Chapter Thirty-Three
‘Good morning,’ Catherine said, already at the table when I came down to breakfast the next day. ‘How are you feeling today?’
‘Amazing actually,’ I told her, taking my seat. ‘Better than ever.’
There was only one more moonrise between me and my Becoming and my body was all too aware. When I woke up, I could feel every thread in the fabric of my sheets and see each individual brushstroke on my wallpaper. Without moving from my bed, I knew Ashley was getting ready to put biscuits in the oven and preparing a pot of lavender, rose and lemon balm tea, and when I closed my eyes and searched across town for the Powells, I could tell Lydia was still in bed while Jackson was completing his run. It was as easy as changing the channel on the TV, all the information right there in front of me. I didn’t even have to try.
‘What time is everyone else getting here?’ I asked, staring at the absurd amount of food on the table. There was easily enough to feed twenty people or more. As well as the tea I could smell from my room, there was coffee, orange juice,milk, freshly cut fruit, cinnamon buns, pancakes, toast, grits, sausage, bacon, scrambled eggs, hash browns, fried chicken and waffles, and of course, biscuits and gravy.
‘I woke up early,’ Ashley said by way of explanation as she walked in carrying a platter of her famous French toast. ‘If you don’t want any of this, I’ve got scones, pound cake, yoghurt and granola back there. Or I could make you a frittata?’
‘No, thank you, this is more than enough.’
My teeth sank into a cinnamon roll and the sweet icing exploded on my tongue. With my heightened senses, the pastry felt soft and pillowy in my mouth, the cinnamon filling melted, smooth and warm. Suddenly, I wanted to devour everything on the table.
‘Ashley, do you feel OK?’ I asked, covering my mouth with my hand as I chewed. ‘You’re not getting sick, are you?’
The cinnamon roll was the best thing I’d ever tasted but Ashley looked the worst I’d ever seen her. There were black circles under her eyes, her already pale skin was a sickly greyish-white, and her usually glossy brunette braid was dull and uneven, wisps of hair coming loose around her face and at her crown.
‘I haven’t been sleeping well,’ she replied, pouring herself a cup of black coffee before retreating back into the kitchen without further explanation.
‘Please tell me she hasn’t gone to get more food,’ I said to Catherine.
‘It’s your last day as a sixteen-year-old,’ my grandmother replied as the door swung back and forth in Ashley’s wake. She didn’t appear to be the least bit alarmed by the state of her daughter. ‘Every bit as important to celebrate an end as the beginning, we wanted to do something special for you.’
‘We?’ I felt for Ashley, slumped over the kitchen table with her head in her arms. ‘Ashley doesn’t look like she’s in the mood to celebrate.’
Catherine waved her fork in the air, totally unbothered. ‘Her seventeenth birthday wasn’t the best. She was nursing some sad little crush that broke her heart. Inevitable, I’m afraid, but unfortunate it had to happen on her birthday.’
I chewed slowly, remembering my aunt’s version of events. She hadn’t mentioned it happened on her birthday.
‘It would be best if you stayed home today,’ Catherine added, a mild but clear warning. ‘This close to the big day, everything is in flux, and we don’t want any accidents. I’m sure you can feel the change already, I’ve had gooseflesh all morning but there is still a lot to do. I will be gone for most of the day.’
‘You’re leaving again?’ I said, aware of the whine that stretched out my words.
‘Nothing about the next twenty-four hours should be taken lightly, honey. I need to be completely prepared for every eventuality. There is still work to be done.’
The binding, I thought. She’s talking about the binding.
‘Don’t waste the day worrying,’ she advised. ‘You’re as prepared as it’s possible to be, heck, you’ve spent a whole lot more time studying than I ever did. You are going to do me proud, little witch, I just know it. Promise me you’ll stay home and stay safe.’
‘Stay home, stay safe,’ I recited, letting my eyes wander around the dining room. ‘Guess I can’t get into too much trouble around here.’
‘Exactly,’ Catherine agreed. ‘Bell House is the safest place for you today.’
But we both should’ve known if trouble was looking, trouble would find me.
True to her word, Catherine disappeared as soon as she’d eaten, and when the front door closed, Bell House trembled to let me know we were alone. Ashley was in the garden, sweating outher anger on the plants and herbs. I watched her through the kitchen window for a moment, still grey, still miserable and felt another swell of sympathy. If I was her, I might enjoy bashing things with a shovel too.
I went to my room and pulled out my laptop from underneath the bed. Things had been so hectic over the last few days, I hadn’t spent as much time as I’d have liked going through Dad’s files, but I needed to feel his calming influence. It helped to know he’d spent so many years here, walking on the same floorboards, sleeping in the same bed. Maybe reading his words would help settle my nerves.
Tucked away in the window seat, I opened, skimmed then closed endless documents. More notes, more research, nothing helpful. Even though I’d watched him digitizing his journals with my own two eyes, I couldn’t find them anywhere. Not that his research into eighteenth-century agricultural practices wasn’t fascinating (to someone other than me) but it wasn’t especially helpful.
I was halfway through a file full of documents from our first year in Wales when I heard it, a low hum coming from downstairs. I closed the laptop and concentrated. Was it something I could hear or something I could feel? Maybe both. With the computer tucked under my arm, I tiptoed downstairs, running my fingers over the wallpaper, the vines and leaves and happy birds following as I went. The house had never responded to me like this before. I felt like Snow White with all of the woods around me as I searched for the source of the humming. I tried all the downstairs doors, the parlour, the dining room, the library, even the locked garden level guest rooms, but there was nothing. A tiny rabbit, no bigger than my palm, hopped along the skirting board, twitching its nose at me.
‘Hello,’ I said as it brushed its ears and blinked. It bounded into the next panel of wallpaper then waited.
‘You want me to follow you?’ I asked, dropping my voice as it hopped onto the next one, then the next, then the next. When the rabbit stopped, there was only one door left to try. Catherine’s craft room.
