Page 53 of Witch and Tell

The books sighed and washed me with energy when I mentioned them.

“It’s smell,” Lise said.

This was an odd one. “Smell? You mean, you smell things?”

Lise’s brows drew together. “I think so. I think that’s it. I’ve always loved scent—not that I smell things like a bloodhound might, but I can parse smells.”

Rodney leapt to my lap, and I absently dropped fingers to his back. He seemed unusually comfortable with Lise. “Tell me more.”

“For instance, this house.”

“Old wood and books,” I said promptly.

“Yes, that for sure. Yesterday, I would have smelled how the heat lifted an almost bitter, leathery smell from the wood, and the books would have smelled like vanilla and must. But now”—her voice rose and expression became more animated—“it’s really strange.”

I didn’t reply. She needed to figure this out on her own.

“It’s like I’m smelling history.” She rose and circled the room. “Here, for instance. I smell pipe tobacco.”

As far as I knew, no one had smoked here for dec ades. She must be picking up on Old Man Thurston. “What else?”

“The sweet smell of children, like candy and milk.” She touchedPuss in Boots, proudly displayed cover out. “Duh, I guess you might say. We’re in the children’s section. But I smell something more.” She stopped and turned to me. “Is it possible to smell emotion? I smell . . . frustration. Anger.”

That would be Wanda. Part of the frustration was mine, for sure.

“More than that, though, I smell something tarry— something old and dark, on the verge of rotting.” Her voice softened. “You’re terrified.”

The truth in Lise’s assessment caused my stomach to rise. I breathed slowly to calm it. “Yes. We’ll get to that.”

“Take your time,” Lise said.

I had been so wrong to suspect Lise could be a facet of Beata. She held so much innocence. When I regained some of my composure, I said, “I discovered I was a witch only a few years ago, when I moved to Wilfred. Does the magic run through the women, like it does in mine?”

She dropped into her chair. “I don’t know. I was adopted. That’s why I’m here. I want to know where I came from.”

Again, I let her talk. Tonight would be another long one. My body was exhausted, but my brain hummed with energy.

“I always knew there was something different about me. Not just different from my family—they’re scientists—but different from regular people.” Her words came faster as she let out thoughts she’d clearly harbored for years. I understood. “I felt like such a weirdo. An outsider. I’ve always been drawn to otherworldly things. Does that sound strange?”

“You’re asking me?” I said.

“I’ve tried tracking down my biological family, but my adoption was . . . informal.”

There was more to that story, I was sure, but I let her continue.

“I’ve sent my DNA a few times to one of the big companies, but something always went haywire. Once the results came back that I was one hundred percent Chinese. Another time they said I’d sent in the saliva of a squirrel.” She sighed. “I took a summer job at a new age shop in Astoria, thinking I’d get some kind of insight on who I am.” She frowned. “It didn’t work, but I met Leo that way. When he mentioned you, I felt I had to see you. Maybe, somehow . . . you would understand me.”

“I’m not an expert, and I haven’t had a real life mentor, but I can tell you a few things about magic.”

“I’m listening,” she said.

“As far as I’ve been able to figure, witches each have an ability to tap into a particular energy. For instance, I love reading and adore books. This gives me the ability to tap into the energy authors and readers have poured into books—the plots, imagination, the hours they’ve spent with their eyes on the page and the stories coming to life in their minds. It’s a massive power source.”

She nodded. “I’ve always been sensitive to scent. When my parents had parties, I would bury my nose in the coats they tossed on the bed and smell the women’s perfumes and the men’s soap and the wool of their jackets. I swear I could even smell illness on some people’s skins. But it’s gone wild since then.” She shook her head in bewilderment. “Now, as I said, it’s like I can smell emotion.”

“You mean, each emotion has a scent? How does that work?”

“You, for instance,” Lise said. “Besides fear, I smell regret. It’s a mixture of sadness and shame.”