Prologue
What is history but a fable agreed
upon?
—NAPOLEON BONAPARTE
In summer, when Grand’s roses spilled
like scarlet blankets over the high stone walls, filling the air
with their unique, almost unbearably beautiful scent, our yard was
the talk of the neighborhood. As opposed to the house itself, which
was year-round fodder for gossip and speculation of a far less
complimentary nature.
Cars slowed when they passed the ramshackle yet
somehow still regal old Victorian where my parents, my younger
sister, Chloe, and I lived with my grandmother. Time and nature had
conspired to batter the once brightly painted clapboards to the
color of faded orchids and turn the ornate trim smoky rose. In
another place and time, Oz perhaps, the house might have blended
in, but in a sea of homes wearing staid coats of white or gray, it
was a beacon of weirdness. Kids would pedal their bikes for blocks
to check out the moat of prickly, overgrown shrubs,
gargoyle-crowned downspouts and the portentous weather vane—a black
iron raven with red-jeweled eyes and outspread wings—perched atop
the turret. They were careful to restrict their ogling to the other
side of the street, not even the bravest daring to venture too
close to what was commonly known as “the witch’s house.” Of all the
crazy rumors that circulated about my grandmother, that was the
most ridiculous of all. As anyone who bothered to research the
Celtic protection symbols set in paving stones at each entrance
could have told you, 128 Sycamore was clearly the house of an
enchantress.
Few people have heard of, much less understand,
the power of enchantment. Say the word “enchanted” and most folks
think of a favorite Disney movie; say “enchantress” and it’s likely
that one of two visions will dance in their heads: the first, pure
slinky evil, dressed in black spandex; the second, an ethereal
beauty with long golden tresses and a swirling rainbow of gossamer
veils.
I’m not evil. I’m also not a blonde, and the only
time I wore a gossamer veil was when I was seven and the veil was
lime green and attached to my fairy princess Halloween costume. And
sadly, while I like to think that beauty is in the eye of the
beholder, I’m sure whatever beauty I might possess doesn’t come
close to the “ethereal” classification. I am, however, an
enchantress. A genuine, honest-to-goodness, nonpracticing
enchantress . . . emphasis on the “nonpracticing.”
The power of enchantment isn’t something you
learn or acquire . . . or, I might add, ask for. It’s a blood
right, meaning you’re either born with it or you’re not. In the
case of my family, this rare power has been passed in T’airna blood
from mother to daughter since . . . well, brace yourself because as
incredible as it sounds, since forever, also known as “the time
before time.” Of course, I can’t prove any of this with
legal documents or carbon dating or historical accounts, but then,
I don’t have to. Those who know the truth know, and those who don’t
are better off that way.
An enchantress’s power is pure and inimitable,
rooted not in witchcraft but in ancient magic now very nearly
extinct. It comes from within. You’re probably wondering if there
are spells involved. Sometimes. There’s also an assortment of other
magical trappings to call on: crystals and talismans and amulets,
special incantations and rituals; but all these are mere tools
designed to enhance and channel the power that flows from deep
within. And then there is the Book of Enchantment, the magical
equivalent of a family Bible. It’s there that I first encountered
the Winter Rose Spell, one of my family’s oldest and most
treasured.
The spell is said to have inspired the romantic
folk legend, which in turn inspired poet John Keats to write The
Eve of Saint Agnes. According to legend, if a maiden performs a
certain painstaking ritual she will be granted a vision of the man
destined to be her one true love. The particulars of the ritual
varied with time and place, everything from fasting and glancing
backwards into a looking glass at bedtime, to weaving a lover’s
knot and sleeping with it tucked beneath a silken pillow. In time
the folklore came to be associated with Saint Agnes’ Eve, but never
did it come close to matching the power of the spell itself.
The actual spell calls on the four elements of
nature to fuse spheres of positive and negative energy into a
single, seamless and very potent flow of time and space. Like I
said, I can’t prove it. Hell, I can’t even explain it. All I can
tell you is that it’s not something that happens every day. In
fact, it’s only possible on a single night, and then only if the
spell is executed flawlessly, down to the most miniscule detail.
That night is January 20, Saint Agnes’ Eve and, according to family
legend, the coldest night of the year.
I came across the spell by chance, if you believe
in such a thing, written in a flowing, ornate hand on yellowed
parchment and tucked deep inside the Book of Enchantment. Back then
I loved everything about the heavy, oversized book with its
worn-soft leather binding and the mysterious, heady aroma that
wafted from its delicate pages; most of all I loved the solid
comforting weight of it in my lap when I curled up in the
overstuffed chair in Grand’s turret hideaway.
The only time I got to pore through it to my
heart’s content was when my parents weren’t around. My mother
wanted no part of what Grand insisted was our sacred birthright.
She’d spent her entire life hiding the truth from others, desperate
to fit in, to be “normal.” She even managed to keep my father in
the dark until after their whirlwind courtship and elopement. They
were married nearly a year before she ran out of plausible
explanations for Grand’s sometimes, shall we say, unorthodox
behavior and was forced to come clean.
In my mother’s mind, being normal meant having
normal children, and she made it clear she didn’t want Chloe and me
contaminated by magic, insisting it would only lead to trouble and
ruin our lives. My father was even more irrational about what he
referred to as Grand’s “wacky hocus-pocus crap.” Magic was a
constant source of arguments and stress, and so for the sake of
household harmony all things magical were kept pretty much under
wraps when he was around. Which, for one reason or another, wasn’t
always that much. To be honest, my folks were usually too caught up
in the drama of their own lives to pay much attention to
ours.
That was a good thing, since it wasn’t easy for
Grand to censor herself, especially under her own roof; she was an
extremely strong-willed woman who would have greatly preferred to
turn her irksome son-in-law into a cocktail olive and drive a
plastic toothpick through his heart. Grand and my father shared
what you might call a mutual disdain society. It was only his
frequent threats to move out—or more accurately, to move out taking
my mother, my sister and me with him—that forced her to reluctantly
walk a fine line between pacifying him and doing whatever she damn
well pleased.
On the day I found the spell, my folks had taken
Chloe, who was nine, to see Cinderella, which meant I had
Grand and the Book of Enchantment all to myself for the afternoon.
Even before I finished reading it, I knew the spell was going to
change my life forever. It was as if the simple act of unfolding
the fragile parchment permitted the words to float free and become
part of me, like a promise written on my heart.
Ancient power burning bright,
Illuminate thru time this night,
The path of passion twined with fate,
That my heart might see the love who waits.
Illuminate thru time this night,
The path of passion twined with fate,
That my heart might see the love who waits.
The path of passion twined with fate . . .
The words set fire to my fifteen-year-old imagination. It wasn’t
hard to persuade Grand to help me with the spell. It broke her
heart that her only daughter had turned her back on magic, and it
was no secret she had high hopes for me. She was convinced my
birthmark, a Celtic cross over my heart, was a sign of destiny and
foretold great things for my future.
I found the spell in late November, which meant I
had only seven weeks to master it. Grand and I spent hours secreted
away in the turret while she taught me to cast a sacred circle and
to weave an infinity knot from twigs of willow and red ribbon so
fine it slipped through my fingers like warm honey. In spite of my
parents’ efforts to “protect” me from Grand’s magic, I’d seen her
float teacups across the room, start fires in the hearth or change
the color of the clothes on my back with no more than a glance and
a few musical phrases. Now, for the first time, she actually spoke
to me about magic and what it meant to be an enchantress.
I was like a dry sponge tossed into the ocean; I
absorbed every word, and the more I learned and understood, the
more mystified I was about my parents’ opposition to something so
utterly, amazingly cool. And the more convinced I became that they
were dead wrong about magic, the more eager I was to embrace it
with a vengeance. I would make up for their
shortsightedness. In fact, I would single-handedly prove to them
how wrong they were about magic and our family heritage and
everything. Who knows? That might even be one of the great deeds
Grand was so certain I was destined to perform.
Until then my parents remained Obstacle Number
One on my road to successful spell-casting. With January 20 rapidly
approaching, I needed a foolproof plan to get them out of the house
for the entire evening. I considered and rejected a dozen ideas
before hitting upon the perfect solution. Cats. My Christmas
present to them that year was a pair of front-row seats to see
Cats in Boston. The tickets cleaned out my meager savings,
but it was well worth it. I figured dinner, a two-hour performance,
plus the fifty-minute drive each way would buy me more than enough
time to do what I had to do.
As the night drew closer, Grand’s lessons focused
on the spell itself.
One for magic. One for power. One for seeing
in this hour.
One for seeing in this hour . . . The
prospect of glimpsing my one true love excited and terrified me in
just about equal parts. But I was ready. I just hoped
he—whoever and wherever he was—was ready for me. My
mother had traded who she was—or could have been—for love, and I
was determined not to make the same mistake. I refused to believe
her warning that it was an either-or proposition. I fully intended
to claim my power and find true love.
Of course, historically the odds were against me,
something else my mother was quick to point out at every
opportunity. When it came to romance, T’airna women had been
plagued by broken promises, broken vows and broken hearts. The only
man Grand had ever loved died on the battlefield without ever
knowing she carried his child. And while I never doubted my parents
loved each other, in their own stressful way, their relationship
was more about passion and melodrama than genuine happiness and
understanding. It was a bad-luck streak that stretched back as far
as anyone could remember, and it was one family tradition Grand was
reluctant to talk about.
I intended to change all that as well. No weak,
close-minded, unadventurous soul mate for me. I wanted a man strong
enough to accept and love everything about me, a man willing to
understand and deal with the fact that the world isn’t always
exactly as it appears on the surface. A man who believed in destiny
as much as I did. And I couldn’t wait to sprinkle rose petals into
the circle of candlelight and see his face.
For the record, I never stopped believing in
destiny, or magic for that matter. I’ve simply stopped thinking
about them and allowing them to influence the choices I make. Of
course, when I say I’ve stopped thinking about them, I’m referring
to conscious, intentional thoughts only. Memories are an entirely
different matter and much harder to control. Memories are stubborn
and subversive; they laugh in the face of willpower and
determination, hunkering down, making a home for themselves in some
tiny, out-of-the-way corner of your heart, always waiting for a
quiet moment when you lower your guard so they can claim center
stage.
I remember what happened with icy clarity. All I
have to do is close my eyes and I’m back on Sycamore Street on that
crystal cold January night.
It had been storming on and off all day, and I
remember looking out the kitchen window at the snow-clad cedars
strung like hulking snowmen across the back of the yard and, for
the first time since undertaking the spell, contemplating the
all-too-real prospect of frostbite. In keeping with tradition I
would wear a white robe and walk barefoot through the snow to pluck
a rose from the bush that grew at the very heart of my
grandmother’s garden. Thoughts of my toes and how much I enjoyed
having five of them on each foot were suddenly foremost in my
mind.
As I watched the drifts grow higher, I recalled
Grand’s instructions and wondered how I was going to manage to
concentrate and focus inward when all I could see
outward was snow, a fluffy, sparkly, icy white reminder that
this was Providence, as in Rhode Island, as in New England, land of
Robert Frost and Jack Frost and every other kind of frost known to
man, a place where roses do not bloom in the middle of January. Not
even roses wild and headstrong enough to survive being uprooted
from the rugged terrain of western Ireland and carried across the
ocean in the bottom of Grand’s trusty valise.
Not in the snow. Not as a rule.
“And whose rule would that be?” was her response
when I nervously broached the subject.
Whose rule indeed?
That night, as always, Grand radiated
self-assurance that was effortless, bone deep and as genuine as the
brogue that still laced her speech. To me, her voice had always
been like a magic carpet; all I had to do was close my eyes and
listen to be whisked away to places other people couldn’t even
imagine, to a world she alone could conjure. In the whole universe,
only Grand could have convinced me that if I truly believed there
would be a single, freshly bloomed white rose waiting for me in the
garden that night, there would be. And that nothing, not a sky full
of snow or the coldest New England winter on record or all the laws
of nature and physics combined, would interfere.
As the day wore on, I began to worry about more
practical matters, such as my parents coming down with a sudden
case of severe common sense and deciding not to risk the drive to
Boston. That would ruin everything. My father was especially
restless, even for him, chain-smoking and pacing around the house,
stopping every few minutes to glance out a different window. But in
the end, he was the one who overrode my mother’s qualms, insisting
that instead of canceling their big night out, they should get on
the road early. I could barely keep from dancing in happy little
circles as I stood in the doorway with Grand and Chloe and waved
good-bye to them. My biggest worry was out of the way, and all I
had left to do was shovel the path and count the seconds until the
clock struck nine.
At last the appointed hour arrived and I stepped
alone into the snow-covered backyard. It took an immense amount of
sheer will to ignore the biting cold—not to mention scary thoughts
of what was rustling in a nearby bush—and concentrate instead on
the moment at hand. Among the zillion and one things Grand had
drilled into me was that for the spell to succeed, I had to totally
surrender to the intention of each individual moment. If I tried to
hold on to the moment before or anticipate the one to follow, it
would fail . . . I would fail.
And I flat-out refused to fail.
Intention, I reminded myself over and over, think
intention.
Reality bends to desire.
That’s really what it was all about; four simple
words that encompass the timeless mystery at the core of an
enchantress’s power. Grand told me to think of it as a portal that
would open within when the alignment of heart and head and hour was
right. I had only one teensy problem with that scenario; I needed
the alignment to be right on a very tight schedule. Assuming there
was a rose to be found, I had to pluck it, get upstairs to the
turret room where Grand and Chloe were waiting, cast the spell—with
all the flawless intention, chanting and focusing required—and
still have the house aired out and every last trace of
incriminating evidence cleared away before my parents got
home.
I paused at the top of the frost-kissed gravel
path leading to the rose garden and drew a deep breath, fighting to
clear my mind and overlook the snow squishing up between my toes.
It was all up to me now. If something was going to happen, it would
be because I willed it to, because I wanted it and wanted it badly
enough to bring it about.
“Reality bends to desire. Reality bends to
desire.”
I spoke the words aloud, slowly and emphatically
and with my teeth chattering. I closed my eyes, and as Grand had
taught me I imagined my thoughts gathering like a funnel cloud,
which I then directed toward the path ahead. When I opened my eyes
the snow was still there, but the sensation of stinging cold was
gone. I took a step and the ground beneath my feet felt solid and
warm. I felt warm.
Reality bends to desire.
It was true! That amazing realization propelled
me forward, past the frozen frog pond and sleeping patches of
foxglove and wild mint. I carried a white candle, anointed with
coriander oil and encircled with the infinity knot I’d woven that
afternoon, to light my way.
I remember that the knot was perfect. It was all
perfect, and just like the day I’d discovered the spell, I knew
even before I reached the garden’s innermost circle that the rose
would be there. Waiting. Glowing as softly as the pale moon that
had suddenly appeared and hovered between clouds directly
overhead.
Hanging at my waist was a silver-handled athame,
a family heirloom I used to cut the stem with a single stroke, as
effortlessly as if I’d done it a thousand times before, and it was
in that instant that I felt it for the first time, flowing around
me and through me. Power. Pure. Dazzling. Mine. I could hear it,
smell it, taste it.
Time flowed as well, carrying me up the stairs to
the candlelit turret room, where with the same ease and grace I
cast the sacred circle and did what I had been waiting so long to
do, what I’d dreamed of doing, what I’d been born to do.
Fire, Water, Earth and Wind.
End to beginning, beginning to end.
End to beginning, beginning to end.
In this place and in this hour,
I call upon your grace and power.
I call upon your grace and power.
With winter rose and candle fire,
I seek true sight and heart’s desire
I seek true sight and heart’s desire
As petals fall, this spell’s begun,
As I say, let it be done.
As I say, let it be done.
And that’s where my memory stops. Fade to black.
I know I cast the spell and saw a vision in the flames. I know my
parents arrived home earlier than expected, and that Grand and
Chloe and I had to scramble to cover our traces and make it into
our beds before they walked in. I know all that because I’ve been
told; I just don’t remember any of it. Whatever memories there
might have been are gone, burned to nothingness by what happened
afterwards.
A matter of self-preservation? Or guilt? Maybe.
Probably. I don’t know. I only know that if my life was a book,
that long-ago night put an end to the chapter titled
“Innocence.”