what to do about the Blasted Tree?” It had been waiting for Matthew and me when we returned from 1591, the gnarled black trunk taking up most of the chimney and its roots and branches extending into the room. Though it seemed devoid of life, the tree did occasionally produce strange fruit: car keys, as well as the image of the chemical wedding that had been torn from Ashmole 782. More recently it had offered up a recipe for rhubarb compote circa 1875 and a pair of false eyelashes circa 1973. Fernando and I thought the tree should be removed, the chimney repaired, and the paneling patched and painted. Sarah and Matthew were less convinced.
“I don’t know,” Sarah said with a sigh. “I’m getting used to it. We can always decorate it for the holidays.”
“The snow is going to blow straight through those cracks come winter,” I said, picking up my purse.
“What did I teach you about magical objects?” Sarah asked, and I heard a trace of her normal sharpness.
“Don’t touch them until you understand them,” I intoned in the voice of a six-year-old.
“Cutting down a magically produced tree certainly qualifies as ‘touching,’ don’t you agree?” Sarah motioned Tabitha away from the hearth, where she was sitting staring at the bark. “We need milk. And eggs. And Fernando wants some kind of fancy rice. He promised to make paella.”
“Milk. Eggs. Rice. Got it.” I gave Sarah one last worried look. “Tell Matthew I won’t be long.”
The floorboards in the front hall creaked out a brief complaint as I crossed to the door. I paused, my foot glued in place. The Bishop house was not an ordinary home and had a history of making its feelings known on a variety of issues, from who had a right to occupy it to whether or not it approved of the new paint color on the shutters.
But there was no further response from the house. Like the ghosts, it was waiting.
Outside, Sarah’s new car was parked by the front door. Her old Honda Civic had met with a mishap during its return from Montreal, where Matthew and I had left it. A de Clermont functionary had been tasked to drive it back to Madison, but the engine had fallen out somewhere between Brockville and Watertown. To console Sarah, Matthew had presented her with a metallic purple Mini Cooper, complete with white racing stripes edged with black and silver and a personalized license plate that said NEW
BROOM. Matthew hoped this witchy message would obviate Sarah’s need to put bumper stickers all over the vehicle, but I feared it was only a matter of time before this car looked like the old one.
In case anyone thought Sarah’s new car and her lack of slogans meant her paganism was wavering, Matthew purchased a witch antenna ball. She had red hair and was wearing a pointy hat and sunglasses.
No matter where Sarah parked, someone stole it. He kept a box of replacements in the mudroom cupboard.
I waited until Matthew was hammering in his next fence post before jumping into Sarah’s Mini. I reversed it and sped away from the house. Matthew hadn’t gone so far as to forbid me from leaving the farm unaccompanied, and Sarah knew where I was going. Happy to be getting away from the tension, I opened the sunroof to catch the July breezes on my way into town.
My first stop was at the post office. Mrs. Hutchinson eyed the tight swell under the hem of my T shirt with interest but said nothing. The only other people in the post office were two antiques dealers and Smitty, Matthew’s new best friend from the hardware store.
“How is that post maul working out for Mr. Clairmont?” Smitty asked, tapping his sheaf of junk mail against the brim of his John Deere hat. “Haven’t sold one of them in ages. Most people want post pounders these days.”
“Matthew seems quite happy with it.” Most people aren’t six-foot-three vampires, I thought, chucking the sales flyer for the local grocery store and the offers for new tires into the recycling bin.
“You’ve caught a good one there,” Smitty said, eyeing my wedding ring. “And he seems to be getting along with Miz Bishop, too.” This last was said in a slightly awed tone.
My mouth twitched. I picked up the stack of catalogs and bills that remained and put them in my bag. “You take care, Smitty.”
“Bye, Mrs. Clairmont. Tell Mr. Clairmont to let me know when he decides about that