Page 6 of Starlight Witch

Grams eyed the groceries suspiciously.

“Before you start, Bree is coming over. We’re having a girls’ night. Her brother was killed by a drunk driver near Thanksgiving, so it’s always a hard time of year for her. She’s also coming to Port Townsend with us for the holiday.”

“You want to subject her to your mother?” Grams spit out the words before she could stop herself. She rolled her eyes. “I’m sorry—sometimes my tongue gets away from me.”

“That’s all right. And yes, with Bree there, it will help keep my mother in check. She’s clueless, but she’s seldom outright rude. Anyway, we’re having spaghetti and meatballs for dinner, with garlic bread, ice cream, and cookies.” I straightened my shoulders, ready to argue the point. I needed an occasional break from a healthy diet.

“Well, it sounds good. Do you want me to cook, give you girls time to talk?” She said it so softly that I started to argue before I realized she wasn’t fighting me on it.

“Listen, now and then we need a change of pace when it comes to—wait, you’re okay with the menu? You’ve had me on a lockdown in terms of food.” I didn’t want to admit that I felt better, though I did.

“Yes, and with the holidays, we loosen up. There’s no need to exclude everything you love, and the meatballs are high in protein, and the sauce, filled with vegetables. So no spice from you, Miss. Go play with the cats or make yourself useful and take out the trash.” She began to unload the grocery bags, then stopped to add, “Oh, I found a house today. I put in an offer, contingent on the inspection.”

I froze. “You found a house? Already?” Even though I knew she had to move, I didn’t want her to. While I loved my privacy, having Grams around felt safe, and we got along.

“Yes, I did. And you’ll be happy to know it’s only a few blocks from here. Though I will miss Sir Fancypants,” she said. Grams winked at him, and he giggled. With her Scottish accent, every time she said his name it reminded me of a Monty Python sketch.

“I’ll miss you too, Grams,” he said, flying over to land on her shoulder. “May I help?”

“I’m afraid you’re not adept at wielding a knife, but you may keep me company if you like.”

“I can help make the meatballs,” he said.

“I think you’re best off watching from the sidelines. You like raw meatloaf and that’s not good for you.” She gave him a wink, and he shrugged.

“Can’t blame me for trying.”

As I headed into the living room, I realized I was feeling at loose ends, and I knew it had to do with Faron and his reaction to me. I sat down on the sofa and picked up my tarot deck, then stopped. There was a box sitting on the foyer table.

“What’s this package?” I called out as I crossed to the table.

“I’m not sure. It came while you were gone,” Grams answered, peeking around the doorway. “I forgot about it, to be honest. It’s addressed to you.” She went back to making dinner.

I picked it up, frowning. The handwriting was familiar. Then I noticed the return address—it was from Aunt Ciara. I quickly returned to the sofa and set the box on the coffee table, then ripped off the wrapping. She had wrapped it in brown shopping bags, as one does.

Once I had the wrapping off, the box looked to be about eighteen inches long by ten inches wide by four inches high. The cardboard indicated the box had originally held some form of office supplies from Office Pro, a warehouse office supplies store. I sliced through the tape holding it closed. Inside, sitting on top, I saw a piece of paper with writing on it. Below that, I saw what looked to be a large journal. Curious, I picked up the letter.

Dear Elphyra:

I hope this finds you well. I’m so glad you’re coming up for Thanksgiving. This will be a difficult one for me. Thank you for all you did to make Owen’s wake memorable and for keeping your mother in check. I appreciate it, and please thank Grams for me. You have a wonderful great-grandmother there, and I would love to get to know her better. I wish Catharine appreciated her more.

I’m writing this to you in private. Please don’t tell your mother. I was helping her clean through some of the things in your attic—well, her attic—the other day and I found this. I know how she feels about your father, and I know she’d probably destroy this, so I hid it away and now I’m sending it to you. This appears to have been your father’s journal. I haven’t read it, but I thought you might like to have it. You know so little about him. I wish I’d known more about my son. I’m sure your father would have wanted you to have this. I’ll see you next week for Thanksgiving.

Your loving aunt, Ciara.

I stared at the letter for a moment, then set it aside and turned toward the box. The journal was a letter-size book, with a leather cover and a snap closure. I lifted it out of the box, setting the box aside, and brushed my hand across the cover. It had a slightly grainy texture. Three initials were stamped across the front: MTM. Malcolm Terrance MacPherson. His middle name was in deference to his father, my grandfather. Both men had died too young.

The journal was a hefty weight, and it must have contained at least two hundred pages. I unsnapped it and carefully opened the cover to see that the pages were sewn into the binding, by hand, it looked. The front page had one of those “This journal belongs to” epigraphs and he had written his name on the blank line.

I ran my fingers over it, trying to remember if I had ever seen my father’s handwriting, other than on the marriage certificate that my mother kept framed on the wall. I felt like I was trying to get some sense of him through touching his handwriting, but nothing came through except a quiet sense of acceptance, and I didn’t know if that was my own feeling or whether it was coming from the paper.

“Did you open it?” Grams asked, wiping her hands on a dishtowel as she entered the room. “The pasta’s boiling, Fancypants is making sure the kittens don’t get on the counter or stove, and the meatballs are baking. What’s that?” She frowned, staring at the journal.

“Aunt Ciara sent this to me. It’s my father’s journal. She said she found it in the attic when she was helping my mother clear out some old things. She didn’t tell Mom about it, but sent it to me instead.”

Grams considered the news for a moment, then said, “Are you sure you want to read it? Sometimes not knowing leads to more peace of mind. I’m not suggesting that you just stuff it in the closet. But please, think matters through before opening the window into his world.”

“That’s what I was wondering about. I know so little about him that finding out anything new feels…like a goddess-send. But what if I find things I don’t like? I don’t have many feelings either way about him. I was five when he died. Neutrality is better than disgust.”

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