Deborah Harkness - A Discovery of Witches

We passed hardscrabble farms and small houses with early-morning lights twinkling in kitchens and bedrooms. Upstate New York is at its best in October. Now the trees were on fire with red and gold foliage. After the leaves fell, Madison and the surrounding countryside would turn rusty gray and remain that way until the first snows blanketed the world in pristine white batting.

We turned down the rutted road leading to the Bishop house. Its late-eighteenth-century lines were boxy and generous, and it sat back from the road on a little knoll, surrounded by aged apple trees and lilac bushes. The white clapboard was in desperate need of repainting, and the old picket fence was falling down in places. Pale plumes rose in welcome from both chimneys, however, filling the air with the autumn scent of wood smoke.

Matthew pulled in to the driveway, which was pitted with ice-crusted potholes. The Range Rover rumbled its way over them, and he parked next to Sarah’s beat-up, once-purple car. A new crop of bumper stickers adorned the back. MY OTHER CAR IS A BROOM, a perennial favorite, was stuck next to I’M PAGAN AND I VOTE. Another proclaimed WICCAN ARMY: WE WILL NOT GO SILENTLY INTO THE NIGHT. I sighed.

Matthew turned off the car and looked at me. “I’m supposed to be the nervous one.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Not as nervous as you are.”

“Coming home always makes me behave like a teenager. All I want to do is hog the TV remote and eat ice cream.” Though trying to be bright and cheerful for his sake, I was not looking forward to this homecoming.

“I’m sure we can arrange for that,” he said with a frown. “Meanwhile stop pretending nothing has happened. You’re not fooling me, and you won’t fool your aunts either.”

He left me sitting in the car while he carried our luggage to the front door. We’d amassed a surprisingly large amount of it, including two computer bags, my disreputable Yale duffel, and an elegant leather valise that might have been mistaken for a Victorian original. There was also Matthew’s medical kit, his long gray coat, my bright new parka, and a case of wine. The last was a wise precaution on Matthew’s part. Sarah’s taste ran to harder stuff, and Em was a teetotaler.

Matthew returned and lifted me out of the car, my legs swinging. Safely on the steps, I gingerly put weight on my right ankle. We both faced the house’s red, eighteenth-century door. It was flanked by tiny windows that offered a view of the front hall. Every lamp in the house was lit to welcome us.

“I smell coffee,” he said, smiling down at me.

“They’re up, then.” The catch on the worn, familiar door latch released at my touch. “Unlocked as usual.” Before losing my nerve, I warily stepped inside. “Em? Sarah?”

A note in Sarah’s dark, decisive handwriting was taped to the staircase’s newel post.

“Out. Thought the house needed some time alone with you first. Move slowly. Matthew can stay in Em’s old room. Your room is ready.” There was a postscript, in Em’s rounder scrawl. “Both of you use your parents’ room.”

My eyes swept over the doors leading from the hall. They were all standing open, and there was no banging upstairs. Even the coffin doors into the keeping room were quiet, rather than swinging wildly on their hinges.

“That’s a good sign.”

“What? That they’re out of the house?” Matthew looked confused.

“No, the silence. The house has been known to misbehave with new people.”

“The house is haunted?” Matthew looked around with interest.

“We’re witches—of course the house is haunted. But it’s more than that. The house is . . . alive. It has its own ideas about visitors, and the more Bishops there are, the worse it acts up. That’s why Em and Sarah left.”

A phosphorescent smudge moved in and out of my peripheral vision. My long-dead grandmother, whom I’d never met, was sitting by the keeping room’s fireplace in an unfamiliar rocking chair. She looked as young and beautiful as in her wedding picture on the landing upstairs. When she smiled, my own lips curved in response.

“Grandma?” I said tentatively.

He’s a looker, isn’t he? she said with a wink, her voice rustling like waxed paper.

Another head popped around the doorframe. I’ll say, the other ghost agreed. Should be dead, though.

My grandmother nodded. Suppose so, Elizabeth, but he is what he is. We’ ll get used to him.

Matthew was staring in the direction of the keeping room. “Someone is there,” he said, full of wonder. “I can almost smell them and hear faint sounds. But I can’t see them.”

“Ghosts.” Reminded of the castle dungeons, I looked around for my mother and father.

Oh, they’re not here, my grandmother said sadly.

Disappointed, I turned my attention from my dead family to my undead husband. “Let’s go upstairs and put the bags away. That will give the house a chance to know you.”

Before we could move another inch, a charcoal ball of fur rocketed out of the back of the house with a blood-chilling yowl. It stopped abruptly one foot away from me and transformed into a hissing cat. She arched her back and screeched again.

“Nice to see you too, Tabitha.” Sarah’s cat detested me, and the feeling was mutual.

Tabitha lowered her spine into its proper alignment and stalked toward Matthew.

“Vampires are more comfortable with dogs, as a rule,” he commented as Tabitha wound around his ankles.

With unerring feline instincts, Tabitha latched onto Matthew’s discomfort and was now determined to change his mind about her species. She butted her head against his shin, purring loudly.

“I’ll be damned,” I said. For Tabitha this was an astonishing display of affection. “She really is the most perverse cat in the history of the world.”

Tabitha hissed at me and resumed her sybaritic attention to Matthew’s lower legs.

“Just ignore her,” I recommended, hobbling toward the stairs. Matthew swept up the bags and followed.

Gripping the banister, I made a slow ascent. Matthew took each step with me, his face alight with excitement and interest. He didn’t seem at all alarmed that the house was giving him the once-over.

My body was rigid with anticipation, however. Pictures had fallen onto unsuspecting guests, doors and windows flapped open and closed, and lights went on and off without warning. I let out a sigh of relief when we made it to the landing without incident.

“Not many of my friends visited the house,” I explained when he raised an eyebrow. “It was easier to see them at the mall in Syracuse.”

The upstairs rooms were arranged in a square around the central staircase. Em and Sarah’s room was in the front corner, overlooking the driveway. My mother and father’s room was at the back of the house, with a view of the fields and a section of the old apple orchard that gradually gave way to a deeper wood of oaks and maples. The door was open, a light on inside. I stepped hesitantly toward the welcoming, golden rectangle and over the threshold.

The room was warm and comfortable, its broad bed loaded with quilts and pillows. Nothing matched, except for the plain white curtains. The floor was constructed out of wide pine planks with gaps large enough to swallow a hairbrush. A bathroom opened up to the right, and a radiator was popping and hissing inside.

“Lily of the valley,” Matthew commented, his nostrils flaring at all the new scents.

“My mother’s favorite perfume.” An ancient bottle of Diorissimo with a faded black-and-white houndstooth ribbon wrapped around the neck still stood on the bureau.

Matthew dropped the bags onto the floor. “Is it going to bother you to be in here?” His eyes were worried. “You could have your old room, as Sarah suggested.”