Chapter 15 - Mama vs. Aunt Astrid

“Mrs. Brahms,” Astrid told a livid Mama. “What a delight to meet you at last.”

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Recap: In the previous chapter, Johann the magician found himself facing the half-sister he hadn’t seen since he fled home as a youth.

Marjorie, observing all of it, could not decide whether she should trust Aunt Astrid. She decided to wait to see how the reunion played out.

She didn’t believe Astrid looked wicked, but Astrid did make a choice that ruined their lives. Would Mama be so forgiving?

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Marjorie took a step back, allowing her father to face his sister for the first time in nearly twenty years.

Clasping her hands behind her back, Marjorie debated whether she ought to leave them to their reunion. She decided to stay, not wishing for her father to think she’d abandoned him to a conversation he feared.

Papa did not answer his sister’s question. “Astrid,” was all that he said. “You look…different.”

“People change as they grow older.” Astrid took a step forward, staring at her brother’s face as if in search of something. “Eighteen years will do the trick.”

“Take a seat,” said Papa, motioning to the table. “Marjorie will fix you a cup of tea.”

Astrid opened her mouth as if intending to say something, but her courage faltered. She nodded and accepted the seat.

Only then did she seem to remember the ladies’-maid who’d traveled with her. The girl stood meekly at the entrance, watching her mistress’ interaction with confusion. Marjorie could not blame her. Even being the homeowner’s daughter, she herself could scarcely make sense of it.

Nothing was clear, except that neither brother nor sister seemed to know what to say.

“This is Miss Fealy,” Astrid said.

The young lady greeted them with a wobbly curtsy, which Marjorie returned with a smile.

Astrid continued: “She traveled with me from New York. She became my trusted helper after I married. Miss Fealy knows what I am, and…what you are.”

“Welcome, Miss Fealy,” said Papa—it appeared easier for him to speak with Miss Fealy than his own sister. “Please take that seat over there. I’ll find another chair for myself.”

“Will your wife greet me?” Astrid asked, before Papa had the chance to scurry away. “I have been most curious about her.”

Marjorie bit her lip as she prepared two cups of tea.

“I will mention to Mrs. Brahms that you are here,” said Papa, “but it is her decision whether she wishes to meet you, Astrid. You did not make a graceful entrance into our lives.”

He quickened his pace, perhaps to stop himself from saying something else hurtful. Heavy silence settled over the kitchen table.

Marjorie placed two teacups on the table with steady hands. This calm disposition surprised her, since she had been shocked by the story of Papa’s childhood. It sent a stab of anger through her. She doubted that Astrid had anything to do with the abuse inflicted on young Johann; however, she found it difficult to look at the woman’s face.

“I’m glad you found your way here,” she said, deciding that she did not need to be a loving niece to be cordial. “Our address isn’t exactly…typical.”

Astrid looked into her tea, as if searching the beverage for answers (and, being a witch, it was likely she was doing exactly that).

“There aren’t many people who would choose to live in graveyards, Marjorie.” Astrid’s American accent became more marked in her brother’s absence. “Then again, it does not surprise me that Johann is comfortable here. You should have seen the place where we grew up.”

Marjorie thought about Papa’s mention of a house in the Black Forest. She could not imagine living in a place where magic and danger hid among the trees.

“Did you walk here?” she inquired. “I do not see a carriage outside.”

Astrid met her question with a smirk similar to Papa’s when he teased his children. “Witches have ways of getting around,” she replied, folding her hands on the table; on her finger glinted an amethyst ring. “It was not my intention to be sweaty when I met with my brother.”

In spite of her resolve to be distant, Marjorie’s eyes widened. “How did you arrive?”

“I blinked,” was all that Astrid said, to which Marjorie turned away, lest her jaw drop. She did not wish to appear too interested—she did not wish to make it obvious how ignorant she was in the ways of magic…

Miss Fealy took a tentative sip of tea, her thin fingers trembling from the cold. Or is it because of magic? Marjorie wondered.

If Astrid really did blink herself into the graveyard, bringing a ladies’-maid with her, the venture must have had uncomfortable side effects on a lady with no magic.

Marjorie retook her seat. She recalled Astrid’s gesture of purchasing the ballgown. It was as good a starting point as any for a conversation.

“I never thanked you properly for buying the gown,” she said. “You were under no obligation to do so.”

Astrid tsked. “It was the least that I could do. Believe me—I know how important a lady’s first ball can be.” She stared into the corner with a wistful smile. “I remember my first ball. Not the dances in Germany, though I recall them fondly. I speak of my first ball in New York.

“I hadn’t expected such an extravagant party, and the gown I chose was plain—it would not do.” She smiled mischievously. “I retreated behind a hedge and whispered an incantation. My blue gown became bright and silky, like water on a summer’s day.

“Mother always scoffed that I was wasting my talent by learning to mend clothes magically. I wrote her a letter that night, boasting that the skill had helped me climb New York’s social ladder.”

“You magicked your gown to resemble water,” Marjorie said slowly. “I hardly think that the word mend applies.”

Marjorie opened her mouth to ask if Astrid might teach her to perform such enchantments. At the last second, she decided at the last second against it. Papa was her mentor, and until it was clear whether brother and sister could be friends, she would not betray him by asking for Astrid’s help.

“Miss Fealy does the stitching for me, as I find such work tedious,” said Astrid, not glancing at her maid as she reached for her teacup. “She gives my clothing strong hems; I play with fabric color, adding to the dress any properties that I desire.”

“Does your current gown have any, er, properties?”

Before Astrid could reply, they were silenced by the sounds of footsteps descending the stairs.

Marjorie, Astrid, and Miss Fealy all stood as Mama walked in, flanked by Papa and Adam. Somehow, she had convinced Adam to wear his best, a Sunday suit that was made before he underwent a growth spurt. His trousers were too short for him; the expression on his face was so stony that Marjorie didn’t think Astrid would notice.

Mama had donned her best dress, a frilly thing with floral print. She had only worn it once, fearing she might damage it. Its thin, short sleeves were inadequate for the cold surrounding them.

Noticing this, Papa took a cloak from the rack and draped it over Mama’s shoulders. His wife gave him a grateful smile, and that smile reassured Marjorie that, no matter what might take place next, their love remained intact.

Mama entered the kitchen first, eyeing her guest warily. She studied Astrid’s face, as if searching for a resemblance between this woman and her husband. Marjorie nearly smiled; she had done the same thing at the dress shop, and had been unable to dismiss Astrid’s claim that she was Papa’s sister.

“Mrs. Brahms,” said Astrid, when Mama had stared long enough. “What a delight to meet you at last.”

Mama did not say likewise; she nodded curtly, grasping her cloak with tense hands. “You are the woman who has stolen my peace,” was her reply. “Forgive me for not being joyful about your presence in my kitchen.”

Astrid pursed her lips. She glanced at Papa, but he said nothing to defend her from Mama’s scathing words.

They were well-deserved; Astrid’s experiment with the Elf had destroyed their lifestyle, forcing the dead from eternal rest, making nights cold and the future uncertain.

“Yes,” said Astrid, with a resigned sigh. “I’ve already confessed to your daughter. I now admit it, with great shame, to you, Mrs. Brahms. I only wanted my book back, but did not wish to face my brother. I thought I’d devised a clever plan; it turns out that I only set a trap. I am sorry.”

Mama stiffened.

“Sorry?” she repeated, stepping forward. “After all that you have done, you believe a sorry will suffice? I’m afraid not. Unless you have a plan to restore my life as it was, Mrs. Stonewall, I’m going to ask you to leave. What you did was cowardly.” Her voice broke. “You had a broken history with your brother; why must his family suffer because of it?

“You two could have met and had a conversation. Instead, you devised a ridiculous plan, causing the townspeople to believe that a poor little boy had been cursed. I couldn’t have left a child in such a state. We brought him in. We undid the curse, to discover that it was not a child. He did not find the grimoire, and now—now you can feel it—feel what you have done! I can see my breath!”

Astrid listened, head bowed in a demonstration of humility that seemed out-of-place for her. She did not argue, glancing at her brother with an apology in her countenance.

He, too, wore an expression of remorse; after all, the affair was between him and his sister. Though he could not have predicted this would happen, he had taken the grimoire. Surely he was blaming himself for the misfortune that had befallen his family.

“I do have a plan, Mrs. Brahms,” said Astrid. “However, it involves the grimoire; I cannot take action until the book is returned to me.” She turned to her brother. “Now that I am in your house, Johann, I will swallow my pride. I forgive you for taking what was mine.”

Her words became a rasp, loaded with emotion both ancient and new.

“I understand why you felt the need to take the grimoire. I should have been by your side when you were small; I observed everything from the pedestal Mother created for me. You did not deserve her cruel treatment. I’ve missed you.” Now it appeared she might cry. “Today, I look you in the eye, asking if you will return the book to me. There is no other way I can help.”

Papa stared blankly at his sister, as if unable to decide if her apology was honest.

Marjorie could not help wondering what Astrid referred to when she said you did not deserve any of it. Papa had told her a version of his story, but she would not be surprised if he omitted details. It would not be unlike him to remain silent about dark memories, for the sake of his image.

He said he had been made to chop wood in the dangerous forest; Astrid’s confession implied there had been more to it than that. For such an apology to have come from the lips of a billionaire’s widow, it must have been horrific.

“I’ll return your book,” he said. “However, I must warn you that I wrote my name in it. I do not know if that might have changed the way in which it behaves. It does not listen to me; it only forms coherent sentences for Marjorie.”

“For Marjorie?” Astrid turned to her niece, eyes bright with surprise. “But, of course—it would go to you next. I never had children. It’s no wonder…” She trailed off, not finishing her train of thought. “Yes, I think that it will be quite at home in your possession one day, Marjorie. For now, I must hold it. There is no other way for me to help you.”

Marjorie nodded, pretending her throat did not form a knot at the thought of surrendering the grimoire after it had spoken to her.

“I’ll get it, then,” said Papa.

He hastened to leave the kitchen, where Mama and Astrid continued to stare at one another, their silence loaded and tense.

“Sit,” was all that Mama said, breaking her silence.

Adam pulled up a wooden chair for his mother, who accepted it with a grateful smile. Wrapped in her cloak, she looked small and vulnerable.

Astrid retook her seat, smoothing her skirts. Only the tense set of her jaw hinted at turbulent emotion—anger, remorse, or perhaps both.

Marjorie sipped her tea, keeping her eyes fixed on the table. The grimoire is not mine yet, she thought sullenly. But it feels as though it always was.

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