The Lost Enchantress Read Free

rule would that be?” was her response when I nervously broached the subject.
    Whose rule indeed?
    That night, as always, Grand radiated self-assurance that was effortless, bone deep and as genuine as the brogue that still laced her speech. To me, her voice had always been like a magic carpet; all I had to do was close my eyes and listen to be whisked away to places other people couldn’t even imagine, to a world she alone could conjure. In the whole universe, only Grand could have convinced me that if I truly believed there would be a single, freshly bloomed white rose waiting for me in the garden that night, there would be. And that nothing, not a sky full of snow or the coldest New England winter on record or all the laws of nature and physics combined, would interfere.
    As the day wore on, I began to worry about more practical matters, such as my parents coming down with a sudden case of severe common sense and deciding not to risk the drive to Boston. That would ruin everything. My father was especially restless, even for him, chain-smoking and pacing around the house, stopping every few minutes to glance out a different window. But in the end, he was the one who overrode my mother’s qualms, insisting that instead of canceling their big night out, they should get on the road early. I could barely keep from dancing in happy little circles as I stood in the doorway with Grand and Chloe and waved good-bye to them. My biggest worry was out of the way, and all I had left to do was shovel the path and count the seconds until the clock struck nine.
    At last the appointed hour arrived and I stepped alone into the snow-covered backyard. It took an immense amount of sheer will to ignore the biting cold—not to mention scary thoughts of what was rustling in a nearby bush—and concentrate instead on the moment at hand. Among the zillion and one things Grand had drilled into me was that for the spell to succeed, I had to totally surrender to the intention of each individual moment. If I tried to hold on to the moment before or anticipate the one to follow, it would fail . . . I would fail .
    And I flat-out refused to fail.
    Intention, I reminded myself over and over, think intention.
    Reality bends to desire.
    That’s really what it was all about; four simple words that encompass the timeless mystery at the core of an enchantress’s power. Grand told me to think of it as a portal that would open within when the alignment of heart and head and hour was right. I had only one teensy problem with that scenario; I needed the alignment to be right on a very tight schedule. Assuming there was a rose to be found, I had to pluck it, get upstairs to the turret room where Grand and Chloe were waiting, cast the spell—with all the flawless intention, chanting and focusing required—and still have the house aired out and every last trace of incriminating evidence cleared away before my parents got home.
    I paused at the top of the frost-kissed gravel path leading to the rose garden and drew a deep breath, fighting to clear my mind and overlook the snow squishing up between my toes. It was all up to me now. If something was going to happen, it would be because I willed it to, because I wanted it and wanted it badly enough to bring it about.
    “Reality bends to desire. Reality bends to desire.”
    I spoke the words aloud, slowly and emphatically and with my teeth chattering. I closed my eyes, and as Grand had taught me I imagined my thoughts gathering like a funnel cloud, which I then directed toward the path ahead. When I opened my eyes the snow was still there, but the sensation of stinging cold was gone. I took a step and the ground beneath my feet felt solid and warm. I felt warm.
    Reality bends to desire.
    It was true! That amazing realization propelled me forward, past the frozen frog pond and sleeping patches of foxglove and wild mint. I carried a white candle, anointed with coriander oil and encircled with the infinity knot I’d