Page 4 of Carnal Magic
Eagerly, but also a little trepidatious, I went across the hall to the other room, which I assumed had been Grandma Martha’s bedroom. I expected the same homey quilts as upstairs, maybe some of the same delightful clutter of books and witchy things.
Gasping, I drew up short, my eyes not quite understanding what all I was seeing.
The largest bed I had ever seen in my life. Not covered in handmade quilts, but rather draped in wispy fabrics that hung from a canopy, giving it a private, romantic look. The bedding was a deep scarlet, sinfully silky and smooth. Thick, lush rugs surrounded the monstrosity of a bed.
Artwork hung on the walls that made me do another double take. Lush paintings done in a baroque style of mostly naked people. Doing unspeakable, tantalizing things to each other.
Mygreat-grandmother…? Sure, I knew old people had sex too, but I couldn’t begin to reconcile this scandalous bedroom with the rest of the house.
Afraid of what else I might find, I opened the doors of a large antique armoire. One side held beautiful, romantic clothing. Light, sheer linen nightgowns, lacy peignoirs, velvets and satins and lace. Absolutely gorgeous. The other side held shelves and drawers with extra bedding, jewelry boxes, and a black leather trunk on the bottom shelf. Something about that trunk gave me pause. I wasn’t brave enough to look inside it. Yet.
Who was this woman? Why had she lived out here in the middle of nowhere with all these beautiful, sensual things?
I remembered Sam Woodward’s phrasing about Miss Martha not working with married men. I wasn’t the blushing kind of gal, but my cheeks blazed at the leaps my brain was making, imagining my elderly grandmother in a liaison with the neighbor.
I’d wanted to learn about my ancestors. Evidently Grandma Martha had been quite the hottie.
3
Back in the kitchen, I made myself a pot of tea and helped myself to some of the cobbler. I’d also grabbed a leather-bound book that had been positioned prominently beside the shocking bed. Maybe it was a journal with some explanation of what the heck was going on.
Hopefully not X-rated.
The book did appear to be a journal, but not in the“Dear Diary”sort of way. Some pages were dated with events that Martha had evidently wanted to remember. She’d noted that on January 5, 1970, Rebekah left. There was no explanation about who she was or where she’d gone, though that name sounded familiar. I hadn’t heard her daughter’s name, but I guessed it was her.
Some pages were recipes or lists of herbs Martha had foraged that day. Ramps, persimmons, pinecones, dandelions, elderberry, lamb’s ear, mugwort. The list went on and on, which didn’t surprise me. With all this land, there was bound to be a bountiful harvest from the forest.
In the middle of the book, at the first blank page after her notes, I found a folded piece of thick textured paper. It looked homemade, with bits of leaves and flowers adding to the texture. I opened it and found a letter written in a bold hand very much like Katherine’s contract that Mr. Woodward had shown me.
Dearest Arwena…
Me?But I’d never met her. I hadn’t even known she’d existed.
“Be rational,” I said out loud. I put the book down and made myself sip my tea. “Maybe Arwena is a common name in my family.”
I set the cup down and looked at the page again.
You haveno idea who I am, but I have seen you in my dreams for years. She promised that you would someday find this place. Whether you choose to stay or not is entirely up to you.
My last and greatest working is this book, written in loving detail for you. It contains everything I could think of that you might need. But the magic took time—decades, honestly—for me to work, and thus the pages will reveal themselves slowly to you. Only you. No one else who reads the rest of these pages will see the same. Be patient, and let the magic unfold. As you need to know, the truth will appear.
If you have questions, call on me, and I will come.
I’ve watched you grow into a beautiful, vibrant woman.
The power is yours, if you desire it.
All my love,
Martha Redwine
Keeper of the Spring
Mother of Rebekah, mother of Layla, mother of Arwena
Her blood still runs pure and strong in our veins.
Stunned,I stared at the words, trying to make sense of them. Martha was gone. So how could she come at my call? Who wasshewho’d promised that I would find this place? With shaking fingers, I poured more tea into my cup, splashing a little on the table. I scanned the letter again, and then turned through the book, looking for this legacy she’d supposedly left me.
