Page 111 of The Book of Magic

“You make your choices and you pay for them unless someone with a clear head stops you,” Franny said grimly.

“She thinks she can end the curse and save that fellow of hers,” Vincent said. “She’s got the book, so maybe she will. Our generation certainly didn’t manage to remedy anything.”

It was only now, in this far-off place, that Franny remembered something Jet had said on the seventh night, after she’d come home from the library. The wind had picked up and the leaves had shuddered. It was their last night together, the time to say anything and everything.

If anyone can do it, it’s you, Jet had told her. You’ve always been stronger.

At the time, Franny had thought Jet meant she was strong enough to survive her sister’s death. Franny had responded, No, I’m not, for she had no idea how she would live without her sister. Jet had embraced Franny and said, Everything worthwhile is dangerous, then she’d gone inside, leaving Franny in tears. It was only now that she understood what her sister meant. Franny had been the one meant to end the curse all along.

Ian took the path to the front door, then hacked through the vines. If you didn’t know there was a house standing here, you’d think there was nothing but an overgrown wood. The stink of left-handed magic hung in the air, bitter, yet somehow enticing. “You were supposed to wait for me,” he told Sally.

She blinked looking up at him and found herself thinking the most curious thing. Hadn’t she done that all of her life?

“You’re supposed to be helping us,” Gillian chimed in. “Where were you?”

“At the library. Doing research that concerns your family.” Ian handed Sally the information.

Franny came over to see what he’d discovered. “A few sentences,” she said, shaking her head. So little had been written about Hannah Owens it was as if she had never existed.

“Most didn’t even get that,” Ian responded. “If a woman doesn’t write her own history, there are very few who will.”

Sally leaned toward her sister. “What did he just say?”

“He’s talking about himself,” Gillian said. “His life’s work.”

“No. He’s talking about us.”

Since there was only one copy of My Life as a Witch in the library, Ian had photocopied the text. “You might want to take a look. Cora Wilkie lived here in the fifties and sixties when my mum was growing up. She’s still got a load of cousins in town. She lived out at the far point that’s more water than land.”

“I doubt I’ll have time for it,” Franny responded briskly. All the same, she was developing a soft spot for Ian. He was tall and lanky, with broad shoulders, as her Haylin had been and he liked to talk, a trait she’d always appreciated in a man. Why, Haylin wouldn’t stop talking for a minute; when they walked through town he would stop and speak to all of the neighbors they met, even the ones who were terrified of Franny. “You should write about those women who were never written about,” she told Ian.

Once again, he could see Franny as she’d been as a young woman. The long red hair, the freckles on her milky skin, the wide mouth set in a line when she was certain she knew the right thing to do. He’d felt quite empty now that he’d finished his book, adrift about what to do next.

“The lives of the witches in Essex,” he said, considering.

“Now you’re thinking,” Franny said. “Start with Cora. I’m sure she’ll manage to pay you back if you do.”

Ian leaned over and kissed Franny.

Gillian elbowed her sister, in shock. “Is he insane?”

“Possibly.” Sally waited for her aunt’s reaction.

To their surprise, Franny laughed. “It had better be good,” she told him.

“It will be. I’ll dedicate it to you.”

“Lord, no.”

Still, they could all see she was flattered. As for Franny, she noticed that Sally was staring, wide-eyed. Wake up, girl! Look at what is right in front of you. Is your heart beating too fast? Are you shaky when you see him and when you walk away? Well, that’s love all right, and it will still be there, even if you want to pretend it’s not.

Franny leaned in and kissed Ian’s cheek, then he was the one to laugh, and he bowed to her, as if she were a queen. Franny looked across the grass and nodded to Sally. You could live a little or you could live a lot.

Vincent walked around the house. No birds sang here, always a sign. He found the back door that was now all but covered with hedges, and made his way inside. He had often looked for sympathetic magic on the Lower East Side, the strong stuff that could intensify an enchantment. He recognized the wicked ingredients on the small kitchen table: black wax, pins, black thread, madder root, belladonna, the berries of lords and ladies, the heart of a dove, a strange white bone, ashes, a black candle. Vincent sat down and placed his hands on the table. Down paths, down roads, through the woods, through the village. And then nothing. The path he could see when he closed his eyes stopped in the woods.

Franny came looking for her brother. She sat across from him, her hands on the table, her fingers touching his, adding her power to his own. Take me wherever she might be, across the land or the water or out at sea. The table seemed to shudder, then it rose off the floor, faster than they expected, as if grateful for the release. They couldn’t hold on and could only watch as it hit the ceiling, sending bits of plaster fluttering down. Vincent stood to protect his sister, then brushed the dust from his coat. They’d been blocked by left-handed magic and the path turned to ash, making it clear Kylie could not be found this way.

When they went outside the thornbushes closed over the back door.