“Oh, dear, how did you ever get here?” she asked. “How did you know Lionel was here? Never mind, I’m glad to see you.”
Abigail came up to us.
“Abigail, what are you doing here?” Mrs. Twiggs asked.
Abigail spoke the words I had told her earlier, “Beatrice, I hope someday Albert will say good morning back to you. “
“What are you talking about?” she asked, her face turning pale white.
“Terra told me how each morning for the past 10 years before opening the shop you stop and stare at your husband’s photograph and say good morning.”
“How could you know this? No one has ever seen me do that.”
“Terra has. She’s watched you every day.”
Mrs. Twiggs lifted me up to her face, staring into my eyes. “Her name is Terra?”
“Yes, Terra Rowan,” Abigail said. “She is a witch turned into a cat.”
“Abigail, I don’t know how you know these things but I’m very worried about you.” Once again, Mrs. Twiggs looked into my eyes. “If you understand me, blink once.”
I blinked.
Mrs. Twiggs looked over at Abigail. “That’s coincidence. It can’t be possible. Why do you believe that you can understand her?”
“I don’t know. I stopped trying to figure it out. At some point it makes more sense to believe the unbelievable than to deny the inevitable.”
Mrs. Twiggs thought for a moment and then said, “Ask her. Ask Terra what I made for Emily the other day.”
I told Abigail who translated. “Mrs. Tangledwood was suffering from chilled bones. I guess she means arthritis. You made her a morning tea with herbs including nettle leaves and told her to take a warm bath with a lace blue agate pendant.”
Mrs. Twiggs like timber being felled to the ground, waving her arms madly trying to catch herself. She drew short, shallow breaths, unable to gather enough air into her lungs. She reached inside her purse and retrieved a small silver flask and took a long drink. “Are you OK?” Abigail asked, grabbing her arm and shoulder. I jumped onto her lap, purring and nuzzling.
“This can’t be,” Mrs. Twiggs said. “Why are you doing this to me, Abigail?”
“Terra and I need your help,” Abigail said. Before she could answer, Pixel came up over emitting his nonsense noises and dropping a squirrel at our feet. “Pixel catch dinner,” he said, his tail wagging. The squirrel bit Pixel’s nose and took off.
“Does this cat talk too?”
“Sort of.”
Mrs. Twiggs stood up and brushed off her black suit. “I think you all should come to the ladies of the Biltmore Society meeting tonight. They’re going to want to meet you.”
Ladies of the Biltmore Society
Pixel climbed up Mrs. Twiggs’ leg as she placed the three-tier cookie tray on the table. “Now, now, little one.” Mrs. Twiggs pulled Pixel off her leg and set him on the ground. She was finalizing preparations for her club. Abigail had helped, steeping tea. I lay on the window seat, soaking up the last of the late afternoon sun. Soon the cars would pull up in front of the building, large luxury vehicles like Mercedes, BMWs and Cadillacs. Then the women would pile out. The ladies of the Biltmore Society met once a month coincidentally or not on nights of the full moon. I was anxious to be an insider to the event. I had pictured dark-hooded robes, candlelight, and whispered passwords. Truth be told the ladies appeared in their Lilly Pulitzer, Eileen Fisher and St. John. First Mrs. Stickman, her name suited her. She was as thin as a rail, her back slightly bent depleted from years of calcium deficiency, her chin sharp as a chisel, her eyes sunken into her face, her hair grizzled and gray. Next came Jean Branchworthy as wide as a sequoia trunk, her hair fire red, her moon pie face was pleasant but her brown eyes held a fierceness. Nupur Bartlett, a small woman of East Indian descent. I had read many books on the East Indian culture, Hindu and their religions. She was dressed not in a sari but in a tailored St. John woven linen suit. Her long, dark hair hung straight down her back. As Mrs. Bartlett took Mrs. Tangledwood’s hand to help her up the front stairs, I noticed Mrs. Tangledwood’s perfectly manicured nails and a large emerald ring flashing in the sunlight. Gwendolyn Birchbark smiled kindly both at Mrs. Tangledwood and myself. She knelt down and scratched behind my ears. She had a kind face and a warm smile, a Chinese woman of elegance and refinement. Caroline Bowers, was next, her freckled face was peeling from sun exposure, a gift of her Irish heritage. Wanda Raintree bore the traces of her Cherokee ancestors, including a hint of sadness in her eyes. Mrs. June Loblolly’s statuesque bearing bore the traces of her supermodel past. Around her neck hung a gold chain with a Valkyrie pendant. A spry 70, she was the youngest of the ladies. Like Biltmore Forest they represented regions from around the world drawn to this spot--just as I was. Their ceremonial hats adorned with wreaths of fresh flowers and silver ribbons. Each unique yet similar.
Mrs. Twiggs donned her flowered hat. All the ladies gathered in the dining room at the long farmer’s table and took their places, Mrs. Twiggs at the head of the table. Instead of extinguishing candles, Mrs. Twiggs dimmed the crystal chandelier. Abigail poured tea for all the ladies, eight in all, nine including Mrs. Twiggs. I wondered if it was coincidence, for nine is the number of a closed coven. In my day at that table would have sat Constance, Hester, Sarah, Rebecca, Felicity, Hannah, myself, Prudence and at the head Elizabeth.
Mrs. Twiggs read from a large brown leather-bound volume that was worn from use. “In 1880, George W. Vanderbilt, a young man of 25, came upon the perfect spot in North Carolina’s Blue Ridge mountains for a 250-room French Renaissance chateau to be built by his friend, architect Richard Morris Hunt. The great chateau would be called Biltmore.”
The ladies sipped their tea and hurrahed. Mrs. Twiggs continued reading, “Of all the majesty of the great estate, the truly outstanding achievement would be the great work of master landscaper Frederick Law Olmsted. He created a setting where Franklinia and Persian ironwood trees grow side by side with mountain laurel, rhododendron, native azaleas and white pines. A full acre walled garden with 50,000 tulips each spring and chrysanthemum in the autumn and of course the all-American rose garden. But Olmsted’s genius didn’t stop there. To confuse and impress Vanderbilt’s esteemed guests he planted secret gardens of exotic plants from around the world.”
The ladies all hurrahed.
“Bamboo trees from the Orient. Baobab trees from Madagascar. Cork from the Mediterranean. Rare species of flora. Making the Biltmore a crossroads to the world,” Mrs. Twiggs continued reading.
As Mrs. Twiggs’ spoke, I found my eyelids growing heavy. The air became thick and my breathing labored. My body screamed for sleep.
“We are at a crossroads,” Elizabeth’s voice echoed in my ear. We were seated at the pine table in her dining room. Candles glowed as we all watched Elizabeth in her place at the head of the table. I knew I was dreaming but I couldn’t tell if the dream world was the Leaf & Page or Elizabeth’s farmhouse. Stepping between worlds I lost my foothold in reality.
Her aunt Agatha had already retired for the evening. Elizabeth’s parents had not survived the brutal winter, leaving her in her aunt’s care. The real cause of their death was not known to the coven even Elizabeth questioned the circumstance. In spite of the tragedy, Elizabeth remained steadfast in her devotion to our coven. “Salem town will continue to tax the village until we are all in debtor’s prison. This year the crops look to be as dismal as last. Both the townsfolk and the farmers blame witchcraft. Sitting at this table, we know differently but to try to convince the humans would give us away.” Elizabeth stood. “We must ever be on watch, careful not to reveal ourselves. I have made preparations for the harvest. There is a book of incantations that, when spoken aloud, will guarantee a good harvest. It comes with a price. This magic is neither white nor black. For that reason, I alone will be casting these spells. The book has not been opened in more than 10 centuries. It wields such great power that no one witch can control it. It would take the force of a closed nine, but you’re all too young, inexperienced. None of you have wanded yet. Only the Oakhaven bloodline dare try,” Elizabeth said.