“There’s nothing hidden in there,” Maggie shouts from the cage with the kind of nervous edge that suggests there is definitely something hidden here.
“Cool, then I guess I won’t find anything.”
I start with her tall dresser and am unfortunately brought face to face with my grandmother’s undergarments. I swiftly close that one and attempt to erase it from my memory. In each drawer that does not contain underwear, I sift through the neatly folded shirts and pajamas, hunting for the telltale shape of a book. I don’t find it, which forces me to again confront the top drawer.
“Let’s go ahead and take care of this now,” I murmur. I head to the kitchen for a garbage bag and fill it with handfuls of sturdy grandma-style, over-the-shoulder boulder holders and actual granny panties. Finally the drawer is empty, even if I didn’t find the grimoire.
“What are you doing in there?” Maggie shouts.
“Throwing away your unmentionables. Which absolutely cannot be donated,” I add before she can argue.
While I’m in here, I realize I might as well arrange the room the way I’d like it. I think the bed would go better against the other wall, and I’d like to feel like I accomplished something. I move the chair and mirror to the side and am surprised to see that there’s no dust.
“Maggie?” I call. “If you’ve been dead for weeks and no one has been here, why isn’t there any dust?”
After a long pause, she says, “Because there’s a spell to repel dust, of course.”
“Will you teach it to me?”
“You don’t need it. It’s already been cast. Do you see any dust?”
I already know she’s hiding things from me, but I’m beginning to see the shape of it. Her grimoire is the key to casting spells, and she doesn’t want me to know where it is.
Which is why I’m going to keep looking.
I grab a corner of the big brass bed and tug it across the floor. The cozy rag rug on the floor shifts, and I see a bumpy white line.
When I pull the rug away completely, I find a strange design on the bare wood boards. A star within a circle, surrounded by squiggles and dots, a strange language that reminds me of tarot cards.
The pentagram—or pentacle—or whatever—is painted on the old wood. I drag a finger over the rough texture, and call, “Meemaw, have you been summoning demons?”
“Of course not, you goose! There’s no such thing as dark magic or demons.” A pause. “So I’m guessing you moved the rug.”
I head into the kitchen and open the door to the cage. “Explain.”
She immediately hops out and flaps her wings. “It’s a casting circle. It concentrates your power. It’s a totally normal thing. Just put the rug back over it before Hunter gets here.”
“But he’s a witch, too, right? So why—”
“Witches don’t talk about witch things outside of families and very close relationships. It’s considered rude.”
“So how am I ever supposed to learn anything?”
There’s a knock on the door.
I briefly ponder the casting circle before covering it with the rug, dragging the bed back to where it was, and heading for the door.
I know Maggie is keeping something from me. I know Joyce Blakely and several of the other witch families hated her.
But what I don’t know yet is whether she deserved that hate.
Maybe Maggie is the bad guy…or maybe she was protecting Arcadia Falls from something even worse.
22.
I open thedoor right as Hunter is turning to leave.
“Got somewhere else to be?” I ask playfully.
