She shoved a wooden crate off her legs. It had been filled with old shoes, clothes and hats, none of it salvageable. She and Minnie had already investigated the attic last June when they’d first moved in. She lifted the box and set it on top of a trunk and was just turning to pick up the empty bucket off the floor, when a book fell onto the floor right in front of her.
A book. There were never enough books to read in the house. It was a heavy, leather-bound book and so aged, the binding was falling off its spine. Portia forgot about the bucket and the leaks. She took the book and hurried back to the window so she could inspect it better in the light.
The book was handwritten. The paper was yellow and brittle. She had to be careful with it. There were pages and pages of writing. Perhaps poetry? She adored poetry—
“It’s recipes,” she said, disappointed. She frowned again, attempting to decipher the faded handwriting. Yes, recipes, but not the sort she was familiar with. “How to remove warts,” she read and then curled her lip in distaste at theinstructions to make a mash of onions and potatoes and apply to the wart for no less than ten days. “The whole poultice will stink after that period of time,” she mumbled to herself. She turned a few more pages, and her imagination was captured. There were recipes for strawberry wine and what to say when surrounded by a toadstool ring to protect one’s self against evil. Who would have imagined toadstool rings were evil?
“ ‘Queen of the Meadow, take this evil from this house,’ ” Portia chanted and then hummed her disbelief. She wasn’t superstitious. Toadstool rings were toadstool rings. They harbored no magic, or at least not the ones she tromped through.
She flipped more pages and found one that was wrinkled and the ink smeared as if someone had shed tears over the recipe titled, “To Reclaim True Love.” The word “Charles” had been written in the margin. The name wasn’t in the same handwriting as the recipe, so perhaps this spell had been used. Perhaps some woman, years earlier, had pined for Charles.
Portia wondered if, after the spell, he’d come back to her. And if he’d been worth it!
Love was a mystery to Portia. Her sister was in love with Mr. Oliver Tolliver, the valley’s physician, but who knew what would become of it.Right now, Minnie was pining because Mr. Tolliver had not called in three days. Portia thought the man was busy with his duties. A doctor was always at the beck and call of his patients, and she’d told Minnie as much. Minnie was not convinced. She feared he had lost interest.
Portia herself had never been in love, and after witnessing Minnie’s miserableness waiting for Mr. Tolliver these past few days, was grateful to have been spared. Then again, her father had taught her well that men could be selfish creatures with no thought of using women and then discarding them. After all, wasn’t that what he’d done with his own family?
Of course, since she was seven and twenty and lacked a dowry, the likelihood of Portia ever marrying was long past. She was a penniless spinster, an old maid. She’d made her peace with it.
That didn’t mean that she didn’t find this love spell fascinating—
Her thought broke off with insight. Love spell? Yes, this was a book of spells.
Fascinated, Portia flipped through more pages. The toadstool chant wasn’t the only spell that made her chuckle. There were spells to rid a house of demons—she should share these with Reverend Ogilvy—and to keep people she didn’tlike from crossing her path. She wondered if she could use that on the daughter of her landlord the duke. The very pampered and petty Lady Emma, daughter of the Duke of Moncrieffe, had lorded over the valley as the reigning beauty until the Macleans had arrived. Minnie had usurped her place, and Lady Emma was not happy.
On the inside front cover page of the book was a list of women’s names. Most were unreadable. However, the last one on the list caught Portia’s eye.Fenella. If ever there was a witch’s name, Fenella was one.
At that moment, Portia’s musings were interrupted by the sound of a small meow.
Portia cocked her head, unsure if she had heard correctly. How could a cat find its way into the attic?
As if answering her question, a small white cat climbed onto the lid of a trunk close to Portia’s right hand.
Or at least she thought it was a cat. The body, tail, and sweet face were all catlike. However, the ears were different. They folded over, giving her head a flat roundness, much like the shape of an owl’s.
The ears weren’t the animal’s only different feature. She had the largest, most expressive eyesPortia had ever seen on a kitty. They, too, were owlish in expression: all-knowing, all-wise ... with a touch of almost human understanding.
Portia shook her head, thinking she was being far too fanciful now.
The cat jumped to the floor. She walked around Portia’s skirts and rubbed her face in them, purring softly.
Portia was charmed. She set the book aside and picked the animal up. Kitty weighed next to nothing. “So you are the culprit for the knot on my head.” Portia smiled and the cat seemed to smile in return. “What beautiful eyes you have, kitty.”
The cat closed her eyes and rubbed her cheek against Portia’s hand, begging for a pet.
“Would you like some milk?”
Those expressive eyes came open. The cat made a sound that could only be interpreted as agreement and leaped down from Portia’s arms. She trotted to the stairs before turning as if to ask Portia if she was coming.
“I suppose you do,” Portia said with a laugh. “But wait. I must put this bucket in place.”
She carried the bucket to the corner of the attic. The cat waited for her to finish the chore, taking a moment to gracefully groom herself.
A pet was exactly what Portia needed. She andMinnie had never had one. Her mother wasn’t fond of animals.
But they were in Scotland now, her father’s ancestral home. Their lives had changed in so many ways ... so perhaps it was time they had a pet. Besides, Lady Maclean left her room only for church and visitors, so keeping the cat a secret would not be that difficult.
Portia walked to the stairs and sat on the floor, fears of spiders forgotten. The cat climbed into her lap. “Owl,” she said. “I shall name you Owl.”
