Read Online The Rosemary Spell by Virginia Zimmerman - Free Book Online Page A

Wilkie?”
    â€œWilkie? I’m afraid I don’t . . .” She plucks at her skirt. Her gaze wanders out of focus.
    â€œMiss Brooke?”
    Her attention settles on us again. “Hello! I’m so sorry. I’ve forgotten my manners. Do I know you? I’m Constance.”
    Adam swallows and repeats, “I’m Adam Steiner. This is Rosemary Bennett.”
    â€œRosemary?” Constance’s eyes settle on me, but her focus turns inward. “Father is magical with rosemary. Can get it to grow anywhere. He says he could make a rosemary farm at the North Pole, and I don’t doubt it. Simply magical.” She adjusts her headband. Seems to see us for the first time. “How do you do? I am Constance Brooke.”
    â€œI’m Adam.” He tries to sound cheerful. “This is Rosemary.”
    â€œRosemary? Father is magical with rosemary. He says—”
    â€œI live in your house.” I cut in. “The house on Pear Tree Lane. The one you lived in after the flood.”
    â€œAfter the flood?” She shudders. Closes her eyes.
    â€œLet’s go,” I mouth. This is too awful.
    Adam holds up one finger.
    Constance opens her eyes. “Hello,” she says with a slight smile. “Would you like some candy?” She reaches an impossibly thin arm out toward a nightstand, where a porcelain dish holds a few battered peppermints.
    â€œNo, thank you.” I swallow the urge to cry.
    Adam looks at me, his eyebrows arched. What now?
    Maybe the diary is still there, clinging to her memory. When I’m old, I’m sure I won’t forget the books I’ve loved. I couldn’t.
    â€œDo you remember hiding a book in a cupboard? A very old book?” I ask.
    She folds her hands in her lap. “An old book? Perhaps you mean Father’s false codex?”
    â€œI—I don’t know.” I look at Adam.
    â€œWhat’s a false codex?” Adam asks.
    â€œHe’s magical with rosemary, you know,” she sighs. “Less magical with Shakespeare.” She makes a breathy sound that might be a laugh but quickly becomes a cough.
    â€œIs the false codex about Shakespeare?” In my head, Mr. Cates reminds me that we breathe Shakespeare like oxygen.
    â€œFather believes . . .” Her voice trails off.
    â€œWhat did your father believe?”
    â€œNothing to do with me,” she says. “Would you like some candy?” She gestures again toward the sad peppermints.
    Adam nudges me. “Show her the book.”
    â€œBut it might . . .” I was going to say
hurt her,
but how could it? I pull the diary from my bag. “Do you remember this?”
    She takes it from me, and her arms collapse onto her lap with the weight of it.
    She rests a translucent hand on the burgundy cover. “It took him away,” she whispers. She looks from me to Adam, her eyes wide.
    â€œWho?” I ask.
    â€œFather is always working,” she whimpers.
    â€œMine too,” Adam says in a low voice.
    She opens the cover and strokes the list of names. “I wrote my name. I knew I shouldn’t . . . I was angry.” She frowns. “But these others . . . do I know them? Rosemary Bennett. Adam Steiner.” She pronounces our names phonetically as if reading a foreign language. “Do I know them?” She looks up at us with wide eyes and an aimless smile.
    â€œI’m Rosemary,” I answer. “He’s Adam.”
    â€œIt’s so very nice to meet you,” she recites.
    â€œYou were telling us about the false codex,” Adam prompts.
    â€œWas I?” Her tone is bland.
    â€œAnd something about Shakespeare,” I add.
    â€œYes.” She nods. “It’s always about Shakespeare.”
    â€œWe wondered if you know . . .” The name escapes me. Who did we want to ask her about?
    Constance turns pages.
The Diary of a Poet.
The list of herbs. Blank and blank