Page 53 of A Lullaby for Witches

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Augusta

It was only a week before Leo made good on his promise, and Augusta found herself on the way to Pale Harbor, Maine. They’d stocked the car with snacks, coffee and music, and the three hours flew by. Plugging in the adapter, Augusta scrolled through her phone and put on a new song.

Leo glanced at her. “What is this?”

“It’s an old folk song I heard somewhere,” she told him, even though she couldn’t remember where she’d heard it or even how she knew all the words.

Come, all you fair and tender girls

That flourish in your prime

Beware, beware, keep your garden fair

Let no man steal your thyme

Let no man steal your thyme

For when your thyme is past and gone

He’ll care no more for you

And in the place your time was waste

Will spread all over with rue

Will spread all over with rue

A woman is a branchy tree

And man’s a clinging vine

And from her branches carelessly

He’ll take what he can find

The haunting melody filled the car. Only occasionally did they fall into silence as Augusta remembered why they were going to meet his mother in the first place. Leo wasn’t her boyfriend, and he wasn’t introducing her to his family because she was someone important to him. He was taking her to meet his mother because he thought she might be able to help Augusta with her dreams and hallucinations. They had gone on one date, and it had kind of been a disaster thanks to Chris. She could only hope that the incident hadn’t completely scared Leo off from wanting a second date.

The town of Pale Harbor was ridiculously quaint, with saltbox houses perched around a picturesque harbor, and lobster traps and signs for a harvest festival decorating the little town green. She could see why Tynemouth would remind Leo of his hometown, and why someone would be homesick for a place like this. It was hard to imagine the families living in the single-family wood-sided houses with charming gardens ever having to worry about watering down a gallon of milk to make it last a week, or hoard food from school lunches when the grocery budget ran out early.

Turning off the main street, they pulled up in front of an inviting wood-shingled house with a rambling, cottage-style garden. Leo slowly got out of the car and stretched. “Here we go,” he muttered.

Fragrant lavender and other herbs poked through the old rail fence, and wind chimes tinkled gently in the breeze. A yellow placard warned them to beware of “the guard cat.” Leo shook his head as he rang the bell.

An older man with long, gray hair, wearing an old T-shirt and Birkenstocks, opened the door. “Hey, Leo,” he said. “Come on in, man.”

“Hey, Dad. Is Mom around?”

“I think she’s reading in the living room. You brought a friend!” he exclaimed, as if just noticing Augusta. “I’m Terry,” he said, sticking out his hand. “Welcome to Casa Stone.”

“Thanks, nice to meet you.”

Terry waved them back into the house, so they followed him down the hall, past crystals hanging in windows and framed posters of Jimi Hendrix and the Grateful Dead.

“Leo, I think your parents might be hippies,” she told him in a whisper.

“I think you might be right,” he whispered back, leaning down. “They met following The Dead on tour. They’re basically walking stereotypes.”

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