My heart swells with love for this woman and the unconditional love and support she has always doled out. “Thanks, Grams.” The kettle clicks itself off and I pour the boilingwater into a cup, adding her favorite tea bag. After buttering the toast I know she didn’t ask for, I slide it and the tea in front of her and sit down with mine and the rest of my coffee.
“I saw Howard last night,” she says softly, ignoring the toast but reaching for her tea. “He was outside my window with the fairies again. He’s getting closer.”
As much as I want to dismiss this fairy thing Grams keeps talking about as a dream or a hallucination, I now understand that shades, vampires, and witches are real, along with other dimensions. Why not fairies? “What do they look like, the fairies?”
“Small and bright. From my room, I see round lights bobbing among the trees, but I know what they are. Your great-grandpa wrote about them in his journals. It’s why he decided to settle in Echo Mills way back when.”
She’s told me this story before, but I egg her on anyway. “Great-grandpa settled here when it was still a milling town, right?”
“He most certainly did. If you go to the old mill, you can find his initials carved in the tree growing on the property. H.H. Henry Harcourt. I was as close to him as my own father, you know. Dad died young, but Henry was with us into his old age. Howard’s father was always good to me, just as Howard was. But Henry harbored a zest for the occult. He traveled the world photographing the strange and unusual. Boxes of pictures in the attic chronicle his escapades. His beloved Caroline, your great-grandmother, was the first to be buried in the family cemetery. Henry wanted her to rest where the fairies played. Told me there was magic on this land and all we had to do was tap into it.
“All the séances he held here and the conversations he had with the beyond aside though, itwas Henry’s belief that with magic in the land and love in these walls, his descendants would be truly blessed. And we have been. Love, magic, and family, that’s the secret.”
Behind her, the faded picture of Henry Harcourt takes on new meaning to me. I picture him coming here as a young man, settling in a place with no infrastructure aside from the mill, and building this house with his two hands, all because he felt something magical standing on these cliffs overlooking the Rappahannock River. My great-grandfather believed in something, and for over a century, my family has loved and protected it.
“When I’m gone, you will be the last living Harcourt, Eloise. I know young people don’t stay in one place anymore, but this will be yours someday. You’ll be tempted to sell it. I hope you’ll consider staying.”
“I’ll never sell,” I say with certainty. “My children are going to play on this land, and I’m going to be buried in that cemetery right beside you and my parents.”
A smile warms her otherwise pale face. “I guess there is magic here.”
The phone rings, and I furrow my brow. Who could be calling the landline? A chill runs through me at the timing, as if the ghost of my dead great-grandfather might be on the line. I lift the handset from its cradle and wrap my finger in the obscenely long coiled cord. “Hello?”
“Eloise? Ed Singer here. Can you sub today? Mrs. Adams had to go home sick.”
I block the receiver and whisper to Grams, “The nurse is coming today, right?”
“Yes.”
“Will you be okay if I work a shift?”
“Of course. Nurse or no nurse, I’ll be fine.” She nods.
I remove my hand. “Ed? I’d love to come in. I can be there in fifteen. See you soon.”
We say our goodbyes and I hang up. Bouncing twice on my toes, I clap my hands together. “I have a job again.”
“Go get ‘em tiger.” She laughs.
I speed off toward my room to get ready. Maybe this placeismagic because I finally feel like my luck is turning around.
24
Wrapped in Shadows
ELOISE
Eight hours later, I arrive back at Harcourt Manor, utterly exhausted. I'd forgotten how draining it is to teach art. From the sixth grader who was embarrassed when someone caught him painting his crush, to the twelfth grader who wanted my advice about majoring in graphic design, teaching is about far more than the subject itself. I like working with kids, and I’m proud of what I’ve done today. But I’m also tired as hell, and a small but insistent niggle at the back of my brain wonders what it would feel like to paint again. Paint like I used to before my parents died. Create from the depths of my soul rather than because I’m teaching someone else to paint.
I push the thought aside as I park my Jeep, check on Grams, then sink into one of the rockers on the wraparound porch out front with a hot cup of tea. October in Virginia carries in the scent of change, the air threatening a chill that doesn’t quite have teeth yet but will soon enough. As the sun sets, I appreciate it wrapped in a light but cozyblanket, sipping my chamomile. I think of nothing. Not the future. Not the past. Not when I have to go inside or what frozen casserole I’ll eat for dinner. Blissfully fatigued, I watch the shadows of the trees stretch toward me as the day melts into the river, leaving behind a blank canvas of darkness.
The moment the shadows reach the porch, Damien appears in the empty rocker beside me. I almost drop my teacup. “Damn it, Damien. I’m going to tie a bell around your neck! You scared me half to death. Again! Didn’t I tell you not to do that?”
He flashes a crooked grin. “You are far from half-dead, little bird. Your heart is fluttering as fast as always.” His smile fades, and he turns his head toward the door, his nostrils flaring like he smells something coming from the house, something that makes him grow somber. “How is your grandmother?”
I don’t like what I see pass behind his eyes. “She’s dying,” I say. “But she’s here now. Resting. And I think she’ll be here tomorrow.”
“It won’t be long now,” he says softly.
