important book hidden. It may be the oldest Grimoire in this country. Most are burned when the owners pass on, to ensure that they donât get into the wrong hands. But this one never gets into the wrong hands. We make sure of it. From Maria onward, it has gone to the strongest among us.â The Grimoire was so crammed with papers that scattered pages fluttered to the ground as Isabelle handed it over. âWhen the time comes, youâll be next.â
The book opened in Frannyâs hands. On the first page were the rules of magic.
Do as you will, but harm no one.
What you give will be returned to you threefold.
Fall in love whenever you can.
The last rule stopped Franny cold. âHow is this possible?â she asked. âWeâre cursed.â
âAnything whole can be broken,â Isabelle told her. âAnd anything broken can be put back together again. That is the meaning of Abracadabra. I create what I speak. â
âAre you saying the curse can be broken?â For a moment, Franny felt her heart lift.
âIt hasnât been in several hundred years, but that doesnât mean it canât be.â
âI see,â Franny said moodily. Clearly, the odds werenât on their side.
Together, they lifted the old black cauldron to hang on a metal pole over the wood fire. Ashes floated up in a fiery mist. To the mix they added roses from the garden, lavender that had grown by the gate, herbs that would bring luck and protect against illness. Sparks flew and changed color as they rose, from yellow to blood red. Making this soap was hard work, and soon enough Franny was overheated. Sweat fell into her eyes and her skin turned slick with a sheen of salt. It seemed like a wonderful science experiment, for the ingredients must be carefully measured and added slowly so they didnât burn. She and her aunt took turns stirring the mixture, for it required a surprising amount of strength, then poured ladles of liquid soap into wooden molds that were kept on the shelves in the potting shed. The liquid soap in the molds hardened into bars. Inside each was a dash of shimmering color, as if each contained the essence of the roses theyâd added. They wrapped the bars in crinkly cellophane. As they did, Isabelle appeared younger, almost as if she were still the girl sheâd been before sheâd come to Magnolia Street. Frannyâs own complexion was so rosy from the hours of handling the soap that drowsy bees were drawn to her, as if she were a flower they couldnât resist. She batted them away, unafraid of their sting.
By the time they were done the sky was filling with light. Franny felt invigorated, so fevered she slipped off her nightgown and stood there in her underwear. She could have kept at it for another twelve hours, for in truth the job had seemed more pleasure than work. She collapsed in the grass, observing the sky. A few pale clouds shone above them. Aunt Isabelle handedher a thermos of rosemary lemonade, which Franny drank in thirsty gulps. âThat was fun,â Franny said.
Isabelle was clearly pleased. She had packed up the Grimoire until it was next needed. âFor us it was. It would be drudgery for most people.â
Franny pursed her lips. She had always been a practical girl, and was one still. âI know thereâs no such thing as what you say we are. Itâs a fairy tale, a compilation of peopleâs groundless fears.â
âI thought that, too, when I first came here.â Isabelle sat in an old lawn chair.
âYou didnât grow up here?â Franny asked, surprised to learn that her aunt had a history that predated Magnolia Street.
âDid you think I had no other life? That I was born in between the rows of lettuce and was an old woman from the day I could walk? Once upon a time I was young and beautiful. But that is the fairy tale, because it all passes in the blink of an eye. I lived in Boston, under lock and key,
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