Page 93 of The Book of Magic

Ian might have said many things, he might have answered as a fool, as he’d done often enough when he was young. Make me, see if you can, my life is my own, this curse has nothing to do with me, the book is only a rumor, and if it does exist, it is likely dark and unmanageable, I need time to recover, I am limping, can’t you see, there’s red powder on my hands and on my ceiling and my floor. He was a rebel and a loner and he had several important lecture dates to prepare for at which he was to discuss his book, soon to be published, twenty years of his life spent looking for magic, and now it was here, unbidden and refusing to leave.

“I intend to repay you,” he said, just as Franny would have predicted, for she had seen inside him when she spied the crow on his back and she knew his story. He stalked away, to call his lecture agent and cancel his speaking engagements. His back was to Franny again, and again she saw through him. She glanced over at Sally and wondered if she knew that crows were more intelligent than most men, and more loyal, and that you could not choose them, they must choose you, they must come to you and once they did they would never leave you, at least not of their own accord.

II.

On her next visit to the Reverend, Antonia decided to surprise him with a Chocolate Tipsy Cake. She would show him that, indeed, she could make something with care. Although she’d never baked before, she knew the recipe for the cake by heart, so last night she’d given it a try in her small kitchen, traipsing out to the nearby market to purchase dark chocolate, a sack of sugar, some fine cake flour. Antonia did her reading for her neurology class while the layers baked in battered tins, hoping for the best but not truly expecting it, glancing at the oven every once in a while just to make certain there was no smoke. She’d made the frosting out of butter and powdered sugar, cocoa, and vanilla. She knew that Jet waited for the cake to cool before frosting and waved at the tins with a dishtowel to help the process along. In the end, the layers were tilted and the frosting was too thick; she’d left out the rum, with only a splash for tradition’s sake, but it was a perfectly serviceable cake and she was rather proud of herself. She’d set the finished product on a plate jammed into the back seat of Gillian’s car, where it nearly fell onto the floor mat as she rounded a corner too quickly. At the retirement home, the admitting clerk, about to complain about the cake, was stared down by Antonia’s cool glance and no one stopped her when she made a detour into the lunchroom for a knife and two plates and forks. The Reverend was at his favorite spot by the window when Antonia arrived in his room. He was currently remembering fragments from the past he’d forgotten yesterday. How he’d loved to cut daffodils with Jet and deliver them to the cemetery, how they would sit there in lawn chairs that Jet kept for just such occasions in the trunk of her car, how they were so in sync they would not even have to talk, how they would walk past the new saplings and the old sturdy trees on the path back to the parking lot, where they would often have a lunch of egg salad sandwiches and pickles while sitting in the car before Jet brought him home. Today was one of his good days, when he could see and hear and remember. It became even better when the Owens girl came in with a cake and closed the door behind her. “I had the feeling you’d be back today,” Reverend Willard said.

“Did you?” Antonia set the cake on top of his dresser and cut two slices. “It’s my first Chocolate Tipsy Cake, so don’t judge me too harshly.”

“Who am I to judge?” The Reverend tried his best to keep an open mind, especially when it came to the Owens women.

Antonia handed him a slice of cake, then perched on the edge of the bed with her own plate and hesitantly took a bite. It might not look perfect, but it was utterly delicious.

“Yum,” they said in unison.

Antonia hadn’t stopped thinking about Ariel Hardy, and yet when Ariel’s number had flickered up on her phone, she hadn’t answered, but had instead stepped into the shower and let the water run for nearly half an hour, a surefire cure for thinking too much. “How do you know if you’re in love?” she found herself saying now as they ate their cake. Antonia felt comfortable confiding in the Reverend; she had the distinct impression that her secrets were safe with him.

“Love does as it pleases. It can’t be controlled.” The Reverend took another bite of the cake. “Almost as good as your aunt Jet’s.”

Antonia was pleased by the compliment, and perhaps that was why she confessed more than she otherwise might have. “I’ve never been in love.”

“You should try it. And don’t worry, Jet will end the curse.”

Antonia took his plate, for as it turned out Reverend Willard could only eat a few bites. She patted his arm. If he’d forgotten Jet was gone, who was she to remind him otherwise? Antonia would leave the rest of the cake for the nurses; it was always prudent to be on their good side. She had only come to visit because she was obligated and she’d been told it was a family tradition to look after the Reverend, but before she left she paused to hug him good-bye.

“I’ll see you next week,” he reminded her. “Unless I’m dead.”

With his dry humor, the old man was one of the few people who could make Antonia smile. “You’ll be alive, and I’ll be here.”

“I dream about Jet.” He knew she was gone, only he didn’t like to think about that.

“I do, too,” Antonia admitted. She now realized that in her drowning dreams, Jet was on the other side of the lake. Jet had always told Antonia and Kylie to never be afraid to be who they were. Everything you give to the world will come back to you threefold.

“I ruined her life and she forgave me.” Reverend Willard had written Jet many letters of apology and she wrote back forgiving him over and over again, notes he kept stuffed into his night-table drawer. After all this time, and scores of letters, he still hadn’t quite managed to forgive himself.

May in Boston was mild and beautiful, the good weather finally returning after that dreadful spring. The streets were emptier once the students had departed for other homes and other states, and the professors had disappeared to summer houses, but Gideon was still in his hospital room, with little change in his condition. His mother had rented an apartment on Beacon Hill in order to be at her son’s bedside every day, with his stepfather working at his law firm in New York and driving up on weekends. Gideon’s parents rarely spoke to each other, afraid of what they might say. The doctors had told them his recovery was a matter of time, but they could tell it was a matter of fate. People mended despite all odds, Antonia Owens told Mrs. Barnes when she visited. Antonia came every day, hoping that Kylie would phone Gideon’s room. In the presence of Mrs. Barnes, she was very positive and hopeful, a manner she had been practicing and perfecting in medical school. Be rational, but don’t think the truth is always the correct answer.

There was something called the Glasgow Coma Scale and Gideon had scored well, suggesting there was no permanent damage to his brain. When his hand was squeezed, he exerted pressure in return. He was in there, Antonia was sure of it. Today she came to the hospital directly from the retirement home up in Essex, still smelling of chocolate. She knew that Mrs. Barnes needed some respite from standing guard, and Antonia preferred to spend time with Gideon alone, when she didn’t have to keep a pleasant expression on her face to ensure that her fears about his condition wouldn’t be evident and upset his mother any further. Mrs. Barnes was already wrapped up in fear, and who could blame her?

“Go out for coffee,” Antonia told her. “Take a walk. Make sure you have some time for yourself.” But all Gideon’s mother could do was go back to her rented apartment and cry.

What filled the mind of a person in a coma was a mystery. The networks of the brain shut down, but some of these patterns might be rerouted to places most minds didn’t use. It was not sleep that befell such a patient, but a state much like being anesthetized. Parts of the brain went dark, but people in comas had dreams, memories, visions, and some had vivid nightmares. Recordings of sounds at all pitches had been played in an attempt to stimulate Gideon’s brain and his responses had been charted. He was reacting to certain noise, according to his EEG, especially when music was played, with Yo-Yo Ma’s recordings affecting him more than any other. Gideon was in there. He was. His mother thought she’d seen her boy’s eyes brim with tears as he listened to Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major, but when she spoke to the doctors they were evasive. Wait and see, was all they said.

During Antonia’s visit, she noticed that Gideon was moving his hand without any stimulus. She went to see the doctor in charge and was told it was an uncontrolled tremor, nothing more, but she didn’t think so. Gideon’s movements were specific, and actually quite odd. He appeared to be trying to fit a key into a lock.

Antonia lightly ran a finger over his wrist. “Tell me where you are.”

He couldn’t answer, though he tried. He was in a labyrinth. The walls were constructed of hedges with black leaves. He had a key in his hand. It had once been silver, but now was black. There was the door, but he couldn’t quite reach it. He was used to being in charge of his body, he was so tall and strong, a runner who could go for miles, who had run the last Boston Marathon, cheered on by Kylie at Heartbreak Hill. But now he was in a different place where none of those attributes mattered. It was like walking through water, every step took supreme effort and led nowhere. He simply could not reach the door. He was so frustrated he shook his head, but in his hospital bed he merely winced.

“Talk to me,” Antonia said, leaning in. If only Kylie could speak to him, perhaps she could reach him. Antonia dialed her sister’s number but all she got was a fast beeping and no answer. “Oh, Gideon,” Antonia said. “If you could only hear me.”

In his in-between world, Gideon recognized the voice as belonging to Kylie’s sister and he wished he could tell her where he was. He wished there was a way to get back. He couldn’t get to the door and he couldn’t use the damn key. He groaned and Antonia took his hand. She could feel that he was captured, as surely as if he’d been bound with rope. Gideon grasped her hand for a moment; it was no tremor, she was sure of it, then he let go. He had no choice but to return to the darkness and search for the door that would open the world to him once more.

Antonia had agreed to meet Ariel for a late lunch, to discuss the papers in the Owens family trust. When she arrived, forty minutes late, Ariel was waiting for her outside the restaurant on Beacon Hill, her back fitted against a brick wall, reading a mystery that had an Emily Dickinson line as its title, Started Early, Took My Dog. The hour technically made it a dinner date.

“Sorry. Time got away from me.” Antonia was exhausted as usual, but for some reason she felt utterly awake in Ariel Hardy’s presence.

“How’s the boy?” Ariel asked.