Bewitching Read Free

pitcher in one piece, the broom and pail standing against the north wall, and all of the books lined up on the shelves like stiff English soldiers. The MacLean, suddenly spotless, was once again a vision of pure white and glimmering gold perfection.
    Joy knew what her aunt was really saying: that Joyous Fiona MacQuarrie needed someone around to clean up after her, someone to undo the havoc her cockeyed magic wreaked. But Joy had lived with her aunt for fifteen years, and now she wanted a chance to live alone, to answer to no one but herself.
    When she was alone, maybe she could learn to control her powers. Maybe she wouldn't feel so tense and nervous because there'd be no one to let down but herself. She was deeply hurt by her uncanny ability to always disappoint the people she most wanted to please. She stood there, defeated, guilty, unhappy, feeling despair spread through her. She hurt; she had failed, and now none of her hopes would be fulfilled.
    With her aunt leaving for a council position in North America , Joy was to be alone at last, a prospect she had anticipated eagerly. Duart Castle had been leased to a group of Glasgow doctors who planned to use it to house the battered and mind-shattered soldiers returning from war with Napoleon's France .
    Joy was to go to her maternal grandmother's cottage in Surrey and live in relative obscurity for two years. She was sure she could learn her skills by then. She was positive. She just needed to convince the MacLean. Besides, her aunt would be gone and never know if she made a mistake or two. And there was one other argument in her favor "If protection is what I need, how about a familiar?"
    A loud feline scream cut through the air. Gabriel whipped out from under the MacLean's hem and scurried underneath a chest. He cowered in the dark, a pair of darting, wary blue eyes the only clue to his hiding place.
    "My familiar," she corrected, just as Beezle twitched and snorted in his sleep. "Isn't a familiar supposed to protect a witch?"
    "Joyous, the only thing that sluggish weasel will protect is his bedtime. You just cannot seem to concentrate—"
    "Wait!" Joy stood, suddenly hopeful. "I have an idea!" She rushed over to a small battered Larkin desk, opened it, and rummaged through until she found what she sought. "Here!" She spun around holding a piece of paper, a pen with a small black box of pen points, and a squat jar of India ink. "I'll write the incantation down first. Then I can see it, on the paper in black and white. You'll see, I know I'll be able to concentrate then, I know it. Please . . . just give me one more chance."
    Her aunt watched her for a long, decisive moment
    "Please," Joy whispered, lowering her eyes and holding her breath while her mind chanted a litany: Give me one last chance, please . . . please . . .please . . . .
    The MacLean raised her chin. "One more time."
    A smile bright enough to outshine the candle flame filled Joy's pale face. Her green eyes flashed with eagerness, and she hastened to the table, sat down on a stool, and dipped the pen tip into the ink. Smiling, she looked up.
    Joyous Fiona MacQuarrie was ready.
    But England wasn't.

Fair is foul, and foul is fair:
    Hover through the fog and filthy air.
    —Macbeth, William Shakespeare

Chapter 2
     
    London , December 1813
     
    An elegant black carriage clattered over the damp, cobbled streets, its driver seemingly oblivious to the thick fog that hovered over the city. Past a ragman's cart in front of Green Park , past a watchman with a gin-sotted whore clutched in one hammy fist, past the plodding sedan chairs and rickety hackneys that filled the streets; the driver sped as heedless of the crowded streets as he was of the inclement weather. The vehicle whipped in a flash of raven black around a corner where a lamplighter was raising his hooked flambeau and lighting the last of the iron street lamps on St. James'. Quicker than a pig's whisker the carriage stopped, and a green-liveried