“Thanks for the ride.”
“Sure,” he said, eyes still closed.
“What time for brunch?”
“Brunch is at noon.”
She nodded. The car turned around and disappeared down the road.
She broke out in laughter. She had an invitation to the Willows. After weeks of dead ends, she would meet Carolyn Yates.
She looked at the Witch’s Thicket. With only the porch light of Ledge House on and without the glow of the moon, the trees were smudges of gray sketched against a charcoal background.
On the night of the new moon evil witches liked to dance against the treetops; that was what her great-grandmother used to say. They’d slip out of their human skins and grow wings, turn into balls of light, and cavort in the sky. The teyolloquani, the most fearsome of all, drank the blood of their victims and ate their hearts.
Nana Alba talked frequently about that type of witch in the last months of her life; she kept repeating the story about her own brother’s vanishing.
That’s what their name means, “heart eater,”Nana Alba had said.Listen, this story, you should hear it and learn how to fight them. About how to know them. Know the signs. A true witch is born, the day of their birth marks their path.
Minerva had promised she would memorize her great-grandmother’s tale. Maybe that’s why she wanted to write aboutghost stories, like Noah said. Some people might think it was silly to focus on horror fiction and the eerie disappearance of a girl in New England, but she’d grown up feasting on such narratives.
There were no warlocks haunting the treetops at Stoneridge, but there had been that curious feeling, the portent, and it had guided her to the party. Luck, perhaps, was at hand.
The night was deliciously calm as she stood looking at the trees. After the noise, the awful tumult of Patricia’s party, she could finally breathe. She hurried up the steps and opened the door, slipping into the comforting lonesomeness of the old house.
1908: 2
After the mass, severalfriends of the family were invited back to Piedras Quebradas for a cup of chocolate, including Mr. Molina, his wife, and his daughters. The girls gave Alba their condolences while everyone stood outside the church.
“But then your uncle Arturo intends to remain here?” the older one asked. “I thought he never wanted to be around for more than a week, let alone a month.”
“That’s because last time he was here you tried playing the piano,” the younger daughter said. “You destroyed the man’s eardrums.”
“I’ll have you know he didn’t complain about my playing, it was your silly flirting that irritated him. Tell her, Alba.”
“You’re both fine players,” Alba said. “And, if you must know, my uncle is here to help us.”
“My, Valentín looks handsome in his new hat today,” the younger sister said, distracted and craning her neck to look over the girls’ shoulders at the strong young man with glossy black hair and an effortless mirth. That day he’d donned his nicest jacket and his shirt was buttoned up to his chin, but he still looked like a rugged farm boy who’d taken a day off from rounding up the sheep and feeding the horses. He was no Paris wooing Helen, certainly no Cupid whose arrows might inflame the soul.
Valentín worked at the Molinas’ farm. His uncle was Mr. Molina’s overseer. Alba had known him since she was a young girl. Together with Tadeo, they’d played at skipping stones by the river, swum together, and even shot targets, either with a rifle or with her father’s pistol. But it had been a long time since Alba’s mother had allowed her to grab a rifle from the case and accompany the boys during their target practice. It was not ladylike, and she had become a lady.
Besides, now that their father had passed away, Tadeo kept the pistol in his room and didn’t have time for practice shooting. Running the farm consumed his hours.
Valentín had a rich, full laugh and a pleasing-enough face, though Alba wasn’t sure he could be called handsome.
“Now you’re being even sillier,” the older sister said. “Valentín is Alba’s sweetheart.”
“He is not!” Alba said, scandalized by such a bold proclamation.
“He would be if he could. Everyone knows he was going to ask your father for your hand in marriage, but then Mr. Quiroga died. Now the poor thing must wait a full year to speak to your mother; it wouldn’t be proper to have a wedding when the family’s still in mourning,” the older sister said piously, and made the sign of the cross.
“Many things may happen in a year, especially if someone hasn’t expressed their intent,” the younger sister said, smiling coquettishly.
“Not when little chits go around flirting with every boy in town. Then no one proposes to them because they’re too fickle.”
“Who are you calling a chit?”
Alba adjusted her shawl while the girls bickered. Valentín smiled eagerly and walked their way.
