Witches of East End - By Melissa de la Cruz Page 0,28

again. She had wasted so much time and effort in denying her innate talents, burying herself in endless small tasks and taking a job at a library: one she enjoyed, of course - but still. This was what she was put on earth to do. To hell with that restriction, surely after so many years they had earned a pass? Maybe the Council wouldn't even notice. Besides, the citizens of North Hampton were enlightened, neither fearful nor superstitious. They were curious and skeptical, but willing to try something new.

She was surprised to find an unusual run of bad luck in each supplicant's tale. Some problems, while minor, had been impossible to fix in the ordinary sense: strange aches and pains that no amount of medicine could cure; temporary blindness, bizarre headaches, frequent nightmares. There were several women, much younger than Tabitha, who had also been having trouble conceiving, their spirits blocked by the same silvery mass she had first seen in her coworker. Ingrid worked hard, creating pentagrams, lighting tapered candles, giving out a few little knots, a charm or a spell or two. She accepted clients, as Hudson called them, only during her lunch hour. After all, she had an exhibit to plan and documents to steam. As recompense, Ingrid asked that they donate what they could afford to the library fund, raising money by charging people for something they wanted and that she could give them. Maybe she could close the gap in that budget yet, and their ambitious mayor would drop the idea of selling off the library.

Her last visitor was Emily Foster, an attractive woman in her late thirties. Emily was a well-regarded artist around town, known for her giant abstract murals of seascapes and horses. She lived with her husband, Lionel Horning, who was also an artist, on a farm at the city's edge, where they raised animals. They kept the Beauchamps stocked with fresh eggs and milk and never asked for payment since Joanna regularly dropped off vegetables from her garden. "How can I help you?" Ingrid asked.

"It's such an odd thing," Emily said, blowing her nose. "But I need something to . . . I don't know . . . it's so stupid. . . ."

"There are no judgments here, Em," Ingrid promised.

"I just . . . I can't seem to focus lately. I've never had this problem before . . . being blocked, you know? But it's like I can't even paint or anything. . . . It's so strange. I mean, of course once in a while you get stuck . . . but it's been two weeks now and I can't seem to concentrate on it. It's like my mind is just . . . blank . . . like I can't see anything, no shapes or anything . . . just grayness." She barked a laugh. "Can you cure artist's block?"

"I can try," Ingrid said.

"Thank you." Emily's eyes watered. "I've got an exhibit in a few months. I'd really appreciate it."

She placed Emily in a pentagram, lit the candle, and assessed her spirit. Yes, there it was, that same silvery mass, right in the middle of her torso, and by now Ingrid was quite adept at yanking it out. Ingrid realized it did not just block the creation of life, but it blocked the process of creation itself. Ingrid thought she might have to mention it to Joanna at some point. There were just too many instances lately to be random. There was something odd going on here.

Later that afternoon, Ingrid resumed her real work and began the task of preparing the Gardiner blueprints for the show. She stood at the conference table and slowly unrolled the heavy set of drawings. The sheets were large, almost as big as the table, and the paper was yellowed and fragile. Ingrid expertly thumbed through the pages until she found the site plan. She always started there. A set of design plans was like a novel in a way, a text prepared for the builder, a story written by the architect on how the house should be built. The site plan was like an introduction to the novel.

The site plan showed wavy concentric lines circling a single point at the center, a blocky shape drawn in dark pencil, which represented Fair Haven. She leaned in closely to examine the heavy pencil lines. Each set of drawings contained its own language of keys: symbols and marks that led to specific drawings for each