight was a painful thing, Claire thought, trying to drag a sheet over her eyes. But thin pinpricks of morning seared her retinas, and she knew it was pointless to hold it off any longer.
Carefully she pried one eyelid open. The hazy view of her broken wooden window screen showed her it was maybe only two in the afternoon. Not too bad.
The bed was sunken weirdly—she was rolling toward the middle. A survey revealed a human form sleeping next to her, his straight black hair tossed across a pillow. No one she recognized. Well, that happened.
She sighed. A bath would revive her, and no one did baths better than the Golden Blossom
Nan looked like she’d seen a ghost, only I bet if she saw a real ghost, it wouldn’t faze her. She swallowed, still speechless.
Something was so, so wrong with this picture. I felt like the two of us were sitting there, waiting for a hurricane to hit our house, to yank it right off its foundation, to sweep us up with it. I quit crying and just gaped at her, thinking, Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. She knew.
“Nan—” I said, and then stopped.
She seemed to come back to herself then, shaking her head and focusing on me. A tiny bit of color leached back into her face, but she still looked pretty whacked. “Clio,” she said, in this old, old voice. “She had your same birthmark?”
I nodded and touched my cheekbone. “Hers is on the other side. It’s exactly like mine. Nan— tell me. ”
“What’s her name?” Nan’s voice was thin and strained, barely more than a whisper.
“Thais Allard,” I said. “She said her dad had just died, and now she lives here with a friend of her dad’s. She used to live in Connecticut. She says she was born in Boston but the day after me.”
Nan put her fingers to her lips. I saw her soundlessly form the name Thais. “Michel is dead?” she asked sadly, as if from far away.
“ You knew him? Was that—he wasn’t my real dad, was he? Wasn’t he just someone who adopted Thais? ” I felt like my sanity was about to rip in half. “Nan, explain this to me. Now.”
At last, her eyes sparked with recognition. She looked at me with her familiar, sharp gaze, and I could recognize her again.
“Yes,” she said, her voice firmer. “Yes, of course, cher. I’ll explain. I’ll explain everything. But first—first there are some things I must do, very quickly.”
While I sat with my jaw hanging open like a large-mouth bass, she sprang to her feet with her usual energy. She hurried into our workroom, and I heard the cupboard open. I sat there, unable to move, to process anything except a series of cataclysmic thoughts: I had a sister, a twin sister. I’d had a father, maybe, until this summer. I’d have to share Nan. Nan had been lying to me my whole life.
Over and over, those thoughts burned a pattern into my brain.
Numbly I watched Nan come out, dressed in a black silk robe, the one she wore for serious work or when it was her turn to lead our coven’s monthly circle. She held her wand, a slim length of cypress no thicker than my pinkie. She didn’t look at me but quickly centered herself and started chanting in old French, only a few words of which I recognized. Her first coven, Balefire, had always worked in a kind of language all their own, she’d told me—a mixture of old French, Latin, and one of the African dialects brought here during the dark days of slavery.
She went outside, and I felt her circling our house, our yard. She came onto the porch and stood before our front door. She came back inside and moved through each room, tracing each window with a crystal, singing softly in a language that had been passed down by our family for hundreds of years.
Every now and then I caught a word, but even before then it had sunk in what she was doing.
She was weaving layer after layer of spells all around our house, our yard, around us, around our lives.
Spells of protection and ward-evil.
Life at the Golden Blossom
S unlight was a painful thing, Claire thought, trying to drag a sheet over her eyes. But thin pinpricks of morning seared her retinas, and she knew it was pointless to hold it off any longer.
Carefully she pried one eyelid open. The hazy view of her broken wooden window screen showed her it was maybe only two in the afternoon. Not too bad.
The bed was sunken weirdly—she was rolling toward the middle. A survey revealed a human form sleeping next to her, his straight black hair tossed across a pillow. No one she recognized. Well, that happened.
She sighed. A bath would revive her, and no one did baths better than the Golden Blossom
Similar Books
