“Let’s go, girls,” the flight attendant urged.
They had reached the arrivals gate. What was done was done. What was to begin was on the other side of the gate. They could run, but to where? The police were in California, and they’d be split in two and given to people who wouldn’t care if Gillian was afraid of the dark and Sally liked to eat the same thing for breakfast every day, oatmeal topped by a spoonful of honey.
The girls looked at each other, then approached their aunts.
“There you are!” the one who said she was Aunt Jet cried cheerfully. “Aren’t you opposites! I think I’ll call you Night and Day. You’re late, but a late start means an ending that will be right on time.”
The aunts smelled like lavender and sulfur. They wore boots and gloves and knitted scarves, and they’d brought along scratchy black wool coats for the sisters. When the girls put them on, it felt as if spiders were crawling up their arms and backs and the girls didn’t like the idea of spiders at all.
“What did I tell you?” the tall one, Franny, said to the nice one. “People in California dress like fools.”
“No we don’t,” Sally said, insulted.
This tall aunt was clearly the mean one. She appraised Sally coolly. “You’re not a troublemaker, are you?” she asked.
“She’s not at all!” Gillian said protectively.
“Then I suppose you are,” Aunt Frances said to the younger girl.
“What if I am?” Gillian said, her hands on her hips.
“Then you’ll bring trouble upon yourself, which I’d hate to see.”
Gillian’s eyes widened. She was seconds away from tears.
“Well, you’re probably blind and couldn’t see it anyway!” Sally said in an effort to defend her sister.
“I am not blind or deaf and if you have any sense you’ll listen to what I say,” Franny advised. “I will always have your best interests at heart.”
“We’d better go,” Jet said, having had enough of the squabbling. “There’s snow.”
Flakes were falling as they walked through the parking lot to a battered Ford station wagon. Aunt Frances took the car key and burst the balloon that was tied to her wrist. The pop made Gilly put her hands over her ears.
“Really, Franny,” Jet said. “Must you?”
“Well, it wouldn’t have fit into the car.” Franny popped Jet’s balloon as well, then feeling some remorse because their nieces looked so nervous, she stuck her hands in her pockets and brought out red licorice and gumballs for the girls to suck on during the long drive from the airport. “I suppose this is what children like,” she said. “I always preferred lemon slices.”
The flight had been a red-eye and dawn was breaking as they turned onto Main Street. The snow had accumulated and it was slow going. There were crows perched on the rooftops of many of the houses and almost no stores on Main Street. A pharmacy, a bakery, a grocery store. As they drove past, the streetlights flared, then went out.
All at once they had reached their destination. In the backseat of the station wagon, the girls were still holding hands. When they got out their shoes became soaked with snow.
“Of course,” Franny said. “No boots. People in California probably don’t believe in them.”
They walked up the path to the Owens house. Sparrows were nesting in the twisted wisteria. When Sally held out her hand one flitted over to sit in the center of her palm. “Hello,” she said, comforted by the warmth of the bird and its bright eyes.
“How unusual,” Jet said, tossing a knowing look at Franny. Another Owens to whom birds flocked of their own accord.
“It always happens,” Gillian said proudly. “She doesn’t even have to whistle.”
“Really?” Franny said. “Then she’s clearly a very talented girl.”
There were so many vines the girls could barely see the door. The garden had been put to bed for the winter, with some of the shrubs wrapped in burlap, which made them look like monsters. The wisteria twisted around the pillars of the porch, like a goblin’s fingers. The house itself was tall and tilty, with green glass in the windows and a fence that circled the property like a snake. Gillian was not a fan of snakes, or vines, or trees that looked like monsters, but Aunt Jet offered her hand and said, “I have something special for you for breakfast.”
“Is it macarons? That was our mother’s favorite. She always got a box sent from Paris on her birthday.”
Jet and Franny exchanged a look.
“Did she?” Jet said. “Well this time it’s chocolate cake. The best you’ll ever have. And we have Dr Pepper if you’re thirsty.” They went up to the porch as if they’d known each other for years.
That left Sally and Aunt Frances standing on the path.
“Do you live here all alone?” Sally asked.
“Of course not. Your aunt Jet is here.”
“You don’t have a husband?”
“I did. Once.”
Sally stared at her aunt. “I’m sorry,” she said.
Franny stared back, a bit shaken at having been asked about Haylin. Hay would have been so much better with children. If they’d ever had their own, she’d be a grandmother by now. She would be different then, softer, not so quick to frighten small children.
Sally looked up at Aunt Frances, waiting to see what she would say next.
“I was a friend of your grandmother’s, you know. And your grandfather. I miss him every day,” Franny said before thinking better of it.
“We didn’t have a grandfather,” Sally said despite her inner vow not to give out any information.
“You did, but he went away to live happily ever after in France.” Franny gave the girl a closer look. “You resemble him. You’re lucky in that.”
“If all that was true he’d have had a name.”
Sally was stubborn and not afraid to talk back. Her chin was raised, as if she were ready to have Franny say something terrible. All at once, Franny felt something she’d never felt before. She felt another person’s loss.
“He has a name,” Franny said. She sounded different when she spoke. Sadder. Not mean at all. “Vincent.”
“I like that name,” Sally said.
“Why wouldn’t you?” Franny said. “It’s a wonderful name.”
“If he’s living happily ever after you shouldn’t sound so sad,” Sally told her aunt.
“You’re absolutely right.”
“Is he the one who sends the cookies?” Sally asked. “The ones made of roses from Paris?”
Franny looked into Sally’s clear gray eyes. It was an honest, innocent question. She felt a surge of relief but also a swell of sorrow for all of the years that had been lost. “Yes. I’m sure he is.”
“Will he ever come back?”
Franny shook her head. “Unlikely.”
Sally thought it over and took her aunt’s hand.
“What’s this about?” Franny said, surprised.
“Vincent. What will happen when he sends the macarons to California? He’ll worry about us.”
“When they’re sent back to Paris he’ll know you live here, with us, and he won’t worry.”
Standing on the porch where the light was always turned on, Sally felt her aunt’s loss as well. Franny lowered her gaze so that the girl wouldn’t see tears in her eyes. She thought children were better behaved if they had a little fear and respect. But rules were never the point. It was finding out who you were. In the kitchen there was a chocolate tipsy cake for breakfast. The girls might as well learn early on, this was not a house like any other. No one would care how late they stayed up at night, or how many books they read on rainy afternoons, or if they jumped into Leech Lake from the highest cliff. All the same, there were some things they needed to learn. Do not drink milk
after a thunderstorm, for it will certainly be sour. Always leave out seed for the birds when the first snow falls. Wash your hair with rosemary. Drink lavender tea when you cannot sleep. Know that the only remedy for love is to love more.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My deepest gratitude to my editor, Marysue Rucci. Thank you to Jonathan Karp and to Carolyn Reidy.
Many thanks to Zack Knoll, Dana Trocker, Anne Pearce, Elizabeth Breeden, Wendy Sheanin, Mia Crowley-Hald, Susan Brown, Carly Loman, Lauren Peters-Collaer, and Jackie Seow.
A huge thank-you to Amanda Urban and Ron Bernstein for their faith in this book.
Many thanks to Kate Painter and to Pamela Painter for insights into fiction and fact.
Gratitude to Madison Wolters for assistance in all things.
Thank you to Alexander Bloom for historical expertise.
Thank you to Sue Standing.
Gratitude to my early readers Gary Johnson, Kyle Van Leer, and Deborah Thompson.
Love to everyone who has ever passed through the doors of 44 Greenwich Avenue, especially to Elaine Markson, who made dreams come true.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
© DEBORAH FEINGOLD
Alice Hoffman is the author of more than thirty works of fiction, including Practical Magic, the Oprah’s Book Club selection Here on Earth, The Red Garden, The Dovekeepers, The Museum of Extraordinary Things, The Marriage of Opposites, and Faithful. She lives near Boston.
MEET THE AUTHORS, WATCH VIDEOS AND MORE AT
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Authors.SimonandSchuster.com/Alice-Hoffman
ALSO BY ALICE HOFFMAN
Faithful
The Marriage of Opposites
The Museum of Extraordinary Things
The Dovekeepers
The Red Garden
The Story Sisters
The Third Angel
Skylight Confessions
The Ice Queen
Blackbird House
The Probable Future
Blue Diary
The River King
Local Girls
Here on Earth
Practical Magic
Second Nature
Turtle Moon
Seventh Heaven
At Risk
Illumination Night
Fortune’s Daughter
White Horses
Angel Landing
The Drowning Season
Property Of
YOUNG ADULT NOVELS
Nightbird
Green Heart: Green Angel & Green Witch
Green Witch
Incantation
The Foretelling
Green Angel
Water Tales: Aquamarine & Indigo
Indigo
Aquamarine
NONFICTION
Survival Lessons
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Hoffman, Alice, author.
Title: The rules of magic / Alice Hoffman.
Description: New York : Simon & Schuster, 2017.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016054138| ISBN 9781501137471 (hardcover) |
ISBN 9781501137488 (paperback) | ISBN 9781501137495 (ebook)
Classification: LCC PS3558.O3447 R85 2017 | DDC 813/.54—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016054138
Many thanks to Harvard University Press to quote from The Poems Of Emily Dickinson: Variorum Edition, edited by Ralph W. Franklin, Cambridge, Mass.: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, Copyright © 1998 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College. Copyright © 1951, 1955 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College. Copyright © renewed 1979, 1983 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College. Copyright © 1914, 1918, 1919, 1924, 1929, 1930, 1932, 1935, 1937, 1942 by Martha Dickinson Bianchi. Copyright © 1952, 1957, 1958, 1963, 1965 by Mary L. Hampson.
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