“Whom are you talking about, June?”
“Mrs. Lund. I was to meet her here to talk about my family history during the Civil War.” She held up a family bible. “I brought our history with me.”
“Oh, June, I didn’t know.” The teacup in Mrs. Twiggs’s hand shook.
“What are you stammering on about, Beatrice?”
“Come by the fire.” They sat in the wing-back chairs on either side of the marble-encased fireplace. “Mrs. Lund is dead.”
“Beatrice, what are you talking about?”
Mrs. Twiggs hesitated before saying, “She was killed in the storage room of the Biltmore. I was there last night. I saw her.”
“Oh, Beatrice, this is horrible.” Mrs. Loblolly reached across and took Mrs. Twiggs’s hands in hers. “What happened?”
Mrs. Twiggs shook her head and pulled out her handkerchief again, dabbing at her eyes.
The silver bell over the transom tinkled in greeting as Miss Hartwell came in wearing sensible rubber shoes and an inexpensive navy-blue dress. Her mousy brown hair was tied back in a bun. The makeup she wore was applied sparingly to take away from her sunken eyes and crow’s-feet. She looked worse for wear since I had last seen her. I had never seen her in such disarray.
“Miss Hartwell, thank you for coming,” Mrs. Twiggs said as she rose out of the chair. She gave her a hug. “Please have some tea.” Mrs. Twiggs poured her a cup.
“Thank you, Mrs. Twiggs. I wanted to check on Charlotte,” Miss Hartwell said.
“Abigail, go upstairs and see if Charlotte can come down,” Mrs. Twiggs said.
I followed Abigail up the stairs. Before she could knock on the door, it swung open. Charlotte stood in front of us in the same clothes she had on the day before.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“Miss Hartwell is asking about you.”
Charlotte sighed, shrugged, and said, “She wants me to stay at the estate. I’m not comfortable there. It’s not my style.”
“Come talk to her,” Abigail said.
We joined Miss Hartwell, Mrs. Twiggs, and Mrs. Loblolly in the kitchen where Mrs. Twiggs had put out a tray of sandwiches. Mrs. Twiggs stared at Abigail. I wondered too how much Miss Hartwell knew of the secret of the Ladies of the Biltmore Society.
“Charlotte, I think you should come back to the estate,” Miss Hartwell said. “I need your help in sorting through Mrs. Tangledwood’s things. You might want a memento.”
Charlotte shrugged.
“Mr. Bridgestone, your aunt’s attorney, wants to sit down with you to review the conditions of the will,” Miss Hartwell added.
Abigail nudged her. “Okay,” Charlotte said.
“He wants to meet early tomorrow. It’s probably best if you stay at the estate,” Miss Hartwell said.
Charlotte turned to Abigail with an eye roll. “Okay, fine,” she said.
Mrs. Twiggs escorted them out the door and flipped the closed sign. Abigail grabbed her laptop and plopped down on the sofa in the living room. I jumped on the back of the couch. Abigail appeared to be watching a TV show. “What is this, Abigail?”
“I’m doing research. It’s called Bewitched. I’ve been binge-watching it,” Abigail said. “Wait, Terra, you’ll like this episode. She goes back to Salem.”
I was intrigued, so I snuggled down with my head on her shoulder. It did not look like the Salem I remembered. Nor did the people behave as they had in my day. We watched several episodes after that one. I was intrigued by the human portrayal of witches. Abigail twitched her nose, and a Diet Coke flew to her hand from the refrigerator.
“No, Abigail,” I said. “That’s not how it’s done.”
“Come on, Terra, lighten up.”
“Who’s that?” I asked.
“That’s Samantha’s husband, Darrin.”
“He doesn’t look like the Darrin from the last episode.”
“There’s two Darrins.”
“She has two husbands?” I asked.
“No, they switched Darrins midseason.”
“Oh.” Television comedies made no sense to me. I’d only seen them once or twice. If the elders back in Salem Town had seen flying pictures through the air, everyone watching would have been on trial. Then a thought occurred to me. “You could learn from Samantha, Abigail. She’s always getting in trouble performing magic in front of humans.”
Pixel joined me on the back of the couch. “Grumpy Cat,” he said.
“No, we’re not watching Grumpy Cat again.”
“Grumpy Cat, Terra.”
“After we finish this show, okay?” Sometimes it was best to give in to Pixel.
“Okay,” he said, but he was fast asleep in seconds. The last episode we watched, Samantha the witch was flying on a broom. Abigail grunted and gave me a dirty look. I let out a meow laugh and fell asleep.
Chapter 11
Pixel Makes a Friend
Agatha Hollows Cabin,
Black Mountain
“This is going to work this time. I know it, Terra.” Abigail stirred the potion boiling on the potbellied stove.
I appreciated her enthusiasm but didn’t share her faith. There was only one person who could turn me back to my real self, and Elizabeth was lost to me. I had seen her twice in the past three hundred years, and the second was when she came to protect her great-granddaughter, Abigail. She had come and gone so quickly that my moment was lost. Even if she had the power to turn me back, she was in a different realm of existence. Her powers might not transfer to this world.
“Try it, Terra.”
I took a sip and spit it out. The witch hazel was bitter to the tongue.
Pixel sniffed, grunted, and walked away.
“Where did you find this potion, Abigail?”
Abigail ran into the bedroom and retrieved a book. I recognized it as the one she had found under the floorboards.
“How were you able to translate that potion?”
Abigail smiled. “I placed the book up to a mirror, and the words unscrambled. I could read the directions in the mirror.”
The simplest answers are usually the best. I never would have thought of that.
“It’s a transformation potion Agatha Hollows used to help the dying pass from this world to the next. I thought maybe it would help you return to your true self in this world.”
“Agatha used that potion to comfort the dying to reaffirm that there was a life after this one.”
“Did it work?”
“No, but it provided comfort to them and their families.”
Pixel’s cries drew us outside. Tracker stood over the orange cat, his mouth around the cat’s neck.
“Tracker, no,” Abigail scolded. Pixel swatted him on the nose and took off into the woods. I chased him across the stream toward the valley, which was full of spring blooms, irises, and daffodils.
Pixel rolled about the flowers, giggling. “Tickle. Flowers tickle.” He was remarkably fast for a fluffy cat.
The mountain laurels were starting to bloom pinks and whites. Pixel jumped and ran into the hollow beyond the valley. Lush green moss ran along the stream that flowed past the cabin and into the French Broad River. He stopped and stared.
“Pixel, what is it?”
“Pixel, friend.” He turned his head back to gaze at me. I could see his smile as a pink-and-purple butterfly fluttered over his shoulder.
On the stream’s shore bloomed fern leaf yarrow, red valerian, cosmos, rosemary, thyme, purple coneflower, pincushion scabiosa, French lavender, and heliotrope. It was a garden. Butterflies danced about, landing from one beautiful flower to another. “Butterflies are beautiful, Pixel.”
“No, Pixel’s friend.”
“I’m sure the butterflies like you, Pixel.” I hid my sarcasm. I tried not to deflate Pixel’s enthusiasm.
The large purple-and-white butterfly landed on his nose. He giggled, trying to stand still. The butterfly flew off and joined the monarchs, the silver-spotted skippers, pipevine swallowtails. Agatha Hollows never would have planted a butterfly garden. Not that she didn’t appreciate their beauty, but she was a practical woman. There was no medicinal property to these flowers. This garden hadn’t been planted with that purpose. We sat for hours, watching the butterflies, mesmerized by their flight and their beauty. My cat instincts screaming at me to catch one, I held back. I held all life sacred even the mice I had to eat when I was starving. I made quick of them to spare their suffering. I hated that part of my life. The more Abigail tried to change me back, the more I hated being a cat. Even the slightest hope brings despair. But I cannot resolve myself to this eternity of this creature’s body. I wish I had the bliss of ignorance like Pixel. He is what he is, and that’s enough for him.