Daughter of the Spellcaster

Turning, he walked in his fake leather moccasins through the half inch of fresh snow—there had been so little that year that winter had felt more like late fall—to the waiting car. It was a black Lincoln with a driver behind the wheel, cap and all. Probably one of Ernst’s. The billionaire-turned-spiritual-seeker had dozens of them, and whatever he had was at his personal guru’s disposal.

Ryan wasn’t likely to let that continue. He’d always thought the former guru-to-the-stars was a con artist, out to scam his father at his weakest moment, right after the untimely death of Ryan’s mother twenty years ago. But Bahru had been at Ernst’s side ever since, guiding him in a quest for understanding that had taken him to the far corners of the world. His businesses had been left in the hands of their boards of directors. And his son in the hands of boarding schools and nannies.

She wondered if Ernst had ever found what he’d been looking for, then decided he probably had now. Bahru eased his long limbs into the backseat, pulling the tail of the sari in behind him and closing the door. The car rolled away through the snow, and Lena stepped back and closed out the cold at last.

She was going back to Manhattan. She was going to see him again. Ryan McNally. The father of her unborn baby. The man she had once believed to be the handsome prince of her childhood fantasies come to life. Carrying the wooden box with her, she all but sleep-walked to the rattan rocking chair in front of the stacked stone fireplace that was one of her favorite parts of the house, even though it was old and had gaps where the mortar had fallen away. It was comforting, and she loved it. She sank into the chair and started rocking, memories flooding her mind.

She remembered the day she had first set eyes on her long-lost prince—other than in the face of her mother’s magic mirror, and her childhood dreams, and the stories she had created out of them in construction paper and crayons. She’d taken one look at him and the impossible visions of her childhood had all come rushing back.

She had been completely at peace, loved her life, her job at a PR firm in New York City, where she made scads of money, and her pricey Manhattan apartment. Her practice of the Craft had matured. As she’d grown up, she had come to understand that magic was more about creative visualization and positive belief than flashes of light and sparkles. Her imaginary sister-friend Lilia had stopped showing up somewhere around the middle of fourth grade, as near as she could pin it.

It was all good. Or she thought it was. And yeah, she’d probably been skating, pretending there was nothing underneath the ice but more ice, ignoring the stuff she’d pushed down there, the stuff she’d frozen out. The undeniable experience of real magic. Those visions of past lives that had been so vivid and convincing at the time. Lilia, the chalice… the curse. A little girl with a witch for a mom and a huge imagination, that was all it was.

Only it wasn’t.

She’d managed to deny every last bit of it until the night she met Ryan McNally. Her handsome prince, right down to the roots of his hair.

She’d been handed his father’s account—temporarily, of course, while Bennet, Clarkson & Tate’s senior partner, Bill Bennet, was recovering from a triple bypass. Timing was everything. Ernst McNally, billionaire, philanthropist, world traveler and spiritual seeker, had been named Now Magazine’s Man of the Year and would receive the honor officially at a posh reception at the Waldorf Astoria. The other partners were booked, and Ernst was an important client. Lena was tapped to be the firm’s stand-in, and she didn’t kid herself by pretending it wasn’t because, of all the younger associates, she would look best in a halter dress. It went against her grain, but she wasn’t confrontational and she wasn’t an activist. She figured she would use the opportunity to show them she was worthy by doing a bang-up job. Instead, she had pretty much proved the opposite by getting pregnant by the client’s son, but that was getting ahead of the story a little.

That night changed her life forever. It was not only the night she had met the father of her baby, it was the night her imaginary childhood friend had returned as big as life and nearly given her heart failure. The night… she had learned that there might be a little bit more to magic than she had come to believe.

Either that, or that a high-pressure job in the big city was a little more stressful than she was equipped to handle.

“Lena?”

She had no idea how long she’d been sitting in front of the crackling fireplace, staring into the flames. But when she heard her mom’s voice, she brought her head up fast. Selma was standing there looking down at her, frowning. Her glorious red hair was shorter these days, and a few strands of gray dulled its old vibrancy a little. She still wore the big gaudy jewelry and jewel-toned, free-flowing kaftans, though.

Captains, Lena thought, smiling at her inner witchling.

“Are you okay?” her mother asked.

“I… Ernst McNally is dead.”

Her mother’s hand flew to her chest. “Oh, honey—I’m so sorry, I know you cared for him. How did you hear? Did someone call?”

“Bahru came by.”

“Bahru?” Selma blinked her surprise, turning back toward the big oak door she’d just come through. “He was here?”

“Yeah. Showed up in a big Lincoln with one of Ernst’s drivers at the wheel. I tried to get him to stay, but he was in a rush to leave.”

“I wish I’d seen him,” her mother said.

Lena sighed, recalling how much her mother and Bahru had seemed to enjoy bickering over tea recipes. Mom was a top-notch herbal-tea maker. Bahru was no slouch. But that was before…

“He says I’m named in the will, or the baby is, or something. Anyway. The funeral’s tomorrow. He made me promise that I’d be there.”

Selma’s still-auburn eyebrows pressed against each other. “Do you think that’s wise, honey? To travel that far, this late in the pregnancy?”

“It’s only a few hours’ drive. I can handle that.”

“It’s not just the drive I’m worried about. He’ll be there. Can you handle that?”

She meant Ryan. Of course. “I’m sure I can. I knew this day would come, Mom. I have to face him sooner or later. He has a right to know.”

“You could tell him later. After the baby’s here.”

“Keeping it from him this long was wrong. And you know it. And I know you know it, because you’re the one who raised me never to lie.”

“You didn’t lie to him.”

“And you’re also the one who taught me that omissions of this magnitude are the same things as lies.”

Selma pressed her lips together. “Damn thorough, wasn’t I?” She ran a hand over Lena’s hair. “You sure you can handle him?”

“I’m sure.” So why did she feel compelled to avert her eyes when she said it? Lena wondered.

“Okay, if that’s what you want to do. You want me to go with?”

“Mom, I’m not six.”

Selma smiled and nodded, her spiral curls—even tighter than Lena’s longer, looser waves—bouncing with the motion. “What’s that you have there?” she asked, nodding at the box in Lena’s lap.

“I don’t know. Bahru said Ernst wanted me to have it.” Lena stroked the box. “I got lost in thought and forgot about it.”

“Memories?”

Lena nodded and tried to ignore the hot moisture in her eyes.

“You really loved him a lot. It hurts. I know, honey.”

She wasn’t talking about Ernst, but that didn’t need to be said. They both knew what she meant. Flipping open the tiny latch, Lena lifted the lid as her mother leaned over her from behind.

An old, very tarnished chalice lay inside the box, nestled in a red-velvet-lined mold that fit its shape perfectly. Frowning, she lifted it out, held it up, turning it slowly so she could see the dull stones embedded around the outer rim.

“I think that’s silver,” her mother said. She hustled to the kitchen, and returned with a bottle of tarnish remover and a soft cloth. Then she took the chalice and went to work. Leaning forward in her chair, Lena watched the tarnish being rubbed away, the heavy silver gleaming through. Her mother sat down in the matching rocker on the other side of the fireplace, rubbing and scrubbing and polishing. “It’s real silver, all right. Heavy. It must be worth a small fortune. Where on earth did he get this?”

“A street vendor in Tibet. Bahru said the stand was mostly junk, with this just mixed in with all the rest. He said Ernst took one look at it and knew it was meant for me.”

Her mother sighed. “Never knew a rich guy as decent as that one.” And then she paused and held the chalice up. The firelight made it gleam and wink in what Lena now saw were semiprecious gemstones: amethyst, topaz, citrine, quartz, peridot, three others that she thought might be a ruby, an emerald and a blue sapphire.

“It’s old,” her mother said. “And if these stones are as real as this silver is, and I think they are—I know my rocks—”

“I know you do.” Most of the jewelry her mother wore, she had made herself.

“Lena, this cup could be worth thousands. Maybe tens of thousands.”

“It’s worth a lot more than that,” Lena said very softly.