Chapter 21 #2
“As many as I wanted,” she snaps. “You know, it’s very rude to go through a person’s belongings.”
“First of all, you’re technically not a person. Secondly, everything in here is legally mine. And third, did you think I would move in and not use your cabinets? You need to make the mental leap, Meemaw.”
“I’m not a Meemaw, goddammit!” she squawks. “If you won’t call me Grammy, just call me Maggie, for Pete’s sake.” She sighs. “This isn’t easy. Dying, being a bird, watching someone take over my life. I’m glad you’re here, honey, I am, but it’s hard.”
“Then help me! Give me the information I need to thrive here. If I had your grimoire, I could do magic. If I knew why people didn’t like you, I could get them to like me.
You’re setting me up for failure. You told me I was a witch, showed me one simple spell, and then zipped your sharp little beak. ”
“It’s for your own good, I promise.”
I give an exaggerated shrug. “Then I guess I’ll go back to ransacking.”
I open every drawer and cabinet in the kitchen but don’t find anything that looks like a grimoire.
Maggie watches me silently, seething. I open a closet and find cleaning products and boxes and cans of food.
There’s a stick vacuum and a broom, but not a cool, witchy broom.
It doesn’t even smell like cinnamon. I hold it up.
“Is this a witch thing? Can I ride it and fly around?”
She snorts. “A green plastic broom? No. Why would you want to ride a broom, anyway?”
Finally, we’re on the same page. “Right? Like, wouldn’t it feel like the wedgie you get from a bad thong? If you sat sidesaddle, you’d hurt your back. And in the olden days, with wooden brooms? Splinters for days.”
I move on to the bedroom.
“There’s nothing hidden in there,” Maggie shouts from the cage with the kind of nervous edge that suggests there is definitely something hidden here.
“Cool, then I guess I won’t find anything.”
I start with her tall dresser and am unfortunately brought face to face with my grandmother’s undergarments.
I swiftly close that one and attempt to erase it from my memory.
In each drawer that does not contain underwear, I sift through the neatly folded shirts and pajamas, hunting for the telltale shape of a book.
I don’t find it, which forces me to again confront the top drawer.
“Let’s go ahead and take care of this now,” I murmur. I head to the kitchen for a garbage bag and fill it with handfuls of sturdy grandma-style, over-the-shoulder boulder holders and actual granny panties. Finally the drawer is empty, even if I didn’t find the grimoire.
“What are you doing in there?” Maggie shouts.
“Throwing away your unmentionables. Which absolutely cannot be donated,” I add before she can argue.
While I’m in here, I realize I might as well arrange the room the way I’d like it. I think the bed would go better against the other wall, and I’d like to feel like I accomplished something. I move the chair and mirror to the side and am surprised to see that there’s no dust.
“Maggie?” I call. “If you’ve been dead for weeks and no one has been here, why isn’t there any dust?”
After a long pause, she says, “Because there’s a spell to repel dust, of course.”
“Will you teach it to me?”
“You don’t need it. It’s already been cast. Do you see any dust?”
I already know she’s hiding things from me, but I’m beginning to see the shape of it. Her grimoire is the key to casting spells, and she doesn’t want me to know where it is.
Which is why I’m going to keep looking.
I grab a corner of the big brass bed and tug it across the floor. The cozy rag rug on the floor shifts, and I see a bumpy white line.
When I pull the rug away completely, I find a strange design on the bare wood boards. A star within a circle, surrounded by squiggles and dots, a strange language that reminds me of tarot cards.
The pentagram—or pentacle—or whatever—is painted on the old wood. I drag a finger over the rough texture, and call, “Meemaw, have you been summoning demons?”
“Of course not, you goose! There’s no such thing as dark magic or demons.” A pause. “So I’m guessing you moved the rug.”
I head into the kitchen and open the door to the cage. “Explain.”
She immediately hops out and flaps her wings. “It’s a casting circle. It concentrates your power. It’s a totally normal thing. Just put the rug back over it before Hunter gets here.”
“But he’s a witch, too, right? So why—”
“Witches don’t talk about witch things outside of families and very close relationships. It’s considered rude.”
“So how am I ever supposed to learn anything?”
There’s a knock on the door.
I briefly ponder the casting circle before covering it with the rug, dragging the bed back to where it was, and heading for the door.
I know Maggie is keeping something from me. I know Joyce Blakely and several of the other witch families hated her.
But what I don’t know yet is whether she deserved that hate.
Maybe Maggie is the bad guy…or maybe she was protecting Arcadia Falls from something even worse.