Prologue
We Were Eight
I met George Saint James the day my mom vanished.
The night before, I fell asleep the same way I always did—wishing for something extraordinary to happen. At eight years old, I was certain of one thing: I was destined for great adventures.
In the morning, a heavy spring rain attacked the last of the snow, liberating purple and white crocus blossoms from their icy beds. My older brothers and I knelt by the window, watching tire grooves fill with heaven-sent tears. Mom’s station wagon was missing.
Our dad barely spoke when we roused him, but as he sipped his first cup of coffee, he told us our mother had gone home. Only Darwin, who was twelve, seemed to understand what that meant. Moby was ten, and I could tell he was as confused as me.
Thiswas our house. Wasn’t this home?
Dad couldn’t say how long Mom would be gone, but heassured us she’d come back, and we had no choice but to believe him.
As soon as the rain tapered to a drizzle, we were kicked outside. Without Mom to patiently comb out the tangles, my hair was a ratty mass. I was still wearing my nightgown, but Darwin made sure I put on my rubber boots and yellow raincoat. Moby fetched the basketball.
I wanted to play, but my brothers wouldn’t pass to me. Theyneverpassed to me. I yelled and stomped in puddles, but they kept chucking the ball over my head. Fed up, I grabbed the green butterfly net from the mudroom and set about trying to capture a creature in the thicket at the edge of the field. A worm, a grasshopper, maybe even a frog.
Instead, I found something far more exciting—a pale brown rabbit sitting in the fresh blades of grass. It had long velvety ears and a twitching pink nose. I was going to catch it, and oh, how jealous Darwin and Moby would be.
But patience had always eluded me. I charged after the rabbit, twigs cracking beneath my feet, and off it went, bounding across the field. I chased it all the way to the cedar hedge that bordered the neighboring property. The rabbit didn’t know what I did: The woman who lived in the Big House next door was a witch. And witches had all sorts of uses for rabbits. I had to save it.
I followed the dense wall of evergreen to a gap wide enough to slip through. I peered through the branches and gasped when I saw a pair of dark blue eyes squinting at me from the other side.
I’d never seen the boy before. He was winter pale withround, rosy cheeks and dark eyelashes. His hair was buzzed short. Freckles dotted his little nose, and he was the same height as me. He was nothing to be afraid of.
“Hello, I’m Francesca.” I stuck out my palm, like Dad taught me. “But you can call me Frankie.”
The boy blinked, and I wondered if he might run away. But then his hand shot out suddenly, and he took mine in his.
“I’m George.”
Hands on hips, I gave him a thorough inspection. He had no rubber boots, no raincoat, and his pants had a hole in the knee. All he had to keep him warm was a hooded sweatshirt with a stain on the sleeve.
“Were you watching me?” I asked.
“No.” He blushed. “Well, not for long.”
“What are you doing over there?” The Big House was no place for a boy, especially one as soft-looking as George. He’d need defending. Maybe even rescuing. My toes curled at the thrill of it.
“I live here now,” he said, sounding resigned.
I gaped at him. “You live there?” I pointed at the imposing stone house behind him. “With the witch?”
“She’s not a witch. She’s my grandmother.”
“I hate to tell you this, George,” I said, relishing the moment, “but your grandmother is definitely a witch.”
How did he not know? The gardens were overgrown. The old greenhouse was full of plants for potions. She rarely went outside, and she was always dressed in swathes of black. Plus, Darwin swore he’d seen her chanting over a large, bubbling pot one night when he went spying.
“She is not,” George said.
I narrowed my eyes. “Prove it,” I said. “Take me inside, and if there’s no cauldron or lizard tails or newt eyes, I’ll believe you.”
“There are none of those things. It’s just a normal house.”
My disappointment was swift. “Oh.”
