Page 22 of The Witching Moon Manor (The Spellbound Sisters #2)
A Chair
Appears before the arrival of an unexpected visitor.
When Anne opened the front door the next morning to turn the open sign toward the street, she was surprised to find that the entire storefront was covered in a spectacular sheet of ice.
She’d met a bit of resistance when her hand had grasped the knob, but the house stepped in and helped her shove the door open, revealing the strange scene that awaited outside.
Though Chicago certainly saw its fair share of storms, something about the way the ice had settled against the bricks seemed odd.
Taking a few steps closer to the Crescent Moon, Anne gazed at the storefront and tried to put her finger on exactly what seemed out of place.
And then it struck her, the realization sending a shot of alarm down her spine that made her toes tingle.
Each building along the street looked like it had been covered in buttercream icing and dipped in sugar glaze.
Even the icicles, which hung in such profusion from the eaves that it was a wonder their weight hadn’t pulled down the entire structure, appeared as if they’d been piped by a careful hand.
The frozen coating was much stronger than a gingerbread house, though, and Anne’s neighbors were busy trying to break through enough of it to open their own front doors.
As they chipped away at the glistening surface with hammers and shovels, their children slid down the road wielding icy shards the size of sabers, laughing at the frozen wonderland that they’d awoken to.
Everything was perfectly straight, molded to the frames like chocolate that had been sprung from a tin. The wind should have whipped the ice to one side, but instead, the buildings looked as pristine as the biscuit villages displayed behind the glass of bakery windows during the holiday season.
Stranger still, Anne hadn’t heard the telltale pitterpatter of ice hitting the pane the night before.
She’d fallen into a fitful sleep, visions of ticking clocks and hourglasses that never seemed to run out of sand keeping her awake until the house tugged at the corner of her blankets to let her know it was time to embrace the day.
She would have certainly heard a storm as fierce as this one, but instead, it seemed like the ice had simply appeared out of thin air . . . as if by magic.
Before Anne could give the problem more thought, however, a pair of women bundled in woolen cloaks and thick knit scarves appeared at her side, asking if the shop had opened yet.
When they spoke, perfectly formed impressions of snowflakes appeared in the icy windows of the shop, and Anne knew that they were winter witches who’d been eager to explore the strange sight but now wished to thaw out over a steaming pot of tea.
It wasn’t long before more customers stepped over the threshold of the shop, mostly other winter witches who enjoyed sliding across the slick sidewalks and were drawn to the freshly fallen snow, but there were a handful of humans who ventured in as well in search of something sweet to chase away the chill.
Though the Crescent Moon certainly wasn’t stretched at the seams, there were just enough visitors to breathe a sense of life into the shop and fill the parlor with the scent of crisp apple turnovers and a blend of velvet oolong that carried the same texture as a warm quilt waiting to be slipped into at the end of a long day.
Their laughter, along with the fire crackling in the hearth, warmed the shop to its rafters and melted away the ice that clung to the streetfacing window.
By the time Violet and Beatrix stepped into the kitchen, Anne had already realized it would be a slow day and insisted that they use the afternoon to visit the bookshop.
If the ice storm was any indication, the effects of Mr. Crowley’s unfinished Task were continuing to ripple outward, and the sooner they could piece together what needed to be done, the better.
After helping her sisters into their heavy woolen cloaks in the entryway and warning them to be careful, Anne began to turn back toward her customers, but the sound of bells tinkling against the front door kept her from stepping forward.
For a moment, she thought that Violet or Beatrix had come back to retrieve a missing glove, but then the faint scent of myrrh tickled her nose, instantly snapping her gaze back to the threshold.
“Miss Quigley,” Vincent said coolly as he stepped inside and reached toward his hat.
When he removed it, Anne was surprised, once again, by the whiteness of his hair and the way it drew attention to the striking quality of his eyes.
Now that they weren’t peering at one another through shadows, Anne realized his irises were an unusual shade of amber, almost as rich as the bottle of cognac that she kept because she loved the way it looked beneath the cut glass.
Instead of letting her attention linger there, though, Anne turned her gaze away, deciding to focus on the hard lines around Vincent’s mouth that reminded her of the way he’d scowled during their last conversation.
“Mr. Crowley,” she replied, trying to keep the surprise from her voice.
Though Anne had told him that he would change his mind and seek her out, she hadn’t expected her premonition to come to pass so quickly.
Now that her days seemed marked by moments she knew would fold neatly into her visions of the future, Anne rarely encountered anything that truly took her off guard.
But the man standing before her had managed to do just that, and Anne wasn’t quite sure what to make of the fact that she couldn’t predict his each and every move.
It was strange to see him there, dressed head to toe in a perfectly tailored black suit that showed nary a wrinkle, against the cheerful floral wallpaper and the profusion of joyfully patterned coats and shawls that hung along the wall.
Though Vincent certainly didn’t seem as intimidating as he had in the shadows of the Crowley manor, Anne could feel a subtle tension start to unwind between them while his gaze darted around the room, as if he expected to find a monster tucked somewhere beneath the doilies and embroidered tablecloths.
“I’ve come to speak with you,” Vincent said as he dropped his voice to just above a whisper, the rough timbre of his tone causing the hairs on Anne’s arms to rise. “About the matter you brought up after I caught you in my home yesterday.”
Instantly, Anne’s heart began to beat just a bit faster, and she very nearly lost control of the sharp retort that threatened to whip off the tip of her tongue. But she caught the barb just in time, managing to hold it in by pinching her lips together.
Flustered by the effect that the witch seemed to be having on her but not wanting to show it, Anne returned his nod and clenched her hands, which were hidden in the folds of her skirts.
“If you wouldn’t mind following me . . . ,” Anne replied stiffly, letting the end of her sentence fade away as she turned and started walking toward the spiral staircase.
She didn’t look back but could hear his steady footsteps trailing behind her as she climbed the steps, the firm tread of his shoes entangling with the happy chatter of the customers, who were murmuring in delight as Peggy served them one of Violet’s favorite recipes, a ginger molasses cake that would remind anyone who ate it of the first time they’d heard snow crunching beneath their boots.
The Crescent Moon, which had been watching Vincent with curiosity, was confused by the odd tangle of emotions that were radiating from Anne.
One glance at the stern set of Anne’s mouth was all it took for the house to know that their guest’s presence had unsettled her.
But the lively tempo of her pulse also reminded it of the moments just before she mastered a particularly challenging spell.
It didn’t know whether to prim up the poinsettias to make a strong first impression or pull the cushion away from the chair that Vincent was moving toward so that he’d be inclined to leave earlier than planned.
In the end, though, the house merely twisted the ribbons that dangled from the banister as if wringing its hands together.
“I see that you’ve changed your mind,” Anne said after they settled into their seats at the furthest end of the room, where their voices wouldn’t drift down and interrupt the pleasant hum of the parlor.
She’d meant her words to take on the same hue that they did whenever a trying customer came into the shop and she needed to stifle her irritation beneath the strongest sheen of control.
But instead of sounding inviting, her voice lost all its smooth edges, replaced by clipped tones that made it clear she hadn’t forgotten their unfortunate first encounter.
“You come to the point rather quickly, don’t you?” Vincent replied, the restraint that had laced his voice when he’d stepped through the threshold fading faster than a handprint on a foggy windowpane.
Instead of shifting farther away, though, Vincent clasped his hands together and leaned onto his forearms. If the idea weren’t so absurd, Anne would say he seemed relieved they were both pulling away the veneer of propriety that had kept them in check downstairs.
“I don’t see that we have any time to waste, given the circumstances,” Anne remarked sternly as she gestured toward the stainedglass windows, which were so encrusted with ice that hardly any light could filter through them.
“That’s one of the reasons I’ve come,” Vincent said, his eyes remaining fixed on Anne’s face instead of shifting to where she pointed out the pane. “It’s not just State Street. It seems that the ice has reached nearly every corner of Chicago, if my family is to be believed.”
“You’ve spoken with them?” she asked, hoping they’d had a change of heart now that it was clear what the consequences would be if they continued to ignore the trouble that was brewing.