It wasn’t long before a walk down Jefferson Street was like running a gauntlet. Mercedes had a new plant to show him, or berries to send back to Becka. Blaise wanted to share a book with him, and Iris had another trick of wizardry for him to try. He couldn’t make a move out of the house without reports flowing back to Becka and Linda.
“Welcome to life in a small town,” Jack said dryly. “Where everybody makes it their business to put their noses in yours.”
The perpetrators of the sacrifice on the commons were never apprehended. Ross Childers dropped by occasionally to update Linda and Seph about it, but the investigation went nowhere. Seph saw no more signs of the alumni.
Seph joined St. Catherine’s, the Catholic church by the university. He usually attended on Friday nights, when the masses were in Latin.
Though Jack had said that Linda never lingered very long in Trinity, she seemed in no hurry to leave. Seph helped Nick finish wallpapering the room upstairs, and Jack helped him pick out a new sound system.
Linda still refused to allow Seph to leave the sanctuary. When Becka invited Seph to go to Niagara on the Lake with her and Jack for the Shaw festival, Linda kept Seph in Trinity with her.
He argued with her to let him go to Canada. “Don’t you think it’s safe now? I can’t stay locked up in here forever.” It had been more than a month since their encounter with the alumni, and there was no sign of invasion of the sanctuary. But Linda was unmoved.
When he wasn’t working, Seph spent long days at the public beach with Jack and his friends once the weather turned hot. It was lorded over by cliffs, with clear, cold water and pebbled sand that sparkled with quartz when the water retreated. Jack taught Seph to windsurf, and he found he had a talent for keeping the frail board upright and driving forward in long slaloms, parallel to the shore.
Best of all, after his long dry season at the Havens, there were girls.
“Anaweir women can’t resist wizards,” Jason had said. Once, the notion had made Seph feel uneasy. Now he flexed his wizard muscles in every way he could.
He flirted with the year-round residents and summer girls, ate their chocolate-chip cookies and fruit salad, and smoothed sunblock into their sun-warmed skin. He danced with them at the beach pavilion on Friday and Saturday nights and stole kisses under the pier. He stayed out late, since Linda was unaccustomed to enforcing curfews.
Despite his late hours, most mornings he rose early and walked to the lake, grappling with memories that kept him from sleep. Jason, Jason’s father, and Trevor were dead, but Gregory Leicester still lived, spinning his intrigues, effectively imprisoning Seph within the Sanctuary. Seph was building his arsenal of magic, but he had no way to use it against his enemy—and no way to connect with the Dragon, who might be able to use the information Seph had.
When he walked in the mornings, he often saw the same girl sitting on the rocks at the water’s edge, her fair head bent over her sketchbook, one knee up, the other straight, her bare feet braced against stone. Her hand danced over the page, laying down shape and color. She frowned as she concentrated, her lower lip caught behind her teeth. Sometimes she swiped at her face with the back of her hand, leaving a smear of color.
He began to look for her, and she was there most days. She usually brought her sketchbook, but sometimes she sat and read, the book tilted to catch the slanting light, drinking coffee from an insulated travel cup. Some days she wore jeans and a T-shirt; on others she wore long tiered flowered skirts and sheer cotton blouses that slipped off her shoulders.
He thought she noticed him, but she was careful not to look at him, and something in her expression and body language kept him at bay. He began bringing books along, an excuse to linger, sharing the same stretch of beach. Finally, after a long, frustrating morning in the hot sun, he decided to introduce himself.
As soon as his shadow fell over her, she clutched the sketchbook to her body as if to protect it.
“You’re in my light,” she said, without facing around. Her accent reminded him of Trevor’s, with its soft southern vowels.
“Sorry.” He circled around, squatting next to her. She’d hitched her skirts up to mid thigh, exposing her legs to the sun. The wind had torn locks of her hair free from the elastic, and she tucked them behind her ears. Up close, he saw that her hair was all different colors, like butter and sugar and caramel, painted by the sun. “I see you here all the time,” he said. “I was wondering what you were drawing.”
“Your being curious don’t make it your business, now does it?” Her eyes were watercolor blue in her sun-gilded face.
Seph blinked and sat back on his heels. “Well, no, I guess not. . . .”
She laughed. “You should see your face. You aren’t used to girls saying no to you, are you?”
He shrugged and rested his arms on his knees. “We haven’t even come to the hard questions yet.”
“Save them for someone else. I come up here to sketch, not to flirt with the summertime boys.”
“You’re not from around here, are you?” No. He couldn’t believe he’d said that.
“No. I’m not.” Sand adhered to her long legs, to the tops of her feet. Following his gaze, she scowled at him, then redistributed the fabric of her skirt, covering herself to the ankle. She wore a ribbon with a familiar cameo around her neck, and he suddenly realized where he’d seen it before.
“You work at the Legends?” The Legends was an inn and restaurant in a Victorian mansion overlooking the lake. Linda and Becka liked to go there for brunch.
“I’m waitressing there, okay? I’m from Coalton County, a place I’m sure you never heard of.” She snatched up the case of pastels and snapped it shut, shoving it into her tote bag, following with her sketch pad. Seph watched this, unsure what he’d done wrong.
“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to run you off.” Why was he always apologizing?
“Never mind. The light has changed, my mood is ruined, and my shift is about to start.” She stood, brushing sand off the back of her skirt.
A pile of drawings sat nearby, anchored by a large rock. Seph reached for them.
“No! Leave them alone!” She shoved him, hard, and the pages went flying, caught by the shore breeze.
Bewildered, he scrambled after them, snatching some of them practically out of the waves. When he had them all, he turned and found she hadn’t waited for him. In fact, she was already a good distance away, striding down the beach, shoulders hunched, head thrust forward. “What the . . . ?” He looked down at the wad of paper in his hand. The drawing on top was a face in charcoal, a three-quarter profile, long, curling dark hair, high cheekbones, a Romanesque nose, half smile, eyes set under a smudge of dark brows.
His own face.
He pawed through the others. Seph McCauley sprawled on his back in the sun in his bathing trunks, muscles picked out under the skin of his chest, one arm flung over his eyes. Seph walking along the shore, a tall, angular figure silhouetted against the bright water. Seph sprawled on the rocks at the water’s edge, looking toward Canada. Studies of his back and shoulders, his arms and hands, tendons and muscles faithfully rendered.
In each, he was surrounded by a nimbus of light, as if illuminated from within. Like images of the saints in the old manuscripts. They were all of him, save a few still lifes of shells and rock at the bottom. Thoughts surfaced, as from a dark pool.
Why is she drawing pictures of me?
She knows I’m a wizard.
And then he was running, pounding down the beach after her, leaping over boulders and half-submerged driftwood. He was perhaps a hundred feet away from her when she heard him coming. She didn’t look back, but increased her speed until she was running herself. Her hair escaped from its elastic and streamed out behind her as she dodged around tree stumps and late-day beach strollers.
He ran faster.
He’d almost caught up with her when she tripped over a tree root and went sprawling, sliding forward in the sand.
; He fell to his knees next to her. He put his hand on her shoulder and she flinched at his touch. “You okay?” She didn’t reply, but folded into herself as if she wanted to disappear. He rolled her over onto her back and wiped the sand from her face with the hem of his T-shirt. She squinched her eyes shut, like she could pretend he wasn’t there. Her white lace blouse was smeared with wet sand, her chest heaving as she fought for breath.
“Who are you, really?” he demanded.
“I . . . told . . . you. I’m a waitress.”
“What’s your name?”
“Madison Moss.”
“Did Leicester send you?” Now she opened her eyes and squinted at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“How did you know that I’m . . . a wizard?”
She said nothing.
He dropped his hands onto her collarbone on either side, fingertips pressing lightly against her skin. Her stealing of his image somehow gave him permission. “Now you’re going to tell me the truth,” he muttered. He released power into her—gentle persuasion. At first it felt good, like a long breath exhaled. A trickle at first, and then a flood, and then he tried to pull away and couldn’t. And more, and more, until he was drained and nauseous and dizzy, like his very essence was being pulled out through his fingertips.
Finally she reached up and pulled his hands away, then rolled him over on his back, folding his hands across his chest like a corpse laid out on a bier. Black spots circled through his vision like vultures, blotting out the sun.
She leaned over him. Touched his cheek gently and kissed him on the forehead. “Good-bye, Witch Boy,” she whispered. She stood, retrieved her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and walked away, not in any hurry this time, as if she knew he couldn’t follow.
He wasn’t sure how long he lay there, unable to move. Like a drunk on the sidewalk. Or a creature that had washed up in a storm. Finally, he propped up on his elbows. His head swam, and he thought for a moment he might be sick, but it passed. He rolled to his hands and knees. Several of the drawings had been trapped under his body. He folded them carefully and stuffed them into his back pockets, then stood, listing a little, shaking the sand out of his hair. He felt empty. He looked up and down the beach. The sun had passed midday, and the beach was crowded. No sign of Madison Moss.
He hauled himself up the wooden stairway from the beach, laboring like an old man. He found Jack, Ellen, Fitch, and Fitch’s girlfriend, Miriam, sitting at the picnic tables under the trees, slurping down frozen-custard cones.
Miriam was from Cleveland, and her family owned a cottage at Trinity Lakeside. She wore black crushed velvet, kohl eyeliner, and fishnets to the beach. Seph thought it was cool, in an impractical sort of way.
“Hey, Seph. Want to play tennis later?” Ellen asked when she spotted him. Then she frowned, shading her eyes. “Are you all right? You look like you’ve got sunstroke or something.”
Seph dropped onto the bench next to her, exhausted by the climb from the beach. “I’m okay.”
“Here. Have some.” She handed him her cone. He licked off half and handed it back.
“Who was that girl you were dancing with at the pavilion last night?” Fitch asked.
“Christy Laraway. She’s taking classes at the Institute.” He closed his eyes, trying to remember her face.
“Dude. I thought you were going out with Julie Steadman.”
“I’ve hung out with Julie a few times,” Seph said, without opening his eyes. “I’m not going out with her.”
Jack finished his cone and licked his fingers. “The local girls are just thrilled to meet someone they didn’t hate in second grade.”
“C’mon, Jack, it’s more than that,” Ellen said. She switched to a ditsy high falsetto. “He’s so hot. He’s practically European. I mean, he’s lived all over the world. And he speaks French.” She nudged Seph with her shoulder. “And have you seen his eyes? They change colors, and he has these long, dark lashes. And the way he kisses.” She rolled her eyes.
“Shut up, Ellen,” Seph said. Their conversation was necessarily edited because of the presence of Miriam, who knew nothing of the magical subtext.
“So. What’s the secret of great kissing, Seph?” Jack asked. “Is it technique, duration, intensity, or power?”
Seph sighed theatrically. “Oh, all right, Jack. I’ll kiss you. But just this once.” He rolled sideways to dodge Jack’s half-hearted swipe at him. Somehow, Jack always came off sounding critical. Like he thought Seph was taking advantage of Persuasion.
“Guys are grumbling about the out-of-town competition,” Jack went on. He stripped off his T-shirt and mopped his face with it.
Seph shrugged. “Don’t you think everyone brings something to the game?”
“What do you mean?”
“We all use our assets. For instance, some people are really buff.” Seph glanced sideways at Jack. “Or they’re great conversationalists. They play football or they’re in a blues band. They write poetry or they paint or they’re good listeners. They have great hair, great legs, a boatload of money and a boat. Or they have that je ne sais quois . . .”
“Or that je definitely sais quois, as the case may be,” Jack replied.
“Shut up, Jack,” Seph said, grinding the heel of his hand into his forehead. His head was pounding.
“Some people would say love isn’t a game,” Ellen mused. “I never bought that all’s-fair-in-love-and-war bit.”
Seph shrugged in surrender. “Anyway, I can’t do tennis tonight. I’m working for Harold this afternoon, and tonight I’m meeting someone at the Legends.”
“Another date?” Miriam asked. Seph stood to go. “Not exactly. She doesn’t know I’m coming.”
The manager at the Legends Inn was happy to tell Seph what time Madison Moss got off work. He was even willing to let her off early, but Seph said no, he would just wait. He bought coffee at the carryout counter and found a bench in the park across the street that afforded a good view of the entrance. She came out of the front door right on time, looking up and down the street as if she hadn’t decided what to do next. She jumped and let out a squeak of fright when he stepped out of the shadows and touched her shoulder.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said, when he turned toward the light. “You about scared me to death.” She’d rebraided her hair, but was still wearing the beach-stained blouse and skirt.
“I need to talk to you.” “Oh. Well. Sorry. I . . . um . . . have plans. I have to go.” She made no effort to be convincing.
“It won’t take long. Promise.” He took her elbow, careful not to let the slightest dribble of magic escape. He wasn’t sure he had any to spare, anyway. “Do you want to talk here or somewhere else?”
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Okay.” He towed her back into the coffeehouse and out onto the terrace overlooking the lake. He chose a remote table overlooking the gardens. The waitress drifted over, grinning and raising her eyebrows at Madison. “May I help you?”
Madison just stared straight ahead, scowling and tapping her fingers on the edge of the table. Her nails were painted purple.
“Two coffees and biscotti,” Seph said.
“I wanted tea,” Madison said when the waitress had departed.
“You were drinking coffee on the beach.”
“Right now, I feel like tea.”
“Next time, speak up.”
“What makes you think there’ll be a next time?”
Seph pulled her drawings from his jeans pocket and flattened them out on the tabletop.
Madison pursed her lips and looked out at the lake. “Do you know I got chastised for the state of my uniform, Witch Boy?”
“My name is Seph.”
“What kind of name is that?”
“Short for Joseph.”
“Is that a family name?”
“I have no idea.” The scent of jasmine wafted up from the gardens and fireflies sparkled in the lawn. “I don’t reall
y know my family.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Sometimes that’s not a bad thing. Who do you stay with?”
“Rebecca Downey. She’s my guardian’s sister.”
“Oh, I know her. She comes into the inn a lot.” She gave him an appraising look. “She’s very nice.” The subtext being, Unlike you.
“What about Madison? Where’s that from?”
“I’m named after a county in Kentucky. Where my parents first—ah—met.”
The waitress set down coffee cups and plates of biscotti. “Hey, those are good!” she said, pointing from the sketches to Seph.
“Will you put those away?” Madison gestured at the crumpled pages.
Seph said nothing.
“Look,” she said, wrapping her fingers around her cup. “I’m sorry I sketched you without asking permission.”
Seph waited. “That’s it?”
“What do you want?”
“Well, to start, what did you do to me on the beach today?”
“You mean after you attacked me?”
He nodded grudgingly, conceding the point. “I’m sorry about that. It’s just that I thought you might . . . have a hidden agenda.” He couldn’t very well say, There are wizards after me and I thought you might be conspiring with them.
“Well, you came up to me, you know. I was minding S my own business.”
“I know. But what did you do to me?” he persisted.
“I kissed you.” The corners of her mouth twitched.
“Before that. You left me on my back.”
Now she grinned flat out. “Sounds improper.”
“This isn’t a joke. I want to know what . . . who you are and what you’re up to.” Seph waved a hand at the drawings. “What’s with the aura? Why do you call me Witch Boy?”
“Because that’s what you are.”
“What makes you think so?”
She gave him a look that said he wasn’t fooling her one bit. “There are people in this world who can get whatever they want, who can talk the money right out of your hand and make you glad you gave it up. Some have the knowin’ or the second sight. Where I come from, we call them witches or conjure men.”