don’t match.
World-class liar, she thinks.
She sees a string of seemingly innocuous lies pour from his lips. He pretends to have won at golf when he lost. He claims he went to the gym when he didn’t. He even, and this makes her chuckle, pretends to have outrun a dog that came at him the street. First, there was no dog. Second, he did no running.
“What’s your story, Mr. Brookings,” she says to the card, “to have to lie so much?”
Josie spends the next hour preparing her mixture. After cooking the material on a burner, she waits for the patina to emerge. Her ability to affect human behavior (especially male behavior) comes from her grandmother, who was a powerful witch with a curious understanding of male witches. She knew how to whip rogue men into shape, and she passed on her techniques to her granddaughter. Josie has certainly come up with her own spells, but most of the simple ones have already been detailed by witches like her grandmother.
Dealing with a liar is simple.
She smashes the dime-sized material into dust with a marble pestle, stuffs it into a pewter thimble, plugs that with a wine-stained cork, and sticks it in her pocket.
A simple toss into the air in Mr. Brooking’s vicinity and the spell will be cast. He’ll find himself unable to tell a lie. His tongue will no longer be under his control. What happens next will be quite entertaining to watch.
Now, let’s go set a trap, she tells herself.
She pauses as her eye catches the mini-refrigerator sitting in the far corner. She walks to it on light steps, almost as if she approaches a shrine. She opens it and spots the hollow crystal shard no bigger than a pinky. Inside, a liquid sparkling like blue champagne swirls inside.
The love potion that Josie brewed years ago was her grandmother’s final gift. Josie was supposed to toss it out, but she kept it. Through her entire adolescence it’s sat here, unused, even as Lennox chose Stella over her. Josie would never use it on him, not in a million years. The last thing she wants is a false love. She wants him to come to her with sincerity in his eyes, not the wide saucers of an ensorcelled man.
She closes the door, straightens with a sigh, and tells herself to forget it even exists.
* * *
She finds Mr. Brookings on the first floor’s north wing. This part of the house has only been shut up for a year and still gets dusted every now and again. He’s in the billiard room that no one uses any more. Two tables dominate the large chamber. He’s setting up one. The room’s high ceilings have a few cob webs in them but the two tables are clean. She never was one much for pool and rarely spent much time over here. Mr. Jenkins seems to like it … maybe he was a good player once … probably not. She swats dust from her nose. She tiptoes on the thick carpet until she stands behind him.
She retrieves her thimble and tosses the contents into the air. They settle on him without him knowing.
“Hey,” she says.
“Well aren’t you a Silent Sally,” he says as he turns, pool cue in hand.
“You any good?” she asks, hoping to catch him in a lie.
“I’m alright.”
He racks the balls and sets up his shot. He aims like he knows how to use the stick.
“You ever play any big names?” she asks.
He pauses, as if he has to think about it to remember.
He looks down the line of the cue. “Yep, I sure have. There was this one time …”
She hears him suck in a deep breath, as if he might take a dive underwater. He even drops the cue and grabs his belly. She watches his confusion as the spell begins its work. A few more seconds and Mr. Brookings opens his mouth to sing in a keening falsetto:
“I’m a big liar, yes, I am. I’m a big liar. Bippty, bippty, bam. Liar, liar, liar, pants on fire. I’m a big liar, as flat as a tire.” He puts his hands to his mouth, his eyes wide in bewilderment. He can’t help himself from sucking in another breath. His feet began to move in a
World-class liar, she thinks.
She sees a string of seemingly innocuous lies pour from his lips. He pretends to have won at golf when he lost. He claims he went to the gym when he didn’t. He even, and this makes her chuckle, pretends to have outrun a dog that came at him the street. First, there was no dog. Second, he did no running.
“What’s your story, Mr. Brookings,” she says to the card, “to have to lie so much?”
Josie spends the next hour preparing her mixture. After cooking the material on a burner, she waits for the patina to emerge. Her ability to affect human behavior (especially male behavior) comes from her grandmother, who was a powerful witch with a curious understanding of male witches. She knew how to whip rogue men into shape, and she passed on her techniques to her granddaughter. Josie has certainly come up with her own spells, but most of the simple ones have already been detailed by witches like her grandmother.
Dealing with a liar is simple.
She smashes the dime-sized material into dust with a marble pestle, stuffs it into a pewter thimble, plugs that with a wine-stained cork, and sticks it in her pocket.
A simple toss into the air in Mr. Brooking’s vicinity and the spell will be cast. He’ll find himself unable to tell a lie. His tongue will no longer be under his control. What happens next will be quite entertaining to watch.
Now, let’s go set a trap, she tells herself.
She pauses as her eye catches the mini-refrigerator sitting in the far corner. She walks to it on light steps, almost as if she approaches a shrine. She opens it and spots the hollow crystal shard no bigger than a pinky. Inside, a liquid sparkling like blue champagne swirls inside.
The love potion that Josie brewed years ago was her grandmother’s final gift. Josie was supposed to toss it out, but she kept it. Through her entire adolescence it’s sat here, unused, even as Lennox chose Stella over her. Josie would never use it on him, not in a million years. The last thing she wants is a false love. She wants him to come to her with sincerity in his eyes, not the wide saucers of an ensorcelled man.
She closes the door, straightens with a sigh, and tells herself to forget it even exists.
* * *
She finds Mr. Brookings on the first floor’s north wing. This part of the house has only been shut up for a year and still gets dusted every now and again. He’s in the billiard room that no one uses any more. Two tables dominate the large chamber. He’s setting up one. The room’s high ceilings have a few cob webs in them but the two tables are clean. She never was one much for pool and rarely spent much time over here. Mr. Jenkins seems to like it … maybe he was a good player once … probably not. She swats dust from her nose. She tiptoes on the thick carpet until she stands behind him.
She retrieves her thimble and tosses the contents into the air. They settle on him without him knowing.
“Hey,” she says.
“Well aren’t you a Silent Sally,” he says as he turns, pool cue in hand.
“You any good?” she asks, hoping to catch him in a lie.
“I’m alright.”
He racks the balls and sets up his shot. He aims like he knows how to use the stick.
“You ever play any big names?” she asks.
He pauses, as if he has to think about it to remember.
He looks down the line of the cue. “Yep, I sure have. There was this one time …”
She hears him suck in a deep breath, as if he might take a dive underwater. He even drops the cue and grabs his belly. She watches his confusion as the spell begins its work. A few more seconds and Mr. Brookings opens his mouth to sing in a keening falsetto:
“I’m a big liar, yes, I am. I’m a big liar. Bippty, bippty, bam. Liar, liar, liar, pants on fire. I’m a big liar, as flat as a tire.” He puts his hands to his mouth, his eyes wide in bewilderment. He can’t help himself from sucking in another breath. His feet began to move in a
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