Chapter Seven
SEVEN
MAVEN
I open my eyes in the morning with an oppressive sense of dread hanging over me like a gathering storm.
For a moment, I’m disoriented. My head is fuzzy and thick with sleep. Then the memory of my midnight visitor pops up like a leering jack-in-the-box, jolting me straight into consciousness.
Heart hammering, I jerk upright and look wildly around the room.
He’s nowhere in sight, but that doesn’t mean much. Like Dracula, Ronan Croft has an uncanny ability to appear wherever he likes as if manifesting from thin air.
Heaving a sigh, I scrub my hands over my face. When I take them away, they’re covered in blood.
My nose is bleeding.
Pinching my nostrils, I rise and head into the bathroom where I try to stanch the bleeding. I go through half a roll of toilet paper before it stops. Then I clean myself up, dress, and head downstairs to the kitchen, where I find Davina and Bea pressing cookie cutters into a flat slab of dough.
The sight of the two of them in matching aprons, their hands and the tabletop dusted with flour, gives me a pang of heartache so strong, I stop in the doorway and press my hand over my chest.
My mother and I used to cook together. She taught me how to bake bread, how to roast chicken, the difference between braising and stewing and when to employ which technique. Like all the Blackthorn women, she loved food and loved to eat.
I haven’t cooked a thing since she died.
“What’re you two up to?”
Bea looks up from the dough and grins. “Making sourdough biscuits. And guess what? I made friends with a family of squirrels!”
“If the next question is can you take them home with us, the answer is no.”
Bea shakes her head. “I don’t want to keep them as pets. Wild animals shouldn’t live inside.”
“That’s exactly right.”
“But we could get a cat. They’re domesticated.”
“You only say that because you’ve never had a cat. They’re cute, and they’re friendly when they want something, but in no way are they domesticated.”
“Like us,” Davina murmurs, smiling.
“No, they’re really sweet,” Bea insists. “That white one is my favorite.”
“Which white one? What are you talking about?”
“The pretty white one with blue eyes that’s always wandering around.”
When I screw up my face in confusion, Davina sighs. “You can’t have forgotten Luna. She was your mother’s best friend, for goodness’ sake.”
“Luna? She’s still alive?”
“Of course.”
“That’s impossible. She’d be twenty-something years old by now.”
“Twenty-five, as a matter of fact.”
I picture a mangy, rotted creature with missing teeth and a foul odor and grimace.
At that moment, as if summoned, Luna wanders into the kitchen. Her pure white coat is spotless. Her sky-blue eyes are bright. Rubbing against my leg, she looks up at me. Her expression is serene and somewhat smug, as if she’s gratified by my astonishment.
I reach down and stroke her silky back. This can’t possibly be the same cat my mother owned. It has to be one of the original’s offspring. Luna the second. Maybe even third.
A distracted-looking Esme shuffles into the kitchen, patting my arm as she moves by.
“My head is throbbing.” She drops heavily into a chair and rubs her temples. She’s still in her nightgown, and her hair is a tangled mess.
“You didn’t sleep well?” asks Davina.
“Another bad dream. The damn snakes again. There were more of them this time, and they got inside the house. Every surface was teeming with black coils.”
“How awful. I’ll brew you a nice cup of tea.” Wiping her hands on her apron, Davina takes the kettle off the stove and fills it with water from the tap.
Gazing out the window at the gathering gloom, I say, “Looks like it might rain today.”
“Rain at a funeral is good luck,” says Esme.
“I thought that superstition was for weddings.”
“Rain is always good luck. Did anyone else hear wolves howling last night?”
“There haven’t been wolves in these woods for years,” I say for Bea’s benefit. “It was somebody’s dog. What time do we need to leave for the service?”
“One thirty. Dress warmly, and bring an umbrella. The barometer’s dropping fast.”
The sound of tapping on the kitchen window makes me look up. Outside, Q stands peering in. He lifts his hand to display a large, beautiful butterfly with brilliant blue iridescent wings edged in black resting on his finger.
I gasp in surprise. Morpho menelaus is native to the rainforests of Central and South America. What is it doing this far north?
Q disappears from the window. A moment later, he opens the back kitchen door and comes inside, then closes it behind him. His expression is blank, but his dark eyes are smiling.
Davina says, “What have you got there? Ah, a gift for May, I see. What a pretty thing.”
He crosses to me and holds out his hand. The butterfly lazily closes its wings, displaying the brown undersides with eyelike ocelli on the edges.
I’ve only ever seen this insect in textbooks or museum displays. I’m stunned by its beauty.
I lift my hand to Q’s and offer the butterfly my finger. It opens and closes its wings a few times, debating, then walks from Q’s finger to mine.
Fine black antennae twitching, it gazes at me. Something about this creature’s stare strikes me as unusually intelligent.
Davina prompts, “And so? Tell us her story.”
“She’s a he. Only the male blue morphos display this dazzling coloring. The females are much smaller and are dull shades of brown and yellow. What’s that called, Bea?”
“Sexual dimorphism,” she answers instantly.
“Correct. I taught you well.”
“He’s big.”
“He is. That wingspan is at least five inches. Their wings are self-cleaning, and their feet have taste receptors. Their entire life cycle is one hundred and fifteen days. Once they emerge from their chrysalis, they only live for about two weeks before they die. Some cultures believe the butterfly represents the soul’s journey toward eternal life. ”
I stare at the beautiful insect for a moment before murmuring absently, “They were once thought to be the spirit of a witch in shape-shifted form.”
“I have a dream sometimes that I’m a big black dog.”
Davina, Esme, and I gaze at Bea in silence as she cuts more circles in the dough. After a moment, Davina says, “You mean you see a black dog in the dreams?”
Bea shakes her head. “No. I am one. A super big one. I bark at the moon and everything.”
The aunts turn their heads and stare at me.
I know what they’re thinking. Black dogs are considered harbingers of disaster in many cultures, or even death. To dream of one is a bad omen. And in this family, omens are taken more seriously than a cancer diagnosis.
“Don’t get too excited. I have a recurring dream that I’ve won the lottery and am living on a beach in Fiji.”
Esme returns her worried gaze to Bea. “Not the same thing, love. Not at all.”
“Dreams are just our brains’ ways of processing information. They don’t mean anything.”
“Everything has meaning. The universe doesn’t deal in coincidence.”
The butterfly alights from my finger with a flap of its brilliant blue wings and flies in a bobbing, haphazard path toward the back door. Q walks over and opens it, and the butterfly exits in a flash of blue.
The house phone rings. Davina crosses to the wall and picks up the receiver.
“Blackthorn.” She pauses. “Yes.” She listens for what seems like a long time, then props a hand on her hip. “This had better not be some sick joke.” Another pause. “Oh, I’m sure you are.” Another one, even longer, then she raises her voice. “Stop whining and fix it!”
She slams the receiver down and turns to us. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips are thinned, and her eyes glint with fury.
Esme leans forward in her chair. “Who was that?”
“That was Mr. Anderson.”
Esme knits her brows. “From the funeral home?”
“The very same.”
“What did he say?”
Davina shakes her head in disbelief. “You’re not going to believe this. They lost Mother’s body.”