Page 13 of Blackwicket
A woman laughed, high and loud, as we passed the town crossroads where the village green had been, peaceful and rarelydisturbed. Presently, at each of the four corners, a bustle of well-dressed people filled the streets, which were lined with restaurants and lounges where grocers and chandlers had until now held pride of place. I browsed the recent additions as we made our slow way down the avenue—milliners, tailors, beauty salons, luxury stationers, and a prominent lounge, its arched marquee glittering with blinking lights.
THE VAPORS
In my absence, Nightglass had flourished, and the transformation was both troubling and captivating. I compared the evolution of the town to the stagnant life I’d been leading, plagued by ghosts of my own making, and experienced an uncomfortable bite of envy. The car moved from the center of town, and down familiar side streets, I was likely still capable of navigating in total darkness, where new luxury row houses, with their tidy front gardens and stylish balconies, gave way to older cottages, many reconstructed and unrecognizable. As we approached our destination, the driver slowed, perhaps worried the estate would sneak up on him, or just as likely because the cobbled street yielded to crushed stone. I found that the quaint timber houses that had once lined this road had been demolished, creating a stark chasm between the town and its most detested family: mine.
The hired car came to a stop at the wrought iron carriage gate, chained closed, its red brick faded and overgrown with bare wisteria vines.
“This is where I leave you,” the driver proclaimed.
“You’re not serious,” Darren argued. “That’s a half-mile walk, and it’s the middle of blasted winter. Just drive us up the hill to the front.”
“No one who knows what’s good for them goes near thathouse,” the driver said sternly. “I’d warn you yourselves not to go, but I recognize those eyes.”
He glanced at me in the rearview mirror, and our gazes touched. Held.
“Blackwickets always come home.”
He climbed into the cold and retrieved my bags from the trunk, and even went as far as to set them by the porter’s gate, which was unlocked and partially ajar.
As he returned to the cab, he hesitated, muttering, “It’s a shame about Fiona. We all thought she was a good sort.”
This man had known my sister. Curious, I tested the air between us, seeking signs of the telltale buzz, the sensations of chaotic electricity, of magic gone wrong.
“I’ll ask you not to do that, miss,” he barked, and I snatched my senses back, startled and embarrassed. The sensation accompanying someone searching for strings of magic was subtle and difficult to detect without considerable practice, yet this cab driver sensed me before I’d even gotten close.
“I’m sorry,” I managed.
He shoved a finger in my direction. “Don’t go poking where you haven’t been invited. It’ll land you in more trouble than you can handle.”
“I didn’t catch your name,” I said, the pitch of my voice false with friendliness.
“And you won’t,” he replied, gruff. “I mind my business, now you mind yours.”
He climbed behind the wheel, and the engine roared to life. Though he didn’t speed as if the hounds of hell were on his heels, his haste was evident by the way the car bounced too heavily over the deep divots in the broken stone.
Darren hoisted a bag off the dormant grass.
“Making friends already. That’s my girl.”
I watched the car disappear down the road, the whettedpoint of anxiety threatening to slit the barrier that protected me from my most raw, unpleasant emotions. I retrieved the remaining bag and approached my fate, peering through brown ivy and wrought iron bars to the cliffside, where the house’s daunting silhouette loomed. Darren remained at a distance, silent, allowing me privacy as I was swallowed by the gravity of what awaited me on the other side.
With great resignation, I pushed open the porter’s gate.
Chapter Five
Blackwicket House was anything but demure. It stood resolutely on a square foundation, three stories high, crowned with sloped mansard roofs and gray stone chimneys that reminded me of horns. A covered porch spanned the length of the house, once conveying welcome, but the elements had rendered its railings and carved arches splintered, baring sharp edges to visitors. Ornately trimmed windows, set beneath slate gray dormers, glared at us as we approached, their murky panes filled with judgment, and at the heart of it all rose a central tower, dark and forlorn as a forsaken lighthouse the world had forgotten it needed.
The trek was dismal, spent battling blasts of frosty wind cresting the cliffside and sweeping across the dormant meadowland, crashing into us as ferociously as waves seeking sailors to savage against rocks. Every step invited my history to fold me in an embrace I’d shunned, and the baleful energy of Blackwicket House grew stronger, vibrating in the marrow of my bones. It urged magic users to draw closer, to give a little, or even all of themselves, for the promise of nothing in return.
I ascended the porch, my gaze steady on the weathered oak door, its curved transom inlaid with green and blue lead glass. Hanging in this window was a sign, once reading:
REST YOUR BURDENS HERE AND LEAVE FREE
Worn by salt air, neglect, and undoubtedly some creative vandalism, it now read only:
BURDENS HERE … LEAVE
This edition rang truer.
