Page 38 of The Rules of Magic

“Yes, he will, but he won’t listen to me. You tell him the truth,” Franny said in a surprisingly small voice. “Cover for me.”

“What if you lose him for good?”

“Then it was meant to be.”

Jet was convinced she must talk to him. Haylin had posted himself at the Owenses’ town house, a determined expression on his face. He looked the way he had when he chained himself in the school cafeteria. Jet told him Franny had withdrawn from school and would not be leaving for Cambridge. In fact, they were moving downtown. There was no way to change Franny’s mind. Jet had already tried.

“If I just saw her,” Hay said. “If I could talk to her I think she would leave with me.”

“You know Franny, she’s stubborn.”

Haylin was already two days late for the semester and had missed registration; if he waited any longer they might retract his acceptance.

“Go,” Jet told him. “And don’t feel guilty.”

She went inside and locked the door, leaving Hay to stand there, dazed and despairing. He had no idea why Franny had done her best to stop love’s hold on him. He looked upward, shielding his eyes. The movers were packing up the town house. Vincent had suggested they leave everything behind—all he was taking was a backpack of clothes and his guitar—but Jet had taken great care in wrapping up the china her mother had brought home from Paris and had filled a trunk with Susanna’s chic clothing. She had boxes and boxes of books stacked in the hall. As for Franny, she took only the letters Haylin had written to her the summer she was away, and some of the clothing she’d worn when she was with him. She was packing it all into a single cardboard box when she happened to gaze out and see Haylin on the sidewalk. Her heart broke then; she could feel it tearing in two. He looked so alone out there.

The crow was peering out the open window. “Take care of him,” Franny said.

When Haylin turned to leave, the crow plummeted down to perch on his shoulder. Hay didn’t seem the least surprised. He had a cracker in his pocket, which he offered to his new companion. The two disappeared down the street, into the yellow haze of the park. They were both gone, her heart and her soul. The scent of chestnuts was in the air. It would be autumn soon. Hay would be in Dunster House, the crow would be perched on a rooftop in Cambridge, and Franny would be living at 44 Greenwich Avenue, following her fate, even though what she wanted most of all was headed in the opposite direction.

PART THREE

Conjure

Things without all remedy should be without regard. But what you can cure, do so willingly. What ails the human body and soul may be difficult to diagnose, but just as often there is a simple resolution. Black pepper for aching muscles, linden root and yarrow for high blood pressure, feverfew for migraines, ginger for motion sickness, watercress to ease labored breathing, vervain to quiet the pangs of unrequited love.

Before the sisters opened a shop on the first floor of the house, they made soap, prepared in an iron pot on nights when the moon was waning, a pale sliver in the sky above St. Vincent’s Hospital on the northeast corner of Seventh and Greenwich Avenues. This was the institution that had given the poet Edna St. Vincent Millay her second name, for her uncle’s life was saved there in 1892. Their own Vincent liked their downtown location so well he didn’t mind helping to improve the little house. He investigated construction sites, salvaging discarded windows and lumber. Once lugged home, what had formerly been trash was used to create a makeshift greenhouse, where herbs could be grown from seed. When it rained the place flooded, but that only seemed to help even the most delicate plants grow; they burst through the glass roof, and before long the entire greenhouse was covered with vines.

As for the shop, it was a disaster when they moved in, with peeling plaster and water-stained ceilings, but soon enough everything was painted a pale dove gray. For weeks they all had streaks of gray paint in their hair, as if they had prematurely aged. Franny bartered with a local plumber. If he would stop the pipes from leaking, they would dispose of his wife’s boyfriend; it was easy enough to do with a bit of Be True to Me Tea. For the carpenter who built shelves, the sisters concocted a hex breaker composed of salt, coconut oil, lavender, lemon juice, and lemon verbena. If he gave the mixture to the ex-client who was badmouthing him, the slanderer would fall silent.

Soon enough there were copper sinks and countertops made of white marble, salvaged from the boys’ and girls’ rooms of a school in the Bronx that was being torn down. The floor-to-ceiling shelves were filled with bottles of every shape and size collected from junk shops, all containing herbs that would be necessary. The pine floors, which had been stained a blotchy maroon, were refinished until they gleamed. A stuffed blue heron that was too wonderful to leave behind had been found in an antiques store on the Lower East Side. He reminded Franny of the heron who had come to her in Central Park, and she paid an exorbitant price for him. He was too tall to be taken home in a cab, and so the sisters rented a flatbed U-Haul truck. Vincent applauded when they set the heron up in the window of the shop and named the bird Edgar, for Edgar Allan Poe’s ghost was said to roam their neighborhood, and for a time from 1844 to 1845 he had lived at 85 West Third Street, writing “The Raven.”

Franny often frequented a discount store that sold chemistry equipment, buying beakers and a Bunsen burner, along with tongs and funnels and goggles.

“Science teacher,” the checker guessed.

“In a manner of speaking,” Franny answered.

Despite everything, she still considered science to be her main interest. She set up a lab in the back room of the shop, and there the sisters readied their inventory, concentrating on love potions, for that was what Aunt Isabelle’s customers had always been most eager to buy. They consulted with Isabelle, who sent pages of notes in thick manila envelopes.

Remind customers they must be careful what they wish for, Isabelle instructed. What’s done cannot be undone. What’s set into motion takes on a life of its own.

They mixed henna with limes, roses, tea, and eucalyptus and let it simmer overnight, for henna’s hue reflects the strength of love of a woman for a man, the thicker and deeper the color, the more genuine the love. Amulets that carried apple seeds were made in the evenings as they sat out in the yard, meant to bring the wearer love, for apples signify the heart. For those who wished to gain willpower, and say no to a lover who would bring only heartbreak, there was a cure of rosemary and lavender oil. Bathe in it, and when you next saw the one you had once cherished, you would send him packing. They now had the recipe for Fever Tea, composed of cinnamon, bayberry, ginger, thyme, and marjoram, and for Frustration Tea, a combination of chamomile, hyssop, raspberry leaf, and rosemary, which Jet brewed for her sister in the mornings so that the day would go smoothly. Aunt Isabelle refused to hand over the formula for Courage Tea. That, she said, was one recipe you had to discover for yourself.

Though Jet had lost the sight, she was more than competent when it came to concocting remedies. A good thing, for they needed the income. Often the sisters were in the shop from early in the morning till long past suppertime. There was no complaining, no slacking off. Jet seemed perfectly fine unless you yourself had the sight, and then you knew she was not. She went to bed early, and too often Franny could hear her crying. Jet refused to speak about Levi and the loss of their parents. She hadn’t admitted she had lost the sight, but Franny and Vincent both knew. Usually they could trade thoughts, but when they approached Jet’s mind they were greeted by a wave of darkness. Franny mentally tried to send her a list of what she needed for the store and there was no reply, only a blank stare.

“Did you want something?” Jet asked.

“No, I’m fine,” Franny said. “You?”

“Perfect,” Jet replied.

She had lost so much that she had lost herself as well. She had a secret that she carried with her, and it hurt, as if she stored a stone beside her heart. It was her hatred of herself that was her burden, and it grew each day. At first it was tiny, a mere pebble, then it was as big as her heart, and then it was the largest thing inside her. She had decided it wasn’t the curse that was at fault. It was her.

During the day, she worked at the shop and never once complained. But at night she had begun to roam. She went to bars and after midnight found her way to Washington Square, where she smoked marijuana with strangers. She wanted to lose herself, get rid of her past, and forget the pain she carried when she thought of Levi. On the weekends she went uptown to Central Park. It was here, on Easter Sunday, that she walked farther than she had planned. Once there she heard bells and music and followed as if enchanted.

The park was crowded, the meadow was filled with a wash of love and acceptance. It had been a long time since Jet had felt part of anything. There were balloons drifting into the bright sky and garlands of flowers wreathed around necks and arms, and people in love, some in stages of lovemaking, some of them giving out LSD, not yet illegal. Fluff, Ghost, Sacrament, Sugar, named for the design on the blotter paper the liquid was dotted upon. Whether it caused happiness or confusion, the drug certainly created ripples in the texture of the world.