Chapter 10

CHAPTER TEN

The next morning, Bran left early. He had a lot of work to do, cleaning up the gardens for the winter and collecting the last of the crops. Occasionally he and his mother grew winter crops—broccoli and cauliflower, and other cold-hardy produce. But this year, given they had to replace the barn and everything else that had happened, they had chosen to forgo a winter harvest.

As I entered the kitchen, feeling slightly sore from the night before but a whole lot calmer, Grams glanced up at me. Her eyes were twinkling, but she said nothing.

"Can we go for a ride today?" Fancypants asked, landing next to me on the counter. "I feel like flying around somewhere else. Maybe the water."

"I suppose we can do that," I said. "I can take my father's journal and read while you fly. We can go to Oracle Park."

Oracle Park was on the edge of the bay. It had access to the shore, and a roped-off area for swimmers. This time of year, there wouldn't be any swimmers unless they were scuba diving, but there were plenty of logs to sit on and picnic tables, and it was a quiet spot. The park was large enough that it offered hiking trails, along with simple walks along the shore. But in November, there wouldn't be many people there.

Fancypants jumped up and down on the counter, puffs of steam coming from his nose. He flapped his wings. "Thank you."

Grams handed me a plate of eggs and bacon, along with a small fruit bowl. "I know it's the holidays, but we're going to eat sensibly at least part of the time."

"I know, I know. I'm going to hit the gym this afternoon. Do you want to come with me?" Grams actually joined me at the gym part of the time. For a hundred-twenty-plus years old, she was spry on her feet. She did mild weight training, and walked on the elliptical.

"Not today," she said. "I'm meeting the inspector about the house, and after that, providing all goes well, May and I are going shopping for curtains and bath mats and whatever I'll need when I move."

"You know the inspector won't find anything wrong, don't you?"

"I can see it. Sometimes my long vision is a bit tenuous, but the Sight is so strong that I trust it implicitly. This house is meant to be mine. If there's anything at all wrong, it won't take much to fix. Besides, the ghost told me everything's all right."

"Well, I hope you two get along famously. Just…please, don't enjoy living with her more than you enjoy living with me." I sniffed, affecting a pout.

"Oh, go on with you. You know I love you, and you know I love living with you. But you need your own space. Especially now with your young man, and possibly your other young man." She winked at me, and I blushed. "Make your latte."

I finished my breakfast and made my latte, returning to the table. "Are we cooking this afternoon?"

"I don't think so. We'll make the cranberry sauce and the rolls tomorrow. And we'll need to buy sweet potatoes and green beans. You know, given that May, Bran, and Bree are coming, Thanksgiving might be enjoyable at that. I suppose you're still serious about looking for that letter?"

I nodded. "Yeah, I am. Bran and Bree are going to help me. If you could keep my mother out of the house for a while, it would help."

"All right. Anything to help you. Now, be off with you. Fancypants looks like he is champing at the bit to get out of here." She grinned, giving me a kiss on the cheek. "I'll probably be gone by the time you get home. I'll see you later today."

And with that, we were both off to our day's chores.

Oracle Park was empty, as I had predicted. I walked down to the water's edge, watching over the glistening surface as it ruffled in the wind. Fancypants caught an updraft, riding the air currents like a kite. He let out a squeal of glee, and began divebombing at me, pulling up short each time. I sat down at the picnic table near the edge of the bay, then pulled my father's journal out of my tote and set it on the table. I glanced around. Seeing no one else nearby, I opened the page to the next entry.

But to my surprise, the next three entries were everyday observations. He wrote about me, about how much he loved me, and how angry he was at my mother for ignoring her duties.

I rested my elbows on the table, trying to remember. Had my mother truly neglected me? Was my father my primary caregiver? Everything seemed kind of a blur, until the night that he died. But then, as I let my mind wander, I slowly began to recall loud voices, arguments happening after I went to bed. And then, a memory crept out of the fog.

"What the hell are you thinking, Catharine?" My father's voice echoed through the house, so loud that I could hear it from my bed. I sat up, squinting as I listened. I didn't understand everything, but the words rang loud in my ears.

"Why do you think it's my job to raise her? I gave birth to her and that's the hard work. I love her, but I can't stand it when she clings to me. You know how it bothers me."

"I realize that you have a sensory issue. I realize that it makes your skin crawl to have people touch you when you aren't ready for it. But you're going to have to get over it. She's your daughter ." My father sounded so angry. "Deal with it!"

I scooted back toward the headboard, pulling the covers up to my chest. I didn't like it when he was angry. He seldom yelled at me, but still—raised voices meant the fiery mist that I saw around angry people would be hovering. And that fire threatened to burn me every time I was near.

"Maybe," my mother said, her voice softening, "I could deal with it if it'd been my choice to have a child. I didn't get a say in the matter."

"I didn't force you into bed," my father said.

"No, but when the condom broke, you didn't give me a choice. When the test came back positive, you and your mother decided for me. When I broached the possibility of an abortion—when I told you I wasn't ready and didn't think I had the ability to take on the responsibility, you threatened to leave me . You gave me an ultimatum. The reason I said yes, the reason that she's here with us now, is because I loved you enough to give up my life for you. The life I might've had."

Even as young as I was, I knew they were talking about me. I always knew that my mother didn't want me. Oh, she loved me—she made that clear and I didn't doubt it. But she didn't want me around. I had always thought it was because I took all the attention away from her. But now, remembering, I wondered if she truly wasn't capable of raising a child. I had forgotten all about the indicators that she might have mental health issues beyond the superficial ones I ascribed to her. And now, it hit me that there were things that my mother wanted to do that my presence had prevented. Wondering why she didn't pursue them after I left home, I shook the memory out of my head and returned to the journal.

As I flipped to the next entry, Fancypants spiraled toward me in a dive bomb, shrieking "Whee!" all the way.

Startled, I jumped and ducked as he pulled up short, laughing.

"Don't scare me that!" I exclaimed. But his silly grin and twinkling eyes cut through my irritation. "Oh, come here. You silly thing."

Fancypants glided over and settled on the picnic table next to me. He looked delighted with himself, and I stroked him between the eyes. He purred, and then was aloft again, flying over toward the treeline.

"Don't go too far," I said. "I don't want to have to come find you."

As he flew off, I returned to my father's diary. I thumbed through several more entries focused on his daily life, then came to a short entry that stopped me cold.

I had hoped things would calm down, but I can see now that there is going to be no peace for me. And that means there will be no peace for my wife and my child. They caught me in the parking lot tonight, after I stowed the groceries in the backseat. I looked up to find two of them there, and they reminded me that I signed a contract with them. If I can't make this work, I'm in serious trouble. I was so sure that I had a handle on this, and that nothing would interfere. I thought my powers were strong enough, but everything's falling apart. It's beginning to look like there's only one way out to save Catharine and Elf, but I have a few more things to try first. Then, we'll see.

"Magic. My father got in trouble over something magical, but it also has something to do with money—that much I know," I whispered. I tried to think back to our circumstances when I was four or five years old. Were we poor? Did we have enough money to pay the bills? That wasn't something children usually thought about. I didn't remember being hungry, and we stayed in the house after my father died. But if the contract had been with him exclusively, would they have come after my mother?

Once again, it seemed there were so many pieces to the puzzle, and I didn't have the framework in which to place them. When you were dealing with scattered pieces, knowing where to begin was like trying to find the end of the thread in a tangle of yarn.

I flipped through the rest of the journal but only saw a few more pages. The next three entries were brief, and they were all equations that I didn't understand. I had no clue what my father had been trying to calculate, but at the end of each one there was a bright red checkmark. The diary ended abruptly with the last entry.

It's not going to work. I've done my best but I can't figure out the formula. I was so sure, absolutely positive that I could do this. And now, what's going to happen? I've made promises to a lot of powerful people and creatures along the way, and they expect results.

I don't know what's going to happen—I'm so tired. I've been working 24/7. But something in my formula is off, and the magic isn't holding true. It's too volatile and I don't dare loose it into the wild. I'm not the genius I thought I was, and I suppose that might be a good thing, considering everything involved.

I thought I could play the villain for money, but when it comes down to the end, I can't. I know that my days are numbered, and I know my baby girl is going to grow up without me. I pray and hope that Catharine won't flake out on her.

I've kept my wife in the dark, and I can't leave her holding the baggage that I've incurred, either financial or emotional. I can only see one option… One chance to make things right. But I'm afraid. I'm so afraid. I have no one to blame but myself and my greed. I'm hiding this diary, and hopefully, when everything's blown over, the right person will find it. With luck, Catharine will find the letter that I left her.

I set all my affairs in order, and I've locked up my daughter's trust in an ironclad contract. No one can take it away from her, regardless of the situation. So at least I've done that part right. I'm going to make one last-ditch effort, but I don't hold much hope with it. There's still one thing I haven't tried, but I have to find Yanak. He's my only hope now, in a world where little hope exists. As Percival said, "When all lights are dim, when shadow covers the road, one candle can save a life." And Yanak is my candle.

If you find this, my candle vanished in the wind. If I succeed, I will burn this journal and everything connected to it. I wish I could see the way forward.

The journal ended there, the pages after it blank. I flipped through, looking for anything that might be hidden toward the back, but the pages were all empty. I shut the diary. What the hell had my father gotten himself into, and what kind of magic was he working with? It had to be dark magic, given what he had written.

My trust fund had come through with no problem. As he said, it had been sewn up so tightly that my mother couldn't touch it. As far as I could tell he had been after what must have seemed a great deal of money, and it involved some sort of secret room, and magical experiments. It had also involved putting his clients at risk. But how?

I thought for another moment. Accountants usually dealt with people who had a great deal of money. So he must have had clients who were wealthy. Somebody wanted that wealth, perhaps? And then there was the Port Townsend Witches' Guild. Did that mean that they were corrupt? Or had he only thought they were? The one certainty was that the diary had raised more questions for me than it answered.

I stared at the outside of the book, running my fingers along the smooth leather binding. I needed to know more. At least I had one name to go on: Yanak. When we were in Port Townsend for Thanksgiving, I would do my best to track him down.

In fact, I could start looking now, online. It had been twenty-eight years since my father died, but witches lived longer than humans, so even if he was an old man at the time, whoever this Yanak was might still be alive, if he was a witch.

I looked up to see Fancypants flying along the shore, giggling as he flew. He was having the time of his life, and I didn't want to interrupt him. Instead, I faced the bay. The wind whipped the waves into swells, and the clouds were socking in. We were due for rain any minute.

Finally, I stood and, talking the journal under my arm, I called for Fancypants. "We need to head home. It's going to storm soon and I don't want to get caught out in the rain."

He landed on the picnic table. "All right. Thank you for bringing me. I needed that." He paused, then asked, "Are you all right?"

I nodded, not knowing what else to say. "Yes, I'm fine. Come on, race you to the car."

As I sprinted toward the car with Fancypants flying alongside, my mind was turning in a hundred different directions. Now, more than ever, I wanted to know about my father and what he'd been involved in.

All the way to the car, a voice deep inside me whispered: Are you sure you want to dig up the past? Are you sure you shouldn't leave the dead to the dead? Old bones can bring up old wounds. But even as I listened to the warnings, I knew that I'd ignore them.