Chapter 18

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The Dumb Supper

“Oh, Kate, it’s stunning!” Celeste beams as she steps into the foyer of the manor. She removes the silk scarf around her neck and drops her Armani and Hermes luggage onto the marble floor. Miranda walks in a moment later, wearing a knit sweater and with her wild red curls neatly twisted into a bun. Her green eyes scan the interior of the house in apprehension. She pauses at the mantle in the living room, where photos of the three of us in our childhood Halloween costumes are lined up in a row, an orange garland snaking between us. Her lips purse.

“Not quite how Mom used to arrange it. But it is lovely, Hecate.” Miranda’s smile turns sweet.

Celeste squeals and claps her hands “The fabulous three. Together again!” She gives me a hug, which I return without complaint. She releases me quickly, as if suddenly remembering that I am the sister who doesn’t like to be touched.

“Welcome home,” I tell my sisters with a smile. I am proud of the Manor this evening. I have channeled all my heartbreak and fear into a cooking and decorating fervor. All the lamps are switched on, and dozens of candles are lit around the first floor. The scents of rosemary, thyme, and garlic waft from the kitchen. The dining table is set for six, with black lace table runners and crystal goblets twinkling in the lamplight. Spook Along With Zacherley is playing on the phonograph by the liquor cabinet.

“The pumpkins on the lawn are to die for!” Celeste says, grinning. “Your best work ever!”

“Thank you,” I say with a slight smile as I grab Miranda’s and her luggage and begin hauling them up the grand staircase. I’m grateful that Celeste has packed light. But Miranda has a massive roller bag that I have to lug up the stairs one step at a time. Lord knows what she has in this thing—she’s only staying three nights.

“What time is dinner?” Celeste asks when we reach the second floor.

“At midnight, like always. Is that enough time to get ready?” I say, setting their bags down.

“Absolutely,” she agrees. She then takes out her phone and snaps a selfie next to the cobweb-covered grandfather clock at the top of the stairs.

“It’s a little bit of a rush but shouldn’t be a problem,” Miranda says with a thin smile. “And did you get my final headcount for Saturday? It’s crucial that there is enough food for everyone,” she says to me.

“Yes. Fifty-seven,” I say, not mentioning that her note with the headcount hadn’t even arrived until a few hours ago. Typical Miranda, she demands excellence from others but is constantly tardy in her own tasks. “Do you need help to your rooms?” I ask.

“No, I’ve got it. Thanks, Kate,” Celeste says, collecting her bags.

“Yes, if you please,” Miranda says.

Celeste rolls her eyes and gives me a wink as she heads down the hall to her bedroom. I grab Miranda’s roller bag and begin dragging it to the other end of the hall. She follows behind me, her stilettos clacking against the wooden floor. Her bedroom door opens with a creak that makes me cringe. I should have gone over the hinges with a lubricant before she arrived. Oh well.

She walks into the room and appraises the decorations. Several of Mom’s Halloween bears are placed on the pillows of her bed, and spiderweb candelabras line the mantle of her fireplace. I’ve scented the room with caramel and sea salt potpourri.

She turns to me and smiles. “Really nicely done, Kate. Thank you. I will be quite cozy.”

“My pleasure,” I say, putting the bag near the vanity. “See you in about an hour.” I head to her door.

“Wait,” she says. I stop and turn back to her. She hesitates, as if unsure she wants to ask the question on her mind. “You never did answer me. When I asked about your mystery guest?”

Her eyes try to wiggle answers out of me.

“Well,” I say as I walk out the door, “if we’re lucky, he might be joining us for the dumb supper.”

“He?” Miranda exclaims as the door shuts behind me.

Inside my old bedroom, it’s dark. I switch on the desk lamp, which casts a ghostly glow over the walls. Of all the rooms in the house, mine is barest, since all my prized possessions came to the cottage with me. Inside the closet hangs a single black dress. The same dress I’ve worn to the dumb suppers the past five years. The same dress I wore to my mother’s funeral this summer. For the tenth time today, I swallow an angry sourness that bubbles in my throat.

I take the dress off the hanger and lay it on my old bed. The sleeves are see-through black lace, the only instance of embellishment. I change out of the mossy-green sweater I wore for my sisters’ arrival and slip the black dress over my head. It reaches all the way down to the floor in a pure jet column with a sweetheart neckline. I spend some time wrestling my hair into pinned-up curls. As a final touch, I clasp a bright green scarab beetle hairpin into the back of my bun. My mother gave me the pin on my sixteenth birthday “for luck.” I squeeze into my one nice pair of heels and dab on a Guerlain perfume Grandmother Goodwin always wore.

“Spirits, be with me,” I whisper to the empty room.

Once I’m dressed, I walk back down to the first floor and give a final check on all the food in the kitchen. Everything looks perfect. The grandfather clock strikes midnight, clanging throughout the house. Miranda and Celeste’s doors both open upstairs. The record on the gramophone keeps spinning, but the music stops and the house falls silent as the clock finishes chiming the hour.

“You look nice,” Miranda says to me as we meet in the entryway. She looks stunning in a form-fitting mermaid dress covered in silk fringe. Her red hair is up, styled very similar to mine. The bodice of her dress is a lingerie corset with an attractive halter that accentuates her long neck. Dozens of thick silk cords fall from the neckline and wrap around her shoulders like a web.

“Not as nice as I do,” Celeste announces from the top of the stairs, with a happy laugh. She is wearing a velvet black ballerina gown with tulle and Swarovski crystals in her petticoat that sparkle as she descends to the first floor. An extravagant multistranded pearl necklace hangs from her neck. In her short raven bob is a headband with a giant black bow in the center. Even at twenty-seven, I can’t help but still see her as the four-year-old who shadowed me around the estate constantly.

“You both look lovely,” I say with a smile as a knock sounds on the door. “Ah,” I say, turning to open it. “Our fourth living guest.”

Even though I know he’s coming, I’m not prepared to see Matthew when I answer the door. He stands underneath the lamplight of the porch in a stunning black suit with satin detailing. His dark hair is perfect, as always, and his blue eyes are alight with mischief. He does a double take when he sees me, which makes me grin.

“You look beautiful,” he says, his eyes sweeping over my face, my hair, my dress. From his inside pocket he produces a long-stemmed rose and presents it to me.

I can tell it was once red. In fact, it’s likely he pulled it directly from my mother’s flourishing garden. But its petals are dried out and crinkly now, its stem hard as crystal. Devoid of all life and yet still beautiful in its death.

“Thank you,” I say, accepting the flower. It’s only been an hour or so since we were last together; he snuck out the back door when we heard Celeste and Miranda’s car coming up the drive. Despite the short separation, it’s a relief to see him again. After everything I’ve learned in the past twenty-four hours, I don’t know how I could get through a night of honoring my mother without him by my side.

“May I come in?” he asks after a moment. I nod and step aside, making room for him to enter. Finally, my sisters get a glimpse of him.

One of them gasps, Celeste I can only assume.

“Hello, ladies,” Matthew says, stepping forward. “Thank you for letting me join you this evening. Kate has been kind enough to involve me in your New Year’s traditions.”

Both of my sisters are stunned into silence.

“Girls, this is Matthew. Matthew, these are my sisters, Miranda and Celeste Goodwin.”

“It’s a pleasure,” he says with a small bow to them both. “I’ve heard a lot about you the past few days.”

Miranda glares at Matthew, not in animosity but in the way she glares at any person she doesn’t know. Celeste, on the other hand, is grinning excitedly. She’s the first to collect herself.

“So, you’re the mysterious guest staying with Kate? Nice to meet you, Matthew,” she says, extending her hand to him. As he takes it, she cocks her head and stares at his features. “Have we met before? I can’t believe I’d ever forget a face like yours. My god, you’re gorgeous.”

“Celeste!” Miranda admonishes her, but Celeste ignores our older sister. I try to keep my face neutral as I run through my memories of the Michigan Six convocation. Had Celeste seen him at some point?

“Oh, let me guess!” She grins, still gripping Matthew’s hand. “You’re one of the Texan Hexans, aren’t you? I’ve spent loads of time in the Lone Star State. Surely, we’ve crossed paths there.”

“I—” Matthew hesitates, his silver tongue unsure as he looks at me questioningly.

“The hour is continuing on without us. Shall we?” I say, ushering them all into the dining room, eager not to force Matthew into another lie.

“Oh, of course!” Celeste says, noticing the time on the clock. “I don’t want to miss the cocktails again, like we did last year, Kate,” she says over her shoulder as she walks into the dining room. Miranda follows behind her, and Matthew and I enter together. We all fall silent as we cross the threshold, doing our best not to disturb the spirits.

The dining room looks as if it has been pulled straight from a dark fairy tale. The table is covered in black lace. A range of dishes, from Victorian platters to Fiesta tableware, span the surface, each piece belonging to a different Goodwin matriarch. Miranda takes her seat at the head of the table as the oldest living Goodwin witch. Celeste sits on the right side of the table, next to one of the seats dedicated to the Departed.

Matthew pulls my chair out for me. I am sitting in the middle, the seat closest to the kitchen. It is where I have always sat at these suppers. Matthew’s chair is on one side of me. On my other side is my mother’s place setting. An orange crystal dessert plate is stacked delicately atop a translucent black dinner plate of the same material. A black lace napkin is draped across the plates, with a sprig of rosemary tied on top. My mother’s initials are embroidered in the corner of the napkin cloth. I lightly trace the S with my fingertips, my stomach swelling with the cocktail of emotions I’ve been burying all day: confusion, grief, rage, longing. They all mix together until I am desperately untethered. Matthew’s warm hand grabs my free one and squeezes reassuringly. He looks at me in concern. I offer him a soft smile.

Miranda’s eyes are narrowed, flickering back and forth between Matthew and me. Her eyes linger on Matthew’s wrist, where the edges of his bronze scar peek out from underneath his cuffed sleeves.

I withdraw my hand from Matthew’s and grab the tiny silver matchbox lying in the middle of the table. Everyone watches as I strike a match on the tinder. The rush of the flame is the only noise in the silent room. I light the wick of a long black taper candle in the exact center of the table. So long as the candle remains lit, the spirits honor the ritual. The dumb supper has officially begun.

For roughly one hour, we must eat in total silence and sacrifice the best portions of our meal to the plates meant for our departed guests. Any excessive noise, and the spirits of our ancestors might be frightened off, and the blessings of Samhain perhaps reduced.

I head to the kitchen, leaving Matthew alone with the curious eyes of my sisters.

The first course is coffee and dessert, as is custom in a dumb supper. I bring out a pitcher of a strong black brew and pour the top two servings of the pot into the ancestors’ cups. Then, around the table by age. Miranda first. Matthew. My own cup. Then finally Celeste, who gives me the same sad little pout she gives every year at being the baby of the group. In the same order, I place a ramekin of chocolate Earl Grey cr è me br ? l é e onto each of the dessert plates. We watch the candle in the center of the table after everyone has been served. It flickers with gentle approval. We pick up our spoons and dig in. Matthew breathes out appreciatively at the flavor of the cr è me br ? l é e, and Miranda devours her entire ramekin. Even Celeste, who normally never takes more than two bites of a dessert, finishes her serving. I clear the plates and cups and head back to the kitchen.

Next, all the goblets on the table are filled with a vintage red wine before I serve boeuf bourguignon and buttery mashed potatoes, Mom and Celeste’s favorite. Celeste beams at me when she sees what I have made. Once again, we eat in appreciative silence. Despite all I learned yesterday, I actually manage to enjoy the food. These dishes are impossible not to appreciate, even when cooked by another witch. That is the power of my mother’s recipes.

The next course, the appetizer, is a selection of homemade gyoza in chili oil. Our grandmother loved them, as does Miranda. She eats twice as many as Matthew, Celeste, and I. Her delicate fingers are slick with shimmery oil by the end of the course. She and Celeste both silently grin as she licks them clean. Then she remembers Matthew and uses her napkin to finish cleaning herself up.

The final dish of the evening is an autumn salad with crisp apples and pomegranate seeds. We are all so full that collectively we only manage about six or seven bites before I clear the plates away, hurrying to get Celeste her cocktails before the candle goes out.

Matthew follows me to the kitchen for this course and assists with assembling the apple cider margaritas. I cringe as he crushes the ice, hoping the noise doesn’t scare any spirits and berating myself for not thinking to do that earlier in the day. But neither of my sisters shout that the candle has blown out.

Matthew carries the tray of cocktails and serves each of us in the correct order. We all quietly lift our glasses and silently toast one another. But as the four of us move to take our first drink, the grandfather clock chimes the first hour loudly. We all jump at the noise and the candle, now just a small black pile of wax in the center of the table, blows out. The lights in the house brighten. The spinning record starts emitting music again, the final verse of “Coolest Little Monster” playing throughout the room.

“Aw, man,” Celeste sighs, setting her drink down disappointedly without a sip. If we continue to eat now that the candle has blown out, it would be a great sign of disrespect.

“I’m impressed. That’s the longest I’ve ever seen a supper go. They never last that long back home,” Matthew says with a laugh, setting his own drink down.

“That’s funny,” Miranda says, her eyes narrowing. “I thought they didn’t do dumb suppers in Texas.” She stares at Matthew pointedly.

Before he can respond, the cocktail glass sitting at my mother’s place flies off the table and smashes into the wall behind me.

The alcohol splatters and splashes on the back of my neck. Chunks of ice and apple slide down the wallpaper. Celeste lets out a loud shriek, and Matthew rises quickly from the table, scanning the room, one hand protectively on my shoulder. Miranda and I exchange a worried glance. She rises from the table slowly and reaches into the bodice of her dress. She pulls out a velvet black drawstring bag and undoes the tie, pouring out its contents into her hand.

“By the ocean, by the riptide, by this sea glass, Mother, say what vexes you beyond the veil.” Miranda throws dozens of translucent pale blue pebbles onto the dining room table. They clatter around the dishware with crystalline clinks, and the room falls silent.

“Nobody touch anything,” she urges us, staring at the sea glass on the table. “The spirits need time to communicate. I will check on the glass in the morning. Then we shall know what message they have for us this New Year.”

“Has anything like this happened at your suppers before?” Matthew asks quietly. His hand is still gripping my shoulder.

“No,” Celeste admits, fidgeting with the bow on her head. “We get flickering candles. Maybe a gust of wind. Never something so overt.” She stares at the ruined wallpaper where the cocktail glass smashed.

“Then again, we’ve never had a hexan at the table,” Miranda says with a head jerk toward Matthew. “Maybe you’re a bit of bad luck.”

“I have dishes to wash,” I say abruptly, standing from my chair. I can’t be at this table a second longer. Matthew’s hand slides off my shoulder and down to the small of my back.

“Are you all right?” he asks me quietly. I nod. But I want out of the dining room.

“Miranda, pick up the shattered crystal before someone cuts themselves,” I order. Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise at my demanding tone as I head through the swinging door into the kitchen.

I twist the sink knobs and watch as steaming water pours into the soapy basin, bubbles quickly forming and filling it to the top. I grab some of my great-grandmother’s china, scrape the food for the departed into the trash, and plunge the plate into the searing hot water.

The swinging door creaks open, and I smell Celeste’s perfume before I see the black tulle of her dress.

“The stars are bright tonight,” she says, coming to stand next to me at the sink.

“In warning?” I say with a short but quiet laugh. A little late weren’t they?

“I don’t think so,” she says thoughtfully, her hand running up and down her long multistranded pearl necklace. “In anticipation, I think.”

“Everyone is looking forward to the New Year, it seems. Even the stars and spirits.” My hands are getting used to the hot water, but they have turned red from the temperature.

“It’s more than that. Something big is about to change,” Celeste insists. “Why would Mom’s spirit smash the—”

“I don’t want to talk about Mom,” I say, pulling my hands from the hot water and facing my younger sister. Her pale blue eyes look at me in surprise.

“Oh. Okay.” She relents quickly as the door opens again. Matthew and Miranda walk into the kitchen. Matthew carries the drink tray, which holds several of the large shards of crystal from the cocktail glass.

“Thank you,” I say, reaching for it. He shakes his head.

“I’ve got this,” he says. “I’ll take it back to the cottage and see what I can do.” He gives me a quick wink.

“Oh no, you’re not allowed to leave yet. Not before we get to interrogate you,” Celeste says with a laugh.

“Celeste, it’s getting late, and it’s been a long day. Can we save the questions for a later time?” I request, but she lifts a hand up to quiet me. Miranda smirks.

“Come on—you bring someone home for the holidays and expect us not to barrage him with questions? No, it won’t stand. We have every right to get some answers.” Her voice is good-natured, but she is determined. “Don’t worry, Matthew. It won’t be that painful.”

“Celeste—” I warn as she pulls something from a pocket in the skirt of her black ballerina dress. She ignores me as she begins to shuffle the cards in her hands. Her beloved tarot deck that is never more than two feet from her body. They are well worn, some even ripped around the edges, from the thousands of readings she does for her celebrity clientele. Miranda looks smug over in the corner of the kitchen, her arms crossed. Matthew sets the tray of broken glass down on the kitchen island and watches with interest as Celeste shuffles. After five or six tricks, Celeste lays the deck down on the marble countertop before him.

“At your leisure, cut the deck, please,” she says with a sweet smile to him.

“You know,” he says with his classic cocky grin, “you could ask me the questions yourself.”

“I trust this deck more than I trust you,” she replies. Matthew shakes his head with amusement. He reaches out and, with an elegantly swift movement, cuts the deck in half. Celeste sweeps in quickly and reassembles it, giving it one final shuffle. As she does so, she speaks aloud.

“Stars align. What do we need to know about our new friend, Matthew? Three cards shall do for now.” She places the shuffled deck back down on the marble and overturns the top card with her small, pale fingers.

A black sky with a constellation of stars in the shape of an embracing couple: the Lovers.

My eyes flash to Matthew, who is already looking at me. He averts his gaze and pretends to study the card as Celeste giggles and Miranda lets out an annoyed tut.

“Well, that’s a freebie. Guess we should have guessed that card would turn up. Now that we know his present, let’s see his near future.” She smiles at me mischievously. I am too mortified to speak as she flips the next card. The planet Mars eclipsed by its two moons.

The Tower.

The air in the room shifts. Matthew stands up straight, a look of resolve in his eye. Miranda and I both take a few steps toward the table to see the card more clearly. Celeste remains calm, but her eyes widen at the image. She glances at Matthew.

“Destruction. Torment. Danger,” she whispers. “And your ultimate fate …” The final card is flipped and placed onto the others. A constellation in the shape of a scorpion and a hooded figure with its arms wrapped around a maiden. My blood turns to ice.

Death.