Chapter One
The witch stuck her pierced tongue out at the face peering
through the tiny slit in the lace curtains at the window. There was the faint,
muffled huff of indignation—expected—and the neighbor’s curtains fell shut.
From other houses along the small street, there were more eyes watching the
small, dark-haired woman as she bounded up the steep stairs that led to the
front door of her ancient, dilapidated Victorian-era house, but it was enough
that she’d caught one Nosy Nelly in the act. The others could—and would—stare
at her until her door closed shut behind her. It was the same routine every
morning when she left for work and merely an encore when she returned.
In a lot of ways, the houses lining the street were so
different from hers. On a dead-end road, her home was the odd man out, older,
taller, more ornate than the others. As she walked to the bus stop at the end
of the road each workday and back in the evenings, curious eyes watched her
every step, as if the neighbors expected her to sprout horns or something.
If the house and its grounds weren’t so important, if the
property hadn’t been in the family for generations, she would have given
serious thought to moving. It was, after all, a buyer’s market. But she was
stuck with it, with the responsibility it brought, and truth was, she adored
it. It had character. The other cookie-cutter houses that had slowly come to
occupy the acreage around her family’s estate had none. Neither did their
owners.
Vetiver Device had loads of character.
When the door opened, Ball, her mutt of a dog who was as big
as a Great Dane but covered with the curly, rough hair of an Irish Setter,
bounded to meet her with a grin on his face. His muddy brown hair covered a
powerful, solid body and he nearly knocked her down with his enthusiasm, for in
her hand she carried a brown paper bag—and he knew exactly what was in it.
“Baked fresh this afternoon.” Vetiver held the bag aloft as
she unwound her fuzzy scarf from her neck to hang it on the ancient hatrack.
It wouldn’t have surprised her if Ball had stood up on his
hind legs and taken the bag from her with his front paws. It wouldn’t have
surprised her if he’d opened his mouth and said “thank you” before wolfing down
the contents. Ball wasn’t like other dogs. For one thing, Ball had been in the
family since, well, hmm…
Before the Mayflower.
He’d been her mother’s dog until Vetiver had her first
period. And he’d been her grandmother’s dog until Vetiver’s mom had started her
menses. So on and so forth, for as long as the Device women had been keeping
journals, which has been since the year 1600 or so. He was loyal, faithful,
intelligent and completely devoted to each female heir from the time of her
sexual maturity until the next heiress blossomed into womanhood.
And he loved cod brain scones.
Vetiver worked at the oldest and most successful bakery in
Merrymint Island’s tourist district. The New England island was tiny, connected
to the mainland by one bridge only, or reached by ferry ride, but many went out
of their way just to have a meal at The Nut.
Every Thursday the local fishermen would bring in their
fresh cod—The Nut was famous for its fish sandwich Fridays and seafood stew
Saturdays—and Vetiver used the castoff pieces to bake Ball his favorite treats.
The heads, brains, eyes and cheeks of the poor dead fish would otherwise go to
waste, and it didn’t hurt anyone if the customers’ mouths watered at the
delicious aroma wafting from the hot kitchen, oblivious to its source. It
helped sell the sandwiches by the dozens and that was all that mattered to the
staff.
It also helped that Vetiver was ruler of the kitchen, and
had been since she’d taken a job there at age fifteen. One glance at her
tri-colored gray eyes and the locals knew her for a Device. No one dared cross
her, for more than one reasons. Which was fine with everyone, since she was
indisputably the
The witch stuck her pierced tongue out at the face peering
through the tiny slit in the lace curtains at the window. There was the faint,
muffled huff of indignation—expected—and the neighbor’s curtains fell shut.
From other houses along the small street, there were more eyes watching the
small, dark-haired woman as she bounded up the steep stairs that led to the
front door of her ancient, dilapidated Victorian-era house, but it was enough
that she’d caught one Nosy Nelly in the act. The others could—and would—stare
at her until her door closed shut behind her. It was the same routine every
morning when she left for work and merely an encore when she returned.
In a lot of ways, the houses lining the street were so
different from hers. On a dead-end road, her home was the odd man out, older,
taller, more ornate than the others. As she walked to the bus stop at the end
of the road each workday and back in the evenings, curious eyes watched her
every step, as if the neighbors expected her to sprout horns or something.
If the house and its grounds weren’t so important, if the
property hadn’t been in the family for generations, she would have given
serious thought to moving. It was, after all, a buyer’s market. But she was
stuck with it, with the responsibility it brought, and truth was, she adored
it. It had character. The other cookie-cutter houses that had slowly come to
occupy the acreage around her family’s estate had none. Neither did their
owners.
Vetiver Device had loads of character.
When the door opened, Ball, her mutt of a dog who was as big
as a Great Dane but covered with the curly, rough hair of an Irish Setter,
bounded to meet her with a grin on his face. His muddy brown hair covered a
powerful, solid body and he nearly knocked her down with his enthusiasm, for in
her hand she carried a brown paper bag—and he knew exactly what was in it.
“Baked fresh this afternoon.” Vetiver held the bag aloft as
she unwound her fuzzy scarf from her neck to hang it on the ancient hatrack.
It wouldn’t have surprised her if Ball had stood up on his
hind legs and taken the bag from her with his front paws. It wouldn’t have
surprised her if he’d opened his mouth and said “thank you” before wolfing down
the contents. Ball wasn’t like other dogs. For one thing, Ball had been in the
family since, well, hmm…
Before the Mayflower.
He’d been her mother’s dog until Vetiver had her first
period. And he’d been her grandmother’s dog until Vetiver’s mom had started her
menses. So on and so forth, for as long as the Device women had been keeping
journals, which has been since the year 1600 or so. He was loyal, faithful,
intelligent and completely devoted to each female heir from the time of her
sexual maturity until the next heiress blossomed into womanhood.
And he loved cod brain scones.
Vetiver worked at the oldest and most successful bakery in
Merrymint Island’s tourist district. The New England island was tiny, connected
to the mainland by one bridge only, or reached by ferry ride, but many went out
of their way just to have a meal at The Nut.
Every Thursday the local fishermen would bring in their
fresh cod—The Nut was famous for its fish sandwich Fridays and seafood stew
Saturdays—and Vetiver used the castoff pieces to bake Ball his favorite treats.
The heads, brains, eyes and cheeks of the poor dead fish would otherwise go to
waste, and it didn’t hurt anyone if the customers’ mouths watered at the
delicious aroma wafting from the hot kitchen, oblivious to its source. It
helped sell the sandwiches by the dozens and that was all that mattered to the
staff.
It also helped that Vetiver was ruler of the kitchen, and
had been since she’d taken a job there at age fifteen. One glance at her
tri-colored gray eyes and the locals knew her for a Device. No one dared cross
her, for more than one reasons. Which was fine with everyone, since she was
indisputably the
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