Page 30 of The Witches Catalogue of Wanderlust Essentials (Natural Magic #2)

Chapter 17

Awake and Dreaming

G oldie lay in bed well past noon the following day, drifting in and out of slumber. The sun streamed through her lace curtains that billowed in the breeze. It created delicate reef-like shadows across the walls. She’d left the radio on, tuned to a local station. Big band music swelled and receded, the recordings scratchy enough to make it feel like the broadcast had traveled a century to reach her. It mingled with the constant, ever present crashing of the waves.

It was warm, and she was sweating. Her dreams had been feverish. Was she sick? She didn’t think so. The song ended and an ad for a local sightseeing company came on, followed by an announcement from the show’s host.

“And if you liked today’s radio show, you won’t want to miss the upcoming film festival. Tickets are still available for both general and VIP attendees. The film institute has announced that they’ll be screening some recently discovered lost film footage from The Mermaid’s Whisper , which, as many of you know, was filmed right here on the island. And if that’s not enough of a reason to get folks out, this year’s festival is coinciding with a full eclipse! Avalon is right in its path, and we’ve got optimal viewing conditions here on the island.”

Goldie heard the screech of brakes outside, followed by the thwacking sound of a large box being dropped outside her front door. Then came the trill of her doorbell being pressed three times in rapid succession to alert her about the delivery. The drivers never waited around for her to answer the door.

She still felt the sticky cobwebs of a persistent, recurrent dream clinging to her, and for once, she didn’t want to clear them away. She wanted to close her eyes and dive back in. But it was too late. The dreams were already receding.

Goldie groaned and kicked off the tangled covers. She rolled onto her stomach and pulled the soft pillow closer to her face. Her hair spilled out all around her, in luxuriant red and gold waves of silk that smelled of sunshine and saltwater. She pressed her face into them, inhaling the familiar scent.

And then her eyes flew open. She sat bolt upright, confronting her reflection in the mirror above the antique vanity desk beside her bed. She had not imagined it. Overnight, her hair had inexplicably returned itself to its former glory.

Goldie turned her face slowly from side to side, studying the woman in the mirror warily, as if she was a stranger. But of course she wasn’t. She was Ondalune. She was staring at herself.

It wasn’t only her hair. Gone were the softened curve of her jawline and most of the fine lines that formed the map of her face. Only a few faint traces of old age remained, as fine lines radiating from the corners of her eyes. Her lips were fuller, her eyes opened wider, and even her lashes were thicker.

When she jumped to her feet, her legs felt stronger. She pulled up the hem of her nightgown and marveled at the muscles beneath the firm flesh of her calves. There was no sign of her allergic reaction. Not a single mark or hive. Her feet, both of her them, were in perfect shape. She held out one foot and then the other, pointing and flexing her toes. When the orchestra music swelled, she danced across the room and spun on tip-toes, nearly getting caught in the billowing curtains.

She was dreaming. Surely she was dreaming. This wasn’t, couldn’t be, for real. It was just a strange fever dream. A continuation of the dream she’d had about meeting Cosimo on the beach last night. But if she was dreaming, why was there sand spilling out from the boots she’d discarded on the floor next to her bed? And why was her raincoat crumpled on a heap beside it?

“Did you listeners catch the amazing bioluminescence last night?” The host returned, her perky voice chasing the clouds away from the sun. “We haven’t seen that kind of activity in ages. Local naturalists are predicting these conditions to come and go all thru the coming week, right up to the big eclipse. So book your tickets and get on out here!”

Goldie wasn’t dreaming. She didn’t imagine this. There was no explanation for it, but she appeared to be aging backward .

She shook off the grains of sand still clinging to her hem and padded out to the kitchen to make coffee. She still required caffeine to think clearly.

Bouncing on the balls of her feet, she leaned back against the vintage formica kitchen counters, waiting impatiently for the mocha pot to boil. Without thinking, she vaulted onto the counter to sit beside the kitchen sink. She stared at the polished pink seashell resting in a ray of sunshine on the windowsill. She knew what she would hear if she lifted it to her ear.

“Ondalune…” The distant voice that always called her name. Was it Cosimo’s voice?

She closed her eyes, picturing his distinctly unique accent. The exotic way he said his Os. The teasing softness of his Ls. Just thinking about it produced a wave of goosebumps. The way he said her name. It was enough to entrance her.

The pot began to sputter and spit with steam. She jumped nimbly down to move it before the coffee scorched.

What a gift it was to move and flow like this without a single thought. At what point in her life had she started needing to make plans before standing, bending, and reaching?

She much preferred this spontaneity.

Goldie set the Moka pot aside and frothed some milk until it resembled sea foam. Finally she pulled out a mug and combined the two, swirling the foam to draw a scalloped seashell in the cup.

She didn’t bother putting on shoes when she carried the cup outside to sit with Octavia. Settling onto the bench swing, she fluffed the damp throw pillow and pulled her feet up. She rocked gently, Cosimo’s last few words coming back to her as she sipped.

She was certain that he knew something. Why she was the way she was? What she was. But he’d refused to tell her.

“It’s not for me to say, Ondalune. I’m so sorry.” He’d looked so inexplicably sad.

“At least tell me about yourself. Tell me what you are. Who are you really?”

The more she’d studied him in the moonlight, the more certain she’d become that Cosimo was no ordinary man. His strangely smooth skin, his coolness, and his heat and those vaguely feral eyes... She could have sworn he didn’t have a heartbeat when he held her. And how could any man without a pulse be a mortal?

“Can you believe I’m imagining people might actually be mythical creatures? I’m being ridiculous, aren’t I?” she said to Octavia, running her fingers along one of the pebbled purple tentacles that wrapped along the back of the bench.

“ Are you ?” Ocatavia’s wise golden eye seemed to say.

Goldie considered her feet again. There was no denying her own transformation.

It was one thing to age much slower than her peers. Strange as it was, she could rationalize it as an anomaly. Some stroke of fortune or fate that had blessed her with unusual genes.

Aging backward was an entirely different thing. And so was the man with the breath to blow the damp of the ocean right off of her, healing her. Had he brought about this sudden transformation?

“If I told you what and who I really was, you could only hate me. I’m sorry, Ondalune.” He’d stood up abruptly. “You should go home and get some sleep.”

He’d turned to run away, and she’d reached to grasp his hand. She’d been too slow. Or he’d been too fast. He disappeared so quickly; she hadn’t even been able to find his footsteps in the sand.

“Look at this.” Goldie shook a fistful of her wild mane at the Octopus. “I am not imagining this, am I?” The bench swung back and forth, sideways, a sure sign that Octavia agreed. “What will people think? I’m not sure what I’m going to do to disguise myself,” she mused.

Would a headscarf and sunglasses be enough to maintain her ruse? She no longer resembled the image on her driver’s license so much as she resembled the woman on the posters for the film festival.

“What if someone recognizes me?” She felt the squeeze of her heart beginning to race. And then, almost immediately, she relaxed, realizing how foolish of a fear that was. So what if they did? Did she really think anyone sane would accuse her of being a one hundred-and-twenty-year-old starlet? There weren’t even any color photos of her from that time.

The bench bounced as if Octavia were chortling with her.

“People see what they want to see,” Goldie said to Octavia. She’d make do with the costumes she had on hand. And worst-case scenario, she could always claim to be Goldie’s granddaughter. At least through the film festival. And possibly beyond. “Don’t worry. I’m not about to leave you and Kitty just yet.” She patted Octavia’s beautifully bulbous head. “I like it here!”

Setting down her coffee cup, Goldie suddenly remembered something. The package! It might contain film cells for the festival, which she ought not to leave out in the sun. She leapt to her feet and jogged around the side of the cottage to the front courtyard. Sure enough, the box was labeled with “fragile” and “keep cool” stickers. And of course the driver had thoughtlessly left it out in full sun. Fortunately, not for long.

She checked the box for a return address, expecting to see the stamp of the film institute, but the label on this box was different. It was old-fashioned looking, with a distinctly art nouveau font. It read “Portal Productions” and the return address it listed in Los Angeles was simply impossible. Goldie was pretty sure that the small studios that once flourished in that area had long ago been leveled to build more freeways.

Curious, she carried the box around the back of the house and into the shade of her kitchen. She set the box on the kitchen table and fetched a butter knife to break the seal. Cautiously, she slid it around the paper taped edges, careful not to damage anything that might be inside.

Once the seal was broken, she eased the flaps aside to reveal wads and wads of crumpled blue paper forming a padded nest. Nested within were two metal film reels and a plain manilla folder. The folder was labeled “Ondalune,” scrawled by hand in faded blue fountain pen ink.

Goldie flipped over the cover of the folder. It was full of newspaper clippings, old photos, and most inexplicably, a vivid blue peacock’s feather, similar to something she might have once worn in a hat.

She leafed through the articles, which had been so meticulously clipped. By whom? Who’d bothered to keep such a detailed record of her? As she sifted down further, she discovered more personal and clearly sentimental items. Party invitations, snippets of ribbon and wrapping paper. Ticket stubs. Some of it she recalled, some of it she did not.

A rogue wave of nostalgia washed over her as she turned a matchbook over in her hand. It was missing the name of the nightclub it was from, but it could have come from many places or events. It had been a popular party favor to rent a machine that printed a couple’s photos and turned them into matchbook mementos. And sure enough, there she was, with whatever man she’d been coerced by the studio to grace with her company that night. They’d all blurred into one long, boring conversation. The trick was to get them onto the dance floor before they got to talking too much. She didn’t remember the faces of a tenth of her dates from those days, couldn’t recall a single name of the men upon whose arms she’d pouted in those photos.

Except for this one. She’d recognize that dark hair and those eyes anywhere.

She ripped a match from the book and struck it against the sanded strip on the base, not the least bit surprised to find that it still lit up. Things were made so much better back then.

She held the flame above the photo for a moment or two, willing the golden flickering light to conjure a memory of this night. She wanted somehow to bring it to life and color it like a movie. But the wish was a spell that refused to be cast. She tossed the match in the sink, wrinkling her nose at the sudden smell of sulfur and the infuriating hole in her memory.

Clearly, she hadn’t just met Cosimo here in Catalina. She and he went way back.