The Firehills Read Free Page A

And so tall!”
    Charly was, in fact, about the average height for her age,
but even so, the top of Mrs. Powell’s head barely reached her chin. The old
woman was dressed all in black—a long black skirt and a baggy black sweater
with a large and saggy turtleneck. Like Megan, Mrs. Powell was a practicing
Wiccan, but unlike Megan, she believed in looking the part. In addition to her
preference for black, she was festooned with an assortment of beads, chains,
and mystical amulets. Her hair was dyed an alarming shade of foxy red, fading
to a line of gray at the roots. All in all, she looked as excitingly witchy as
anyone Charly knew. Mrs. Powell suddenly noticed Amergin, who was lurking by
the kitchen door looking uncomfortable. She raised one eyebrow.
    “Oh, sorry, yes,” said Megan, “Mrs. P., this is
Amergin. Amergin, Mrs. Powell.”
    “My dear lady,” began Amergin, striding across the
room with one hand extended, “delighted . . .” and then he faltered under
the force of those piercing blue eyes.
    “A pleasure, I’m sure,” replied Mrs. P., shaking his
hand as if it was a dead fish. “Megan has told me all about you.”
    Amergin gave her a nervous smile.
    Mrs. P., her eyes never leaving Amergin’s, said,
“Well, you’re very welcome in my house, Amergin.” She turned to Megan,
and the wizard visibly sagged with relief. “I’ve given you your usual
rooms—first floor, with a view of the sea. Oh, my dear, it’s super to see
you again! I’ll make a spot of dinner. No, I insist! Off you go! Freshen up!
Come back down at six.” And with that she began to clatter around the kitchen
once more.
    ‡
    Precisely at six, they assembled in the dining room,
taking their places around a battered old table. Mrs. P. bustled around with
steaming bowls of food before collapsing into her chair in a jangle of beads.
    “So,” she began, “Charly. Tell me, has your mother
spoken to you about your initiation?”
    “Mrs. P.,” interrupted Megan, “it’s a little early
to be thinking about that. She’s only—”
    “Megan,” said Mrs. P. sternly, “look at the
child.”
    “What about it?” Charly looked from Mrs. P. to her
mother, then back again.
    Megan sighed, looking suddenly tired.
    “I think it’s time, my dear,” said Mrs. P. “From
what you tell me, she’s had, shall we say, adventures already. Who knows what
the future holds?”
    “She’s too young.” Megan frowned down at her plate.
    “And besides, we’ve only just got here. There are
preparations to be made, correct ways of doing things. We can’t just rush
into it.”
    “Flimflam,” replied Mrs. P. “And you know it.”
    “If one of you doesn’t tell me what you’re talking
about soon, I think I’m going to scream.” Charly folded her arms and looked
exasperated.
    Mrs. P. looked from mother to daughter, marveling again at
the similarity. “Have you been reading your books, my dear?” she asked.
    Charly turned toward her. “Books? Oh, those books. Yes.
I have my own Book of Shadows, and I’ve learned
all the responses to the rituals. But . . .”
    “Good,” said the old woman decisively. “Eat up.
I’ll get my things together.”
    “You mean, I’m going to be initiated now?” asked
Charly, grinning from ear to ear. “Cool!”
    “We need to assemble a coven,” Megan pointed out,
“if we’re going to do this properly.”
    “Not necessary,” said Mrs. P. “We can do it just as
well with three.”
    “I could help . . .” began Amergin.
    “This,” said Mrs. P. pointedly, “is women’s
business. Now come along. No time like the present.”
    ‡
    “Where are we going?” demanded Charly, struggling to
keep up with Mrs. P. as she strode out of the house.
    “The Firehills,” the old woman called back over her
shoulder. “It’s a favorite place of mine for this sort of thing.” She was
carrying a large and mysteriously lumpy backpack and had a very businesslike
air about her. Charly looked to her mother but