Chapter 11
The second floor was only a fraction less crowded than the first. People jammed the stairs, the hallway, and all the rooms, only this crowd was younger and dressed in an edgier way. Ingrid saw a lot of black, leather, and metallic.
The conversation seemed more intimate up here, too, laughter drifting out from the groups of people lazily gathered in the bedrooms, leaning on fireplace mantels.
Lounging on beds and slumped in chairs. A man seated on a stool at the end of the hallway played a guitar, providing an easygoing accompaniment to the conversation happening, blending in a strange way with the strains of cello from downstairs.
As Sailor led her down the hall, Ingrid saw the door of one room was opened. Through the crack, she could see someone kneeling on the carpet. A young man, his hands clasped over the top of his head, his back bowed slightly. He appeared to be praying.
Sailor hadn’t seemed to notice him. “One more set of stairs,” she said, clutching Ingrid’s arm.
Ingrid knew, theoretically, that the third floors of these huge, old houses were typically servants’ quarters, with small, cramped rooms, crooked hallways, and tiny bathrooms, but of course the third floor of the Loeffler house was not that. It was the real party space.
At the top of the stairs, Ingrid looked down and saw the bright oval of the first floor.
The flash and glimmer of the guests darting around below.
A roar rose up, too—the clatter of cutlery and clink of glasses.
The frenzy of tipsy laughter. Mindless fish, she thought, all of these rich people, tirelessly swimming through the rooms like in a giant aquarium, on the hunt for more, more, more.
“Here we are,” Sailor said, beckoning her toward an open door. Her eyes glowed. She seemed proud finally to show Ingrid the portion of the party that actually belonged to her.
They entered a large room painted a rich coffee color. There was a sleek modular sofa and a pool table in the center with a red felt top. A string of Christmas lights festooned the ceiling.
The people up here reeked of money just like downstairs, but in a more understated way.
The women had a natural look to them. No makeup, lank hair, and yet, inexplicably, they glowed.
The men radiated vitality, too, their skin carefully moisturized, facial hair neat and trim.
Ingrid felt overdressed. Foolish, in her updo and clip-on earrings and tulip dress.
She looked around warily. A pool game was in progress. There was a group in the corner playing Uno. Uno, she thought, in disbelief. So this is what old money did at their parties? Played children’s games?
“Here,” Sailor propelled Ingrid to a group of women she recognized. “Poppy, Madeline, Calla. Y’all remember Ingrid, from today.”
The women nodded polite hellos.
Sailor drew herself up. “I’m sure you all have noticed Finley’s absence.
I know rumors are flying, so I want to clear the air right now.
Earlier today, Ingrid, here”—she laid a hand on Ingrid’s arm—“confirmed something I already suspected. Without going into detail, Finley broke my trust. I’ve asked her to remove herself from the wedding party … and my life.”
Ingrid felt the molecules in the air around her suspend in time as the three bridesmaids’ eyes swiveled to Sailor. She draped a protective arm over Ingrid’s shoulder.
“I don’t know what I would do without this woman. I barely knew her and yet she was willing to protect me. She had my back, and she wasn’t afraid to tell me the truth.”
The trio blinked—guiltily, Ingrid thought—back at Sailor. They said nothing.
“And now we’re going to move on. We’re going to celebrate this wedding. Mine and Jude’s wedding, and we’re going to drink … and party … and never speak of you-know-who again. Agreed?”
The trio nodded.
“I’m going to go get this amazing woman”—she squeezed Ingrid’s shoulder—“something to drink.” She strode away, and Ingrid turned back to the group, lifting her eyebrows sheepishly at the group.
“What did Finley do?” asked one of the girls. Ingrid couldn’t remember which one she was. “Murder someone?”
They all looked at Ingrid.
“I probably shouldn’t say,” she said.
“I’m sure we can guess,” another one said. “Finley’s pretty much always had one goal, and one play to get herself there.”
All three primly sipped their drinks.
“This house is really amazing,” Ingrid said. “You could get lost in here.”
“I mean,” one girl said, “if you’d never been here before.”
One of the girls scoffed softly. “Madeline. Rude.”
“Sorry,” said Madeline. Her eyes roved over Ingrid’s dress, then she caught herself. “I love your dress. Vintage, right?”
“Yes.”
“We’re so glad you’re here,” one of the other girls said quickly.
“We so are,” Madeline affirmed.
Ingrid fell silent. She turned—the discomfort of standing alone almost unbearable—and saw him. A young man, lanky, blond, tall, standing in the doorway.
The praying man.
He wore baggy jeans, frayed at the hem, and a billowy brown linen shirt that swallowed his thin frame.
A silver cross hung on a leather cord around his neck, and he was barefoot.
Odd, she thought, at an engagement party.
And then she realized he seemed to be walking toward her.
She turned back to the girls, almost as if seeking their help, but they had vanished.
She turned back and the praying man was standing in front of her, one hand extended, a heavy silver watch on his wrist.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m Cas.”
She shook his hand. The eyes were a deep brown. She stared up into them, destabilized by the frank way they fastened onto hers. By the gentleness she found there. But that was all she saw. She couldn’t see anything past that.
“Cas Loeffler, Sailor’s brother.” A smile flitted across his face.
It was a wonderful smile, a surprising gift that transformed his thin, sallow face into that of a mischievous boy.
Ingrid could imagine him climbing trees.
Clambering up the roof of this immense house. Balancing dangerously on an old gutter.
This one walks a knife’s edge …
The thought came and went like a bolt of silent summer lightning.
“And you are?” the guy asked patiently, even though she saw that he was just being polite. He knew who she was, just like the rest of Sailor’s family.
“Ingrid White.”
“The witch.” He released her hand and dropped his into the pocket of his jeans.
“Sailor told me you’re really good at what you do.” And now a flash of humor in those brown eyes. Was he making fun of her? She wasn’t used to not being able to read someone.
“I try to be.” Her eyes fell on his watch, her mind frantically scrabbling for a topic to divert from her job. “I like your watch.”
“Thanks. It’s an Omega.”
She widened her eyes and nodded as if she knew what that was.
“They’re pretty sturdy. The Apollo 11 astronauts wore Omega watches on the moon.”
“Oh, cool.”
“It was a graduation present from my parents. I went to Amherst. Law, jurisprudence, and social thought, in case you were going to ask.”
“Oh.” Even though she was determined to be dignified, she felt her face flaming. She didn’t know anything about what he’d just said. A bead of sweat rolled into her cleavage. “I wasn’t.”
“Well, that’s refreshing. Don’t get a lot of that around here.” He regarded her with interest. “Also, you haven’t asked what I do, which I like as well.”
She nodded. She hadn’t even thought to.
“I’m actually in the midst of what my dad calls my million-dollar gap year. Living at home. Traveling some. It’s driving him crazy. He’s pissed that I don’t want to work at his company. Or that I don’t want to do any job that’s just … a job.”
Ingrid didn’t comment. Personally, she’d love to have someone offer her a job at Savannah Sauce with a cushy salary and a nice, fat package of benefits.
Now he looked annoyed. “But I’m seeking divine guidance before I just jump into any old thing.”
There was silence as they exchanged wary glances.
“If I can ask …” he suddenly said. “How do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Readings.”
“Oh, well …” She shifted inside her dress, trying to access a pocket of cool air. “It’s a bit like a massage therapist, except in my case the client just sits on a chair instead of lying on a table. I put my hands on them … on their hands, and I just … feel my way to the answer.”
He was intrigued by that, she could see. “So you theoretically press on the tender spots and wait for them to scream?”
“I guess so, but my goal is always to help, not hurt.”
“But what if, when you think you’re helping, you’re actually hurting?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The spiritual world is a serious place. Full of entities who hide their true faces and true motives. Most people don’t understand that.”
She felt a spike of annoyance. “I understand my job fully. My craft,” she added, just because she was feeling mean.
To her surprise he grinned.
“And I don’t do baneful magic,” she said. “My grandmother taught me that.”
“I’m not trying to pick a fight with you.”
She shook her head and looked away, wishing Sailor would reappear.
“But could it be the Holy Spirit, do you think?” he asked.
She furrowed her brow at him. What is with this guy?
“The one who’s communicating to you? Who’s telling you things about people?”
“I don’t think so. No.” She really didn’t like these topics of conversation.
Witchcraft wasn’t an exact science. Power like that could not be quantified.
It could not be contained. And it did not respond well to being gamed or manipulated in any way, but she didn’t like feeling obligated to defend it. To anyone.
But he was like a puppy with a new bone.
“It’s just that I’ve been going to church lately.
The Lutheran Church over on Wright Square.
You know the Loefflers were a part of the Salzburger religious exiles from Austria.
Protestants. Hardcore enemies of the Pope.
” Two spots of red appeared high on his cheeks.
“I’m just wondering if what you’re tapping into is God and not some … psychic phenomena.”
She sucked in her cheeks. “God is psychic phenomena.”
“You know what I mean. The God of religion. The one you access through prayer and humility and repentance.”
She studied him. His needling was really getting on her nerves. He might be a Loeffler, but he was not going to get her to fall all over him and agree that what he did in a church pew and what she did at her grandmother’s table was the same thing.
“I connect with light,” she said in a slow, purposefully cold tone. “Wherever I can find it.”
She didn’t say her. Didn’t add that in her mind, the light was always feminine in form.
The Goddess, the One True Will of the Cosmos.
And that this Goddess moved with grace through the crooked branches of the live oaks in Taylor Square, filtering into the windows of her house.
That she dappled the streets and squares of her beloved city, dispensing her kindness and care to whoever could see it.
He wasn’t worth it.
“What if someone comes to you who you can’t read? Is there ever someone that the light doesn’t reveal?”
In an instant, his frank brown eyes seemed to open to her. Oh yes. Here was the boy behind the man. She saw him clearly now. There are grievances, a list of them. He’s angry at the mother. Yearns to please the father …
“Leave her alone, Cas!” yelled out a man from the other end of the room. “She doesn’t want your Jesus!”
Another chimed in. “Don’t tell him your secrets, sweetheart. He’ll just throw them back in your face at the trial.” Uproarious laughter at that, and then someone’s low voice.
“The witch trial …”
Ingrid resisted the urge to turn and aim a deadly dagger’s glare at whomever had made this last comment.
Cas’s face burned, and now when she looked into his eyes, she found she could read him easily.
He might be religious, but it didn’t seem like it was the safety of the rules that interested him.
He was drawn to the unknown, unrevealed world.
She saw curiosity. A searching spirit deep inside him.
And perhaps a willingness to risk everything in the search …
And that interested her. It interested her deeply.
Sailor appeared, two cans of White Claw in hand. “Cas, tell your friends their manners suck. This is my party.” She threw a disdainful look at her brother. “My engagement party and my friend.”
Ingrid felt warm all over.
“Sorry.” Cas looked at Ingrid. “They’re actually making fun of me, not you.”
“Come on,” Sailor said to Ingrid. “Let’s get out of here. Let’s find Jude.”