CHAPTER SEVEN

IT TOOK ME until the early hours of the morning to find all the leaks and to place receptacles beneath them. Ralph followed me, jumping in and out of the pots and jars I set up as if playing a game. When I found the last leaky spot in the extension off the kitchen where Dahlia LaMotte’s heir Matilda had lived and placed a Wedgewood cachepot beneath it, the rain abruptly stopped – as if I’d plugged a hole in the clouds with my motley assortment of cooking pots and ceramic crockery. Weak, grey light seeped through the windows of Matilda’s bedroom. I went into the kitchen, turned on the coffee pot, and sat at the porcelain-topped table I’d bought a few weeks ago at the Antiques Barn. I’d planned to refinish the wood base this summer because I was going to have plenty of time to fix up my house. I’d promised myself that I would spend the summer making the great big rambling Victorian I’d bought on impulse last fall a real home. I didn’t want to be one of those single women who don’t commit to their living spaces because they think a man is going to come along and make it complete. I wanted to prove that I was content living on my own and that I could take care of this great big monster of a house on my own. But clearly I couldn’t. The house had been cobbled together by Brock’s loving ministrations. Without him, it would fall apart …

The smell of fresh brewed coffee jarred me out of this bout of self-pity. How petty to be worrying about home repairs while Brock lay in a death-like coma, his soul travelling in the fog-world, and all because I’d pissed off an undine and hadn’t known better than to cast a spell in Faerie. I couldn’t afford to wallow in recrimination and self-pity. I picked up the phone and called Dory Browne for proper instructions to Brock and Ike’s house. She told me that the spell circle was meeting there this morning. I should come as soon as possible.

I hung up with a nervous flutter in my stomach at the thought of meeting the spell circle so soon. But at least I’d finally be getting some real training so I might avoid more stupid mistakes. Maybe I could even learn a spell for fixing leaky roofs.

I drove down Elm Street, past neighbors busy clearing their yards of branches that had fallen in the storm. I spotted Evangeline Sprague, eighty if she was a day, dragging an enormous tree limb out to her curb. I was about to pull over and help, but then saw Abby and Russell Goodnough the town veterinarians and Evangeline’s neighbors, heading across their yard toward her. They had it covered. Good neighbors, Dory had called them last year after the ice storm, and they were. Not in the sense that they were fey. As far as I knew the Goodnoughs and Evangeline were entirely human and if they suspected the presence of supernatural creatures in their midst, they didn’t make too big a deal about it. They were just good people who helped each other out in a fix.