until this evening they had never been afraid of the Beauchamps. They were afraid now. Bill whistled for the dogs and reached for Mauraâs hand, and they walked quickly in the opposite direction.
Across the shore, one by one, more lights were turned on in succession until Fair Haven was ablaze. It shone like a beacon, a signal in the darkness. Bill turned to look back one more time, but Joanna Beauchamp had already disappeared, leaving no sign of footprints in the sand or any indication that she had ever been there.
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Chapter 1
F reya Beauchamp swirled the champagne in her glass so that the bubbles at the top of the lip burst one by one until there were none left. This was supposed to be the happiest day of her lifeâor at the very least, one of the happiestâbut all she felt was agitated.
This was a problem, because whenever Freya became anxious things happenedâlike a waiter suddenly tripping on the Aubusson rug and plastering the front of Constance Bigelowâs dress with hors dâoeuvres. Or the normally lugubrious dogâs incessant barking and howling drowning out the violin quartet. Or the hundred-year-old Bordeaux unearthed from the Gardiner family cellar tasting like Three Buck Chuckâsour and cheap.
âWhatâs the matter?â her older sister, Ingrid, asked, coming up by Freyaâs elbow. With her rigid modeling-school posture and prim, impeccable clothes, Ingrid did not rattle easily, but she looked uncharacteristically nervous that evening and picked at a lock of hair that had escaped her tight bun. She took a sip from her wineglass and grimaced. âThis wine has a witchâs curse all over it,â she whispered, as she placed it on a nearby table.
âItâs not me! I swear!â Freya protested. It was the truth, sort of. She couldnât help it if her magic was accidentally seeping out, but she had done nothing to encourage it. She knew the consequences and would never risk something so important. Freya could feel Ingrid attempting to probe through the underlayer, to peer into her future for an answer to her present distress, but it was a useless exercise. Freya knew how to keep her lifeline protected. The last thing she needed was an older sister who could predict the consequences of her impulsive actions.
âAre you sure you donât want to talk?â Ingrid asked gently. âI mean, everythingâs happened so fast, after all.â
For a moment Freya considered spilling all, but decided against it. It was too difficult to explain. And even if dark portents were in the airâthe dogâs howling, the âaccidents,â the smell of burnt flowers inexplicably filling the roomânothing was going to happen. She loved Bran. She truly did. It wasnât a lie, not at all like one of those lies she told herself all the time, like This is the last drink of the evening , or Iâm not going to set the bitchâs house on fire . Her love for Bran was something she felt in the core of her bones; there was something about him that felt exactly like home, like sinking into a down comforter into sleep: safe and secure.
No. She couldnât tell Ingrid what was bothering her. Not this time. The two of them were close. They were not only sisters and occasional rivals but the best of friends. Yet Ingrid would not understand. Ingrid would be appalled, and Freya did not need her older sisterâs reproach right now. âGo away, Ingrid, youâre scaring away my new friends,â she said, as she accepted the insincere congratulations from another cadre of female well-wishers.
The women had come to celebrate the engagement, but mostly they were there to gawk, and to judge and to titter. All the eligible ladies of North Hampton, who not too long ago had harbored not-so-subtle dreams of becoming Mrs. Gardiner themselves. They had all come to the grand, refurbished mansion to pay grudging homage to the woman who had won the
Susan Hatler
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Fred Hoyle
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Franklin W. Dixon
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