Chapter Thirty-Six
‘Well, y’all might be fiddling while Rome burns but at least you’ll be fiddling in style.’
It was Sunday, the day before the full moon. Twenty-four hours until Lydia’s Becoming, until the wolves came, and we were about to throw a party. Ashley leaned against the doorframe and whistled at the sight in front of her.
‘Is this really our house?’
‘It really is,’ Lydia said, satisfaction on her face as she surveyed her work. ‘And doesn’t it look incredible?’
For once, not even Ashley could argue with her.
Lydia had oiled and opened up antique room partitions I hadn’t known existed, uniting the parlour and our completely unused study, to create an honest to goodness ballroom.
Every stick of furniture in the parlour had been moved to the edge of the room, the rugs rolled up and stashed away, and anything breakable safely secured elsewhere.
The floors had been polished and there wasn’t so much as a single speck of dust to be seen.
Even the wallpaper shone a little brighter than it usually did.
The house was as pleased and proud of itself as I was.
It was easy to imagine the Savannah of old, back when Bell House was first built, ladies in their best gowns, gentlemen in their finery, talking, drinking and dancing.
Tonight’s affair, I suspected, would look quite different.
‘Not to be rude’ – Lydia grimaced as she gave my grubby clothes a once-over – ‘but you are planning to change, right?’
Ashley grinned. ‘Into what?’
‘I’m planning to keep watch,’ I replied, wiping my dirty hands on my already dirtier T-shirt. ‘Do I really need to do full glam for that?’
‘Please,’ my best friend scoffed with disgust. ‘There’s nowhere safer in this whole town.’
‘Safer without a house full of people. The crowd at the DeSoto was three times your guest list and that didn’t stop Astrid from attacking.’
‘And the DeSoto is not Bell House. She won’t be able to push a single paw through the front door.’
If I’d really wanted to, I could’ve cancelled the party, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I wasn’t the only one whose life was on the line once the Weres arrived. Lydia, Jackson, Ashley, Virginia, they were all at risk. And if the birth of my best friends wasn’t worth celebrating, nothing was.
‘As long as we all remember we’re working on Cinderella rules,’ Ashley instructed when Lydia darted out to straighten up a lightbox directing everyone to exactly where they should leave her gifts.
‘Everyone out by midnight, just in case your magic goes bananas and you turn all your little friends into a whole patch of pumpkins.’
‘I can think of at least a dozen people who might have that coming,’ Lydia muttered under her breath before returning with a dazzling smile. ‘But of course, Ashley. Whatever you say, Ashley. You’re the boss, Ashley.’
‘If that ain’t the smartest thing you ever did say.’
Leaving the two of them to stare each other down like a couple of hyenas, I crossed the room to peek through the shutters.
A group of guests were already hovering in the square across from the house, gathering the courage to knock on the door despite the fact they’d all been invited.
Bell House had not thrown a party in over twenty years, most of their parents had never so much as set foot over the threshold and in this town, curiosity was hereditary.
‘Did I get the wrong day or something? Is this a party or a mother’s meeting?’
I turned around to see Jackson emerge from the downstairs bedroom wearing a new outfit and the kind of happy expression I hadn’t seen on his face in too long.
His inviting cologne surrounded me as he walked up, high-fiving Ashley and ignoring his sister before walking into our new ballroom.
I realized I hadn’t smelled it since the party at the DeSoto.
‘Are y’all planning to leave everyone outside?’ he asked. ‘No offence, but this isn’t much of a party.’
‘Offence taken,’ Ashley said with a sniff. ‘We’re not good enough for you, Powell?’
His eyes skirted over me to find her, his smile wavering just for a second.
‘Better than I deserve.’
‘I’ll go open the door,’ I offered, flipping down the shutters. The lighting reset itself to create the perfect cosy ambiance and Lydia’s party playlist began to hum through hidden speakers. ‘Is everyone ready?’
Jackson was the one to answer.
‘As we’ll ever be.’
He rested his elbow on his twin sister’s shoulder, their similarities and differences so apparent when they stood side by side.
Lydia’s curls were fluffier, coaxed into a perfect halo and tinted honey blonde on the ends while Jackson’s held a little tighter, shaved close on the sides still lighter on the ends, lifted by the sun instead of a TikTok hair tutorial.
Their wide eyes and full lips had been completely copy-pasted onto each other’s features, but the broader planes of Jackson’s face gave them more room to settle into his conventional handsomeness.
However, Lydia’s beauty, especially tonight, was startling.
She was already an unbelievable person and she was going to be an incredible witch. I was so proud to call her my friend.
The first trickle of guests brave enough to mount the steps of Bell House were received by an unnerving combination of Ashley’s threatening scowl and the twins’ effusive hugs.
Virginia, like all good parental figures, had sentenced herself to her room downstairs, closed every possible door and informed me, Ashley, Lydia and Jackson she did not want to hear, see or even imagine what might be happening upstairs.
As strategies for surviving a teenage party at her age went, it seemed like a good one to me.
The music was so loud and the bass thudded so hard, I could feel it trying to push my heart out of its usual rhythm.
The moment Lydia’s back was turned, holding court, I slipped out of the ballroom, into the kitchen and out the back door.
No one followed. They couldn’t, even if they wanted to.
The kitchen was spelled to discourage any guests from poking around.
The same went for the staircase, the library and pretty much any room that wasn’t the ballroom or the powder room, just in case anyone’s curiosity got the better of them and they decided to take themselves on a tour of Bell House.
I’d changed my clothes, or at least my shirt, exchanging the party-prep-stained T-shirt for a Lydia-approved tank.
The warm night air felt good on my bare arms. The back garden was completely silent and still, and so, restless as I was, I took my patrol around to the front.
It was the first time I’d found myself without anything to do in days, weeks maybe, and it was an uncomfortable sensation.
The craft room was very much off limits while the house was so full and this definitely wasn’t the time to practise my magic.
Carpeting the party with wildflowers might not be so bad, but whisking one hundred teenagers away to the eighteenth century seemed like a bad idea.
The magnolia tree stood proud, the tallest branches tickling my bedroom windows, the fist-sized flowers spilling over with the pretty scent of the south.
‘How you be, little witch?’
A voice as sweet as honey sailed through the night. Right outside the gate stood a beautiful woman with long braids wrapped up in a patterned headscarf, the sunset sky warming up her already deep brown skin. When she saw me jump, a soft chuckle escaped her plum-painted lips.
‘Calm, be calm, you’ll find no danger in me,’ she said, leaning over the gate to look me over. ‘I heard about you. Had to come and see for myself.’
‘You’ve heard about me?’ I replied, walking over to meet her. ‘I mean, I’m sorry, I think you’ve got the wrong house.’
‘I don’t think so. Pleased to meet you, Emma Catherine Bell.’
There was no danger in this woman, not a speck. Close enough to see the spark of her eyes, bright and shiny copper like new pennies, I felt a sense of calm all around her. There was something safe in her that I hadn’t known in the longest time.
‘I’m Sistah Mariama,’ she said, extending a hand my way, warm and kind and strong. ‘We’ve been knowing about you, child. For a long time now.’
‘Are you a witch?’ I asked.
She cawed at that. ‘Don’t make me come in there and wash your mouth out with soap and water. I’m no witch. My people are Gullah Geechee. You know what that means?’
Embarrassed, I shook my head.
‘Then you better look it up, I’m not Wikipedia. We’ve been here almost as long as your people, although we made our way to these parts under very different circumstances.’
The shame of what she was saying burned in me. I started to formulate some kind of insufficient apology but she carried on talking over me, not even slightly interested in hearing it.
‘Words is only words. No need to waste ’em where they ain’t needed. My great-grandmother was a root worker, you know what that means?’
‘No,’ I admitted. ‘But I do know it’s not a witch.’
‘Good girl, you learn quick,’ she replied with a chuckle.
‘But you ain’t know much. My great-grandmother, she knew your people real well, told us to wait on you and here you are.
Smaller than I thought you’d be, can’t see you plugging up much of a hole in anything, least of all the end of the world. Surely a pretty thing though.’
‘You know about the prophecy.’
I hadn’t realized how tightly I was clinging to the iron gate until I felt it bend, hot in my hands. ‘Are you here to help?’
Behind her, in the square, I saw my oldest ancestor smothering a smile behind her hand and Sistah Mariama clucked with displeasure.
‘Y’all be always expecting Black women to save the world. We do our part, honey, more than our fair share, and you tell that spirit lurking in the shadows to leave me be. You do your part, I’ll do mine.’
Emma Catherine Bell lowered her head respectfully and took herself away across the park, lingering by the fountain.
‘I’m still not entirely clear on exactly what my part is,’ I confessed as Mariama started off down the street, her indigo blue dress holding tight to her curves as she went. ‘If there’s anything you can tell me, I sure would appreciate it.’
She ran a hand over the azalea bush on my side of the fence. ‘This town is famous for its azaleas. While they sleeping in the ground, you think they know if they going to be pink or orange or red?’
‘I think azaleas are less likely to find themselves in the same predicament I’m in,’ I replied as politely as I could, and she snickered to herself, nodding as she walked on.
‘Most folks forget how powerful a flower can be. That azalea sure is pretty to look at but you eat it and you’re going to be sick to your stomach. No one thinking ’bout that while they strolling around, admiring.’
I followed her as far as I could, stopping short when I got to the end of the garden, held back by my own iron railings.
‘That’s your advice? Don’t eat azaleas?’
‘It’s more than I owe you, little witch.’
Without turning to look back, Sistah Mariama of the Gullah Geechee raised her voice as she crossed the street.
‘People underestimate pretty things. Just because they fragile don’t mean they ain’t got strength all of they own.’
Across the street, the ghost of Emma Catherine Bell watched with reverence as my new friend disappeared around the corner, leaving me in my garden, surrounded by beautiful, fragile flowers.