There hadn't been anything odd since the three dead birds a week ago, and Joanna was starting to relax. Maybe that nagging worry in the back of her mind was just a by-product of their history. Perhaps she was just seeing signs where there weren't any. Life in North Hampton never changed; she herself had seen to that when she first moved into town.
Oh dear, the pie had burned. She had forgotten to set the timer and now it was black and smoking. If she had been Freya, this would never have happened, but her magic was of a different sort. Tyler's face crumpled, threatening an avalanche of tears. Lala had promised that there would be pie and ice cream.
"I'm so sorry, darling," Joanna sighed.
"Pie," Tyler said stubbornly. "Pie."
"We'll just have to make another one . . ."
"Pie."
Joanna put her hands on her hips. She had overheard her daughters talking that morning. Something about how Freya had made a love potion - of the three of them, Freya had always been the bravest due to her natural impulsiveness and daring. But if nothing had happened to Freya, then . . . well . . . wouldn't it stand to reason that she could do the same? It would just be a simple flick of the wrist, one little incantation and all would be right with Tyler's world. It wouldn't use up that much energy, after all, and truly, the oracle had been silent for many years; who knew if the restriction even applied to something so small? . . . Joanna's hands began to shake. She wanted to do this. She would do this. It was just a pie, after all, she told herself. It was just part of the baking process. Bake pie. Burn pie. Restore pie.
"Don't tell anyone," she whispered. Recovery and renewal was her brand of witchcraft. She covered the burned pie with a dish towel, whispered a few words, and when she removed it, the crust was golden brown and perfect.
Tyler's eyes widened and he began to bounce on his heels. "You're a witch!" he said with glee.
"Shhh!" Joanna's eyes danced but she looked around in fear. No one had called her that for centuries. It brought back too many memories, not all of them good.
"Are you? Are you a witch?"
Joanna laughed. "What if I am?"
For a moment the little boy looked frightened and shirked away from her, probably thinking of witches in fairy tales, ugly hags who shoved children into ovens and baked them into pies.
Joanna wrapped him in her arms and for once he let her hold him, let her soothe him with a kiss on the nape of his neck. The little boy smelled like baby lotion and sugar. "No, my darling. Never. You have nothing to fear from me."
Chapter eight
Gift Horse
Excuse me, Ingrid? There's someone here for you," Hudson Rafferty whispered, coming into the back office. The junior librarian raised an eyebrow so that Ingrid would understand this wasn't a usual patron with a question about toddler storytime hours or whether their library fines could be waived (the answer was always "no," so why they even continued to ask, Ingrid could never understand).
"Who is it?" Ingrid asked, taking off the spectacles she used to read the fine print in the design elevations.
"I don't know but he is quite fetching," Hudson said in his usual understated way. He favored argyle vests, engraved cuff links, and bow ties, and was in his seventh year of getting his doctorate in Romance languages at Harvard. Hudson's family practically owned the eastern shore, and truly he did not need a summer internship shelving books. The other librarians joked that he was the world's oldest (he'd just turned thirty) and best-dressed intern; his suits alone cost more than their entire wardrobes. He was exacting in his work and moved very deliberately. One could not imagine Hudson running, for instance, or hurrying for any reason, or perspiring. He was a natural dilettante, with a breadth of knowledge on many subjects concerning the humanities and the arts, as well as a seasoned world traveler. Hudson was the one to ask if you needed to know, say, the price of a Ruscha lithograph, where to find the best tapas in Madrid, and whom to call if your hotel in Cairo suddenly "lost" your prepaid reservation. He had "fixers" and a network of acquaintances around the globe and happened to be one of Ingrid's best friends, as they shared a love for theater, opera, and classical music.
"Do excuse me, allergies are bad this year," Hudson said, wiping his nose and coughing. "Well, don't keep the gentleman caller waiting. Someone else might snatch him up."
For a moment Ingrid thought Hudson was talking about Matt Noble, and she felt irritated that the detective had come back so soon. Surely he couldn't be done with that thousand-page book yet? But when she walked to the front desk the man waiting for her was not Matt.
Killian Gardiner was leaning against the main desk. His gray T-shirt was pocky with holes and his jeans were slung low on his hips. Even in the heat, he was wearing a black motorcycle jacket. He looked like a movie star, with the gold-trimmed aviator shades and the five o'clock shadow. No, not a movie star. Like an icon. He had the kind of face that should be plastered on posters in every teen girl's bedroom. When he saw her he took off his sunglasses and pecked her on the cheek.
"Hi, Killian," she said, trying to inject some warmth into her voice. Something about the younger Gardiner brother put her on edge. It wasn't just that he was spectacularly good-looking; as a rule, Ingrid was skeptical and hostile toward pretty men - she found them vain and self-assured and selfish. Blake Aland had pretty much confirmed the fact on their first and only date. She preferred homely guys; not that Matt Noble was homely - far from it - which was probably why she felt annoyed with him, since she liked him despite his looks. Handsome men took female adoration as their due, and Ingrid did not take to people who assumed too much.
Killian Gardiner was a vain peacock, and it was clear he knew exactly how good he looked, with that dark hair that fell over his eyes just so, and that lean, ripped body underneath the worn T-shirt and battered jeans. She could see the carved V shape of his hip muscles jutting above his waistband. When they had met at the party she had asked him what he did, and he'd been purposefully vague. Later she found out it was because he didn't seem to do much of anything. She heard that Killian was a fly-by-night, that he moved with the seasons, he'd run a scuba-diving boat off the coast of Australia, worked as a galley chef on an Alaskan freighter. There were other rumors: that he'd gotten a girl pregnant, that he'd been in jail, that he was a drug addict. Whether they were true or not, Ingrid knew that a man that beautiful was definitely Bad News and she didn't expect to hear anything that proved otherwise.