Daughter of the Spellcaster. Maggie Shayne
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look!” Lena pointed at the images that were playing out in the mirror as clearly as a movie on TV.
“I can’t see what you’re seeing, Lena. Tell me about it as it unfolds.”
She thought she heard a little bit of doubt in her mom’s voice. Sometimes, Lena knew, her mom thought she was making things up, or at least stretching them out with what she called her turbo-charged imagination. But she was seeing that stuff in that mirror. Not in her imagination. But for real.
Go on, tell her what you see, Lilia whispered.
“There are three girls, all dressed up like Jasmine from Aladdin. Hey, I think one of them is Lilia. It is! It’s Lilia!”
“Your imaginary friend?” Mamma asked.
“Yes! Oh, my goodness, that one is me. Only… way different. I’m all grown up in there. And my hair isn’t red like now. It’s black.” Lena giggled. “I’ve got boobies.”
“What am I ever going to do with you, witchling?” Lena could hear the smile in her mom’s voice, but she couldn’t look to see it for herself. She just couldn’t take her eyes off of the images in the mirror.
“It’s getting dark, and I’m sneaking out. Gosh, look where I live. It’s like on that show, I Dreamed about Jennie?”
“I Dream of Jeannie.”
“Yeah. You know, how it looks inside Jeannie’s bottle? It’s like that.”
“Makes sense. You said you looked like Jasmine.”
“Oh, and there’s a boy. A man, I mean. A prince! A handsome prince. Just like in one of my books.” She frowned, then blinked hard. “Oh, no.”
“What, baby?”
“I’m crying. He’s going away. But he says he’s coming back for me soon, and that we’ll live happily ever after. Oh, and he’s kissing me like in a grown-up movie!”
“I think that might be enough for now, Lena.”
One more thing, Lilia whispered.
“Wait, Mom. There’s one more thing.” Lena blinked and relaxed back in her chair, because the fog had returned. It cleared again, though, and she leaned forward and stared eagerly, but then she sighed. “It’s just a cup. It’s just a stupid cup. Not a story. Just a cup.”
“What does it look like?” Mamma asked.
“Fancy. Silver, with jewels all over it.”
“Sounds like a chalice.”
“As the chalice is to Alice,” Lena chirped. It was a secret joke just between the two of them. See, there was this thing in witchcraft called the Great Rite. In it, a witch lowered her athame—that was a fancy knife—into a chalice. She was supposed to say “As the rod is to the God, so the chalice is to the Goddess.” It never made much sense to Lena, though her mom said it would when she got older. It was supposed to be a powerful rite, one of the most powerful in the Craft, and it was done right at the beginning of every ritual.
Lena had once commented that “As the rod is to the God” rhymed, so the second line should, too. And then she changed it to “So the chalice is to Alice.”
Some witches got really mad over that, so she wasn’t allowed to say it in front of them anymore. Mom said some witches just had no sense of humor at all, but that she thought the Goddess would find it funny as hell.
That was just the way she said it, too. “Funny as hell.”
“Lena,” Mamma prompted.
Lena was still staring at the cup in the mirror. “It kinda feels like I’ve seen it before, Mom, but I don’t know where.”
Then the fog returned, and in a second the mirror was just a black mirror again. She sighed and lifted her gaze to her mom. “Did I do all right?”
Mamma looked a little worried. “You did great, honey. I’m very surprised. Most people try for weeks and weeks before they can see anything in the mirror. And then it’s usually shapes in the mist, maybe an image or two, but not a major motion picture.”
“It’s ‘cause I’m so young,” Lena explained to her. “Grown-ups have spent too much time forgetting how to believe in magic. I haven’t forgotten yet. That’s what Lilia told me.” She frowned and lowered her eyes, a sad feeling kind of squeezing her heart. “My prince never came back, though. At least, I don’t think so.”
He will, darling. He’ll come back to you, just at the right time. And so will the chalice. You’ll see. And the curse will be broken, and everything will be right again.
“What curse?” Lena asked Lilia very softly.
But Lilia only smiled softly before disappearing.
1
Twenty years later
Magdalena Dunkirk waddled to the front door of her blissful, peaceful home outside Ithaca, New York, with one hand atop her watermelon-sized belly. “I’m coming!” she called. It took her longer to get around these days, and her mother was out running a few errands.
They didn’t get a lot of company. They’d only been living at the abandoned vineyard known as Havenwood, on the southern tip of Cayuga Lake, for a little over six months, and aside from their nearest neighbor, Patrick Cartwright, a kind curmudgeon who was also a retired doctor, and the two middle-aged, strictly in-the-broom-closet witches her mom hung out with, they barely knew anyone. Then again, she and her mother tended to keep to themselves. Lena liked it that way.
She got to the big oak door and opened it to see the last person she would have expected. Okay, the second-to-last person. Waist-length dreadlocks—both hair and beard—a red-and-white sari, and sad brown eyes staring into hers. She met them for only a moment, then looked past the guru for his ever-present companion. But Bahru was alone. Only a black car stood beyond him in the curving, snow-covered drive. “Where’s Ernst?” she asked.
“Your baby’s grandfather has gone beyond the veil, Magdalena.”
Ernst? Dead? It didn’t seem possible. Lena closed her eyes, lowered her head. “How?”
“He died in his sleep last night. I wanted to tell you before you heard it on the news.”
Blinking back tears, she opened the door wider. A wintry breeze blew in, causing the conch shell chimes to clatter and clack. “Come in, Bahru.”
He shook his head slowly. “No time. It’s a long drive back.”
She blinked at him. He was eccentric, yes. Obviously. But… “You drove all the way out here just to tell me Ryan’s father is dead, and now you’re going to turn around and drive all the way back? You could have told me with a phone call, Bahru.”
“Yes. But…” He shrugged a bag from his shoulder. It was olive drab, made of canvas, with a buckle and a flap, which he unfastened and opened. “He wanted you to have this,” he said.
Lena watched, wishing he would come inside and let her shut the door but not wanting to be rude and tell him so. So she stood there, holding it open and letting the heat out into the late January cold, and watching as he pulled an elaborately carved wooden box from the bag.
It caught her eye, because it looked old. And sort of… mystical. It was smaller than a shoe box, heavy and hinged, with a small latch on the front. As she took it from him, he went on. “Of course there will be more. I came to tell you that, too. You must come back to New York City, Lena. You and the child are named in his will.”
She looked up from the box sharply and shook her head. “That’s sweet of him, but I don’t want his money. I never did. I won’t—I can’t take it, you know that, Bahru. It would