‘Because Bell House would never allow it,’ she corrected. ‘Even if I tried.’
Inside the restaurant, there was even more colour, each room painted a different shade from floor to ceiling: deep navy, hunter green, powder-puff blue, all of them accented with gold: chairs, candlesticks, picture frames. All antique everything. But Catherine and I weren’t eating in one of the colourful rooms. After an extremely effusive welcome from the manager, a server in a white shirt and pink tie took us downstairs, shaking every step of the way.
‘We’re eating in here?’ I asked when he waved us into a tiny space with old brick walls and rafters on the ceiling and only one table, set for two. An unwelcoming deer’s head peered down at me, giving me the same kind of look I’d seen on Catherine when I bolted into Bell House with one minute to spare before my curfew.
‘The Olde Pink House was a bank at one time. This was once the vault. We always eat in here,’ Catherine said. ‘It’s been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. My grandmother and I would dine here every month.’
‘Can I get y’all something to drink?’ Sweat was already beading on the server’s forehead. It wasn’t hot in the air-conditioned restaurant so I figured he’d tangled with my grandmother before.
‘Two sweet teas, thank you kindly,’ she replied curtly. ‘And we’ll take the fried green tomatoes and the artichoke fritters to start.’
‘And can we get the jalapeño poppers?’ I added.
‘No,’ Catherine said before he had the chance to reply. ‘We can’t.’
The server fumbled in his pocket for an order pad but her glare sent him staggering backwards out of the vault before pen could touch paper.
‘How was your afternoon?’ she asked, turning all sweetness and light. ‘You haven’t said a word about it.’
‘It was great,’ I said. Not a lie. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t backearlier, we were having so much fun, um, helping the community that I lost track of the time then I slipped and fell and—’
‘And the Junior League?’
‘We – we didn’t really spend a lot of time with them.’
‘Oh?’ Catherine raised an inquisitive eyebrow.
‘Or any time at all.’
Another server entered to fill our water glasses and my grandmother nodded with satisfaction. ‘Thank you for telling the truth. Lydia Powell is not a good liar and, I’m pleased to say, neither are you.’
Better than you know, I thought shamefully, my lips still chapped from Wyn’s kisses.
‘The Powells are a good family but they’ve never been beyond testing the limits of proper behaviour,’ Catherine added. ‘Even Virginia could be a handful in her day. I don’t doubt that Lydia will grow up to be a fine young woman but I am quite as certain she’ll get into some scrapes along the way.’
She sipped her water while casting warm looks around the vault. One way in, one way out. I pulled at the collar of the oversized white cotton shirt I’d thrown over Lydia’s dress, suddenly claustrophobic. Catherine turned her head towards the candles that lined the ledge behind me and in the blink of an eye, they flickered with golden flames.
‘Shit,’ I exclaimed before covering my mouth.
‘Ladies don’t curse,’ she replied sternly as the candle on our table also came alive.
‘Literally or figuratively?’
‘Both.’ She smiled and the small, unfriendly room seemed to open up a little. ‘It is so nice to continue a true Bell family tradition with you, Emily. This is where my grandmother taught me most everything I needed to know.’
‘About your magic?’ I asked, surprised, one eye on the open doorway.
Catherine laughed loud enough to gutter one of the candles. ‘Oh, honey, no. This is where I learned how to be a lady, so elbows off the table, if you please.’
I yanked my arms off the table entirely and placed my hands in my lap. Which subject did I know the least about: relationships, magic, or etiquette? It didn’t seem fair to be so clueless about all three.
‘But it is safe for us to talk openly here,’ she said. ‘This room is spelled. Anyone who is not a member of our family will forget every word they hear the moment they walk out the door. Aside from our orders, that is.’
‘Acacia, adder’s tongue, hickory, and lavender,’ I murmured, gazing at a painting of the ocean hanging behind her head. ‘They’re hidden inside the frame. It’s a memory charm?’
‘That’s right,’ she confirmed, eyes bright. ‘The Olde Pink House has been around almost as long as the Bell family and it has always been a safe space for us. It survived both great fires of Savannah in 1796 and 1820, along with Bell House and only a handful of other buildings. We couldn’t save everything but there’s something special about this place. We take care of it, it takes care of us.’
I drank my water and said nothing. It wasn’t just buildings that burned down in those fires, people had died. If Bell witches could save lives but only some, how did we decide who was worthy and who wasn’t? Catherine said she didn’t like the word power but choosing who died and who didn’t certainly seemed like power to me.
