Chapter 16 - The Wizard’s Inheritance

Papa spoke next, his voice clear and strong: “I will not leave my graveyard house, and that is the end of it.”

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Recap: In the previous chapter, there was a heated exchange between Bamoy’s wife and his estranged half-sister. It made for an awkward introduction between sisters-in-law.

Even if the wizard could find it in his heart to patch things up with Astrid, Mrs. Brahms seems keener to hold a grudge. After all, it’s Astrid’s fault that they’re on the brink of losing the home they love.

Will the visit be friendlier now that introductions have been made, or is there more drama in the works?

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Chilly silence settled over the kitchen as Marjorie, Astrid, and Miss Fealy waited for Papa to return.

Marjorie hoped for conversation to begin, though she doubted it would. It was unlikely that there would ever be friendship between her mother and Astrid, even if Astrid did send the Elf away.

As Mama already said, Astrid’s actions had been cowardly. Unwilling to face her brother, she’d attempted to trick an Elf into retrieving the grimoire instead.

Astrid should have known better than to think an Elf would help her in any way. She held herself in a manner that made her seem wise, but was her wisdom so shallow that she needed extravagant gowns to hide the fact?

Even Marjorie, who’d had no formal training yet, knew that asking an Elf for assistance could only lead to trouble.

Was the relationship between brother and sister so badly strained? Astrid had preferred to confide in an evil creature, rather than look Papa in the eye.

Astrid heaved a sigh. She reached for her tea; Marjorie noticed how her hands trembled.

Wealth and magic, she realized, did not make a person less prone to mistakes. She could not judge, either, what her aunt had chosen, because she had a feeling that Papa hadn’t told her the whole of what had taken place when he was a boy.

Parents would always have secrets; it was part of what made them parents. They came from a world that existed before her birth. From what little she now knew about it, that world had not been pleasant to him.

“Mrs. Brahms,” said Astrid, when at last she found her voice, “your anger is justified.” Though Mama lifted her chin, she kept her eyes on the tablecloth. “I will not leave this place until it is yours again, secure and peaceful. If my own home—”

“Is this an apology?” Mama whispered. “You cannot pretend to understand what I feel, Mrs. Stonewall. I’ll wager that you have never folded a bedsheet in your mansion, nor have you fretted over dinner. You never lost sleep during long nights caring for colicky infants. Did you tend to your husband as he aged, or was that time spent paying calls on wealthy friends?

“Your life has been easy. You’ve never had a bad hair day, because you travel with a maid who knows how to fashion a chignon. How many housemaids do you have, Mrs. Stonewall? In contrast, it was my responsibility to raise two children and ensure that the corners of my rooms were free from dust. I did it with love, because I do care for my family. I do.”

Astrid listened, blanching, as if Mama’s words stirred in her a familiar anger.

Marjorie, meanwhile, looked with surprise at her mother, who had never spoken in such a tone before. She realized then how dependent they all were on Mama. Papa’s work kept him busy tending to the townsfolk. Some days, he spent more time in his greenhouse than he did at home.

Mama had thrown herself with joy into the roles of wife and mother; she left no spoon unwashed, swept all of the rooms, and delighted in making new curtains for her windows every spring.

All of that, Marjorie thought sadly, for us to now be on the verge of leaving.

“I made ill decisions,” Astrid said, her voice cold now. “I’ve admitted that I caused harm to your family. However, my personal choices are no business of yours.”

“Aren’t they?” If Astrid’s words had been cold, Mama’s were icy. “I cannot agree with you, when everything I have ever loved is being threatened because you were too proud to send your brother a letter. That was a choice you made, something that affected my family. You destroyed our peace, and were very creative in doing it.” Mama’s voice dropped to an angry whisper: “Were you not the child that your mother wanted, Astrid? Did you ever do a thing to protect him?”

Astrid’s lip trembled. “I—” she began.

The conversation was cut off when Papa reentered the kitchen, holding the grimoire away from his person as if it might bite him. He acted more afraid of the book than he had been of the basket when the raccoon was trapped in it. If he noticed tension between his wife and sister, he did not comment on it.

Taking care not to meet Astrid’s gaze, he set the grimoire on the table before her. “I should never have taken it,” he whispered, “but here it is. It never did a thing to help me, except soothe my ego. Take your book, and my apologies. I am especially sorry that I added my name to the list, when it was not my right.”

Astrid stood, turning to face her brother.

“Are you not family?” she whispered, taking his hand before he could step away. “Perhaps it was not your turn to add your name, but you are no stranger. One day, it might have belonged to you. It already recognizes your daughter. I can sense it: the book greets her with cheer and scarcely appears to remember me. Marjorie is your child; tell me, why is it a sin that you put your name in it?”

Johann Brahms, Bamoy, seemed to become smaller with each word his sister spoke. He did not pull his hand away; indeed, he seemed at a loss for what to do, or how to react to her kindness.

Mama watched the exchange with a frown. Of course—Mama knew what had transpired during her husband’s childhood. He confided everything to her. She must not consider Astrid’s words to be sincere.

Several seconds stretched by, and Papa did not respond. Astrid released his hand, but she did not sit. She waited until their eyes locked, and her gaze softened.

“I’m sorry, Johann,” she whispered. “I failed to protect you, and I’m sorry. I’ve missed you.”

Marjorie stared at her father’s face, and she saw not the man who delivered healing poultices to the townsfolk. She saw, instead, Johann the boy: Johann who had been cast aside as woodcutter, housekeeper, stableboy, anything other than son.

She saw a little boy who wondered, every Christmas, why there was no gift for him. A boy whose pain became so tangible that it drove him to make a choice he would regret. This boy had straightened himself out, finding refuge with a mentor who saw his pain and knew how to soothe it.

The boy who’d grown up unwanted went on to become a father, and he now devoted himself to his own children. His heart had not been hardened by his mother’s treatment. He’s found a loving wife who followed him through Europe for years before they found a house to settle in. She did not mind that he chose a house in a graveyard for their family.

Papa must have hoped then that his childhood was behind him. Now his sister watched him with an earnest look in her eyes.

Marjorie sensed that Johann the boy, who had not yet died, wished to hurl himself into Astrid’s arms. Something—perhaps pride, perhaps fear—kept him from doing so.

The boy Johann was glad to see his sister again.

“Mother died,” Astrid said, her voice scarcely a whisper. “She sent for me, shortly after I married. She had come down with a strange illness that none of her fellow witches could cure. It was her belief that she had been poisoned, but we cannot know for certain. When this strange illness gripped her, she had little hope for recovery.”

Papa swallowed at the words Mother died. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but the impact of the revelation seemed too great, even for him.

Slowly, he reached for the only seat available—a low kitchen stool—and sat. It lessened his height, increasing the illusion of the little boy Johann. Now he was shorter than all of them, and with his head bowed, he gave the impression of a child who had done something naughty and was being punished.

“D—dead,” he said. “I can’t believe…”

“She asked for my help settling her affairs.” Astrid retook her seat at the table, turning so that she was facing her brother, though she still had to look down to see his face. “She wanted to leave me the house in the Black Forest, but I was adamant that I did not want or need it. I urged her to leave it to you, instead—so she did.”

Papa looked up, his expression stony. “You cannot expect me to believe that she left me anything,” he stammered, anger entering his tone, “not a broomstick, not a matchbox!”

“I am not lying to you. Miss Fealy, the envelope, please.”

Marjorie was startled to hear Miss Fealy addressed. In the tension thickening the kitchen air, she seemed to have vanished into the background.

Miss Fealy dug into a handbag, producing from it an elegant envelope sealed with red wax. It was large, made of quality material. The nature of its contents made it look heavier: if this was a dead woman’s will, the words indeed bore weight.

Miss Fealy handed the envelope to Astrid, who held it out to Papa.

Papa stared at the envelope, suspicion and pain dancing in his eyes. “Don’t lie to me, Astrid,” he whispered. “I’ve returned the book. Do not—do not be making a fool of me—”

“Johann, I have no reason to lie about this. The house in the Black Forest is yours, if you wish to accept it.” She waited until he took the envelope, his fingers trembling as all manner of emotions surged through his veins, before continuing: “Currently, it’s being cared for by a tenant; I send her payments to keep her happy, and she enjoys the isolation. If you should decide to visit, know that she is a competent cook and housekeeper.”

Papa looked at the words written on the envelope. He then turned to his wife in a panic.

“It is my mother’s handwriting,” he managed.

Mama, seeing that he had become paralyzed, stood. She went and stood beside him, taking the envelope from his hands. “Shall I open it for you, love?” she said softly, to which he nodded.

Astrid retook her seat, looking with concern at her brother, who practically cowered on the wooden stool.

Disregarding the white fabric of her favorite frock, Mama knelt beside her husband on the sooty ground. She broke the seal and took from the envelope a thick sheet of paper. Her movements were steady as she unfolded the page, holding it with one hand, taking his with the other.

Meanwhile, Astrid turned away and opened her grimoire. She did not seem interested in reading it; it appeared to be an excuse to give her brother privacy.

Marjorie could not look away from her father. Why? she wondered. Why is he so afraid to read his mother’s handwriting?

She wanted to sit at his other side, for she had never witnessed him like this before, not even on the night when the ghosts appeared in the yard. That time, he was startled, but he also had a plan. Now, he seemed to be battling an old terror which had returned with the appearance of his sister.

Mama began to read, words steady as she gripped her husband’s hand. “I bequeath to my son, Johann Erik Wolfgang Brahms, Cinder House and all of its furnishings, including my books and cauldrons. I also leave to him my stable with its horses and all of the land that belongs to me. I do so…” She trailed off, her voice breaking as she forced herself to continue. “I do so because it has long been his home, but not seen him. Now he is master of Cinder House and all of the treasures inside it—”

She stopped when a sob escaped her husband’s throat. Forgetting the page in her hand, Mama wrapped him into a tight embrace, whispering something into his ear that no one at the table would have been able to make out.

Marjorie did not hide the tears that slid down her face at the sight of her father so broken. She looked at Astrid, no longer certain of how to treat the woman. Was this a gift, or a new way of punishing them?

“No,” she could hear her father whimper, “no, no—”

“You practically built Cinder House,” Mama whispered. “Remember all of the days you were put to work, setting up the walls and—”

“No, Nina!” Papa retorted. “I did not build Cinder House. I built that woman’s house, and she sent me off. It cannot be mine.”

“But it is. This paper says so.”

When Papa spoke next, it was with a voice clear and strong: “I will not leave this place. I will not leave my graveyard house, and that is the end of it.”

With that, Papa stood. Mama offered him the page, but he waved it away. He then stepped outside, slamming the door behind him, causing one of the ornaments to fall off of the wall and shatter.

Mama heaved a sigh and brushed away tears of her own. She sat on the stool; her dress was stained where she had been kneeling, but she did not appear to care.

“I suppose it’s a good thing that you’re going to drive the Elf away, then,” Marjorie told Astrid, when the silence became unbearable.

Astrid, who had been paging through her grimoire with an ashen face, replied haltingly: “The thing is, Marjorie…I am not certain that I can.” She looked up. “I’ll try. I swear that I will. But if I cannot, then you have another place to go.”

“Are you expecting gratitude?” Mama asked, her voice gravelly.

Astrid actually flinched. “Mrs. Brahms—”

With a sound of anger, Mama stood. Securing the cloak over her shoulders, she opened the door and hurried after her husband.

Astrid, who had been making an effort the entire time to remain calm, buried her face in her hands and burst into tears.

Across from Marjorie, Adam watched, his shocked expression matching hers. “He had better not go into the graveyard,” the boy managed. “The barriers he set only surround the house.”

“Then let us hope,” Marjorie answered shakily, “Mama can stop him.”

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