Accident prone behavior accompanied by a hazy, or smoky, aura might indicate a spell hovering around that person.
What did I know about Daria? I couldn’t be sure what kind of person she was, or if there was a reason for the spell that hung around her—if it was a spell.
I picked up my cat, stroking her as I carried her into the small living room of my house and settled her on the afghan draped over the leather sofa. She pranced, purring loudly before she settled. The tea service was still on my dining table beside the bay window overlooking the backyard. I carried the tray into the galley kitchen.
The used herbs from the steeping ball would go out to the compost pile, but before I dumped the sediment from the cup, odd swirls drew my attention. Was this akin to reading tea leaves? The Wiccan women I knew said we didn’t have the gift of divination, and yet something was going on at the bottom of Daria’s cup. Letters appeared, as if someone drew a finger through the dregs—M. S. The letters disappeared like erased chalk, and within minutes, they were drawn again.
I returned to the workroom to consult the grimoire, but as was its habit, it had returned to the cache in the wall. I walked through the kitchen to the utility room by the back door, squeezed between the washer and dryer and felt along the brick wall beside the old coal chute. I tugged the edges of a jutting brick and the small compartment opened. The hidden grimoire levitated and floated to the top of the washing machine.
“What about the tea leaves?” I asked it.
The pages flipped on their own and stopped on an incantation marked with a skull and crossbones. I hated those pages, well aware of the dangers of intentionally casting a spell.
To correct a wrong done to you, find a picture of the person responsible and affix a lock of their hair. Dip your finger in a mixture of lemon juice and water and recite the incantation with your terms to correct the misdeed while using your finger to draw your initials on the back of the photo. This identifies you as the author of the spell until the terms are satisfied.
Tea leaves weren’t the same as a photo, but I interpreted the explanation as a variation on a theme, that M.S. was the author of the spell on Daria.
Before I could finish reading the page, the back door opened. Startled, I blocked the book from view by holding my arms out to shield it.
Kyle dropped his duffle bag on the floor and shot me a wary glance. “Everything okay?”
Odd greeting. “As far as I know. Why do you ask?”
“Edith Knight said you had a visitor. Someone she hadn’t seen before.”
I hadn’t seen my neighbor outside while Daria was there, but this was a small town. Neighbors had a habit of looking out for one another, which was a good thing—sometimes. “Someone looking for help. Cassandra sent her over from the boutique.”
“Did you have what she needed?”
I looked over my shoulder. The grimoire was gone and the brick that covered the secret compartment was firmly in place. Kyle was privy to my hidden talents, but I continued to be uncomfortable talking to him about them. “I made her a cup of tea and she went on her way. How are the renovations coming along?”
His lips twisted in an increasingly familiar expression of frustration. “Lots of mold to clean up, along with rotting wood.”
“I suppose that’s to be expected so close to the lakefront.”
“Jude would have done better to tear the cottages down and start over.” Kyle strode into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. His dark brown hair was in need of a cut, the natural wave turning into curls. When he’d been a policeman, he’d always kept his hair trimmed neatly—not that I was complaining. The casual look enhanced his boyish good looks.
With a can of Pepsi in his hand, he closed the fridge, popped the top, and continued to the dining room to sit at the table. I followed, interpreting his mood as distracted. He stared out the bay window.
“Want to talk about it?” I asked.
“Hmm?” His slate-blue gaze landed on me as he took a sip of his pop. “Oh, I guess I was thinking of all the things that still have to be done across the street before I sell my house. I have no idea when I’m going to have time for that.”
I suspected he wasn’t in a hurry to sell. He’d been moody for the past four months, since he’d been laid off from the police force. After pressing me to set a wedding date, he’d been the one to postpone, regardless of my thoughts on the matter. We hadn’t spent a night together since, with Kyle withdrawing into his own personal funk. No amount of reassurance from me that we could weather this storm together resonated with him. The attempts I made to draw him out of his moods generally resulted in an argument. I sat silently, struggling with the patience to see which direction his mood was headed.
He sighed. “This isn’t the life I’d pictured for us.”
“Because you’re doing carpentry instead of policework? You know it doesn’t matter to me. I thought you liked working with your hands.”
“As a side job or a hobby, yeah. I worry about you living here all alone while I’m two and a half hours away all week. What if something happens to you?”
His protective streak rearing its ugly head again. “Well, there’s always Edith Knight next door keeping an eye on me. And Roxanne Purdy is still on the police force. What do you think is going to happen to me here?” Hillendale wasn’t a hotbed of crime.
“You’ve had your share of trouble, haven’t you?
