Secret magic, p.1
Secret Magic, page 1
SECRET MAGIC
THE MERIVALE TRILOGY
BOOK 1
D. W. KAVANAUGH
Copyright © 2023 by D. W. Kavanaugh
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 979-8-9895988-0-9
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic
or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems,
without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief
quotations in a book review.
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Also by D. W. Kavanaugh
About the Author
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
No writer completes and publishes a story alone and I’m no exception. I’d like to thank my star Beta reader and friend, Ria Diaz for her encouragement, attention to detail, and excellent comments. I would also like to thank my book cover designers Peter and Caroline at Bespoke Book Covers who came to my rescue when so many others turned me down. And last, but never least, I want to thank my husband, Tom for all the love and encouragement he has given me over the years.
1
It was a well-known fact that Charles and Myrtle Bosworth were not a happy couple. They only came to town on Sunday mornings to attend services at Thurgood Pruitt’s church. Their fellow parishioners never saw them smile, never received a “good morning” or a “God bless you” from either of them and received nothing but rudeness from Charles when they invited him to a church function. Consequently, the people of Littleton soon gave up any attempt at neighborliness toward the Bosworth’s which only intensified their appetite for gossip.
Over the years, rumors of loud, sometimes violent arguments circulated through the town thanks to the cooks and house cleaners that came and went. There was also speculation about “something funny” going on between the Bosworth’s and Pastor Pruitt. The pastor did spend a lot of time at Merivale mansion, after all. And there was a lot of talk about Charles and Myrtle’s granddaughter, Gemma. She had disappeared ten years ago and there were some who believed her body was buried on the grounds of the estate.
Which is why no one was truly surprised when Charles and Myrtle turned up dead one morning.
At least half the town had driven out to the mansion in hopes of learning some interesting tidbit about the death of the town’s wealthiest citizens. Their cars lined the long gravel drive and filled the overgrown swath of ground flattening the weeds and overgrown grasses.
A small creature named Billy hid in a patch of tall grass near the large stone fountain that was once the centerpiece of the mansion’s circular driveway. Not that he needed to hide since he was invisible to the people around him, but he very much did not want to be stepped on and squashed. The little Hob stood a touch over two feet tall from the top of his pointy brown cap to his long-toed feet encased in leather slippers. His round eyes were set close together over his upturned nose and shone bright and black as marbles.
Billy stretched his pencil thin neck searching the crowd around him while listening to the human talk that bombarded his sensitive ears. After a few minutes he spotted his quarry. Weaving and ducking past the feet and legs of the townsfolk, he found a new hiding place inside a clump of fennel. From this new vantage point, he could see and hear the three old women known as the Pidgeon sisters.
“I told you. Didn’t I tell you, Philomena? If I said it once I said it a hundred times. I said one of these days they would kill each other. Didn’t I?”
“That you did, Rose Marie. That you did.” Philomena’s quick bright eyes fixed on one of the mansion’s third floor windows.
“I remember you saying that very thing many times.” Louise Pidgeon straightened the pillbox hat perched on her frost colored poof of hair. “Sheriff,” she called in her bird like voice, “Yoo-hoo, Sheriff.”
Billy was pleased to see Sheriff Max again. He had been a good and trusted friend to Mrs. Myrtle’s son Charlie and her granddaughter, Miss Gemma. Billy hopped back a step to avoid Sheriff Max’s shiny black boot then craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the big man’s tanned and freckled face. He did not look happy.
“Hello ladies, what can I do for you today?”
Philomena Pidgeon scrutinized him with her dark eyes. Her flowered scarf did little to hide her bright orange hair wrapped around pink curlers.
“Well,” began Louise, “is it true that Myrtle stabbed Charles through the eye with a knitting needle?”
Billy could just make out the twitching muscle in the sheriff’s jaw.
“I’m sorry, ladies, but you’re going to have to wait and read about it in the paper like everyone else.”
“Oh, Sheriff, can’t you tell us anything?” Rose Marie peered at him from under the brim of her straw hat.
“No. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He touched his finger to the brim of his hat, spun on his heel and stomped back toward the mansion.
Billy charged after him dodging restless feet and prickly Nettles. He crossed the driveway in a flash and climbed the bush nearest the front steps then hurried across the landing and through the open doors.
Merivale was a behemoth of a building. The grand foyer alone was as big as a two-bedroom house and the crystal chandelier over his head was the size of a compact car. But Billy knew every inch of the place having been born here ninety-two years ago.
While the sheriff stopped to speak with the deputy stationed at the front door, Billy skated across the polished marble floor and hid under a large round table. He watched Sheriff Max climb the grand staircase to the spot where Mrs. Myrtle’s body was being zipped into a human sized black bag. A round older man wearing a grey jacket pushed himself upright and stepped out of the way while Mrs. Myrtle was carried downstairs to a table on wheels. Billy took off his hat and bowed his head as his former mistress was carried past him.
“Well?” the sheriff asked.
The other man pulled off his latex gloves. “The fall did some damage, but I’d say she died of a heart attack. That’s only a preliminary assessment, of course.”
“You going to call her doctor?”
“Of course, but she was, what, in her eighties?”
The sheriff’s face went thoughtful for a moment. “Eighty-six, eighty-seven by my reckoning. What about Mr. Bosworth?”
“On my way up there now.” The grey jacketed man picked up his bag and lumbered up the stairs.
Billy checked to make sure the way was clear and scrambled up the stairs behind the two men. By the time he read the second floor Sheriff Max was walking into Mr. Charles and Mrs. Myrtle’s bedroom. Billy scurried across the hall and opened a panel in the wainscotting. He popped into the dark passage and closed the panel. Two minutes later he slid open the panel between the dresser and Mrs. Myrtle’s closet.
Mr. Charles lay spread eagled on the big bed with a shiny blue aluminum knitting needle jammed into his left eye socket. Billy shivered at the sight and focused on the conversation between the sheriff and the other two people in the room. When he thought he had heard enough, he slipped back into the passage and zoomed through the mansion to report to the others.
When he burst into the third floor nursery, he was slightly dizzy and out of breath. “They all thinks Mrs. Myrtle killed Mr. Charles.”
Ten of his fellow Hobs stood on chairs and benches in front of three large windows watching the people outside. When they heard what Billy said, they all gasped and cried out in protest.
A Hob named Calla stood on a chair next to Mrs. Landy, the former head housekeeper. “It’s not right. We needs to tell them.”
“We cannot.” In her human form Irma Landy was medium height and slim with dark brown hair scraped into a bun at the nape of her neck. She wore a plain grey dress, a starched white apron and sensible shoes. Her face was an elongated oval with a pointed chin and a straight thin nose. Her eyes were large and quick to spot even the smallest detail of her surroundings.
“What will happens to us now, Mrs. Landy?” Billy had climbed onto the chair next to his cousin, Calla.
The housekeeper continued to stand before the window watching as the sheriff spoke to the crowd through his bullhorn. When he was finished the townsfolk ran for their cars and began driving away in a hurry. “She will come back.”
“For sures?” Calla’s voice quivered.
“Yes. I am positive.” Mrs. Landy moved to the center of the large room and sat on a plain wooden chair in front of an old rolling chalkboard. To her right cribs and toddler sized beds were pushed up against the wall. In the corner between the windows and far wall school desks were stacked one on top of the other.
The troop of little Hobs gathered around her. Floating above their heads were dozens of golden white lights. The mansion’s only ghost, a monk named Frere Moreau, drifted through the wall and hovered nearby as he fingered his rosary beads and whispered his prayers.
“And when she does return, we must be careful not to reveal ourselves too quickly. Miss Gemma is ignorant of real magic and has never seen any of you before. We do not want to frighten her away.”
A large black raven soared in through an open window and perched on Mrs. Landy’s knee.
“Miss Gemma has always been fond of animals which is why I have asked Breknell to befriend her and, in due course, introduce her to the mansions secrets.” Mrs. Landy stroked the raven’s wing.
“Aren’t I the lucky one,” said Breknell in his deep, rich, and somewhat bored voice.
The small lights bobbed and spun shooting around the room in an obvious display of temper. One golden light grew large as a beach ball before exploding in a brilliant flash of white light that forced everyone to squeeze their eyes shut. When they opened them again, a tall, beautiful woman draped in shimmering blue and green robes stood before Mrs. Landy. Her silken blonde hair streamed down her back in rippling waves.
“We should greet the new mistress. It is our right. We were the first to inhabit the mansion and were summoned here by Mrs. Meribelle herself.” The woman stomped her bare foot on the dusty wood floor.
Mrs. Landy sighed. She was used to demands and fits of temper from the Sprites. “Yes, Donelle, what you say is quite true.”
The Hobs held their breath and watched the exchange.
“However,” Mrs. Landy continued, “your displays of magic tend to be somewhat dramatic. You could potentially frighten Miss Gemma into leaving and never returning. You remember what happened with Mrs. Myrtle.”
“She didn’t leave.”
“No, of course not. Where could she go? But she also refused to wear the ring despite Philomena’s encouragement.”
“Hmph. Not that it would have mattered. She was not a true mistress.” Donelle crossed her arms.
“Because of that Pruitt person. If he hadn’t filled her head with his nasty lies, she would have come around.” The chubby Hob brushed honey cake crumbs off his brown tunic while a round of agreement traveled through the room.
“You make a valid point Jug.” Mrs. Landy returned her attention to Donelle. “We mustn’t forget the fear Pastor Pruitt instilled in Miss Gemma and Mrs. Myrtle. He poses a very real threat to our new mistress.”
Donelle’s pursed her pretty lips. “Yes, and I still say we should have dealt with him the night he tried to kill Miss Gemma.”
“Only the mistress can make that decision. You know full well we are not allowed to harm a human without sanction.” Mrs. Landy smoothed her starched apron over her thighs.
“We have had no mistress for nearly seventy-five years now.” Donelle’s gown frothed and whipped like an angry river. “We have been bound to this place like slaves. We have been forced to live in hiding. Even you, Eupheme were banished and condemned to the shadows.”
Breknell croaked and ruffled his feathers. The Hobs shivered and huddled together.
Only the barest flick of an eyelid betrayed Mrs. Landy’s emotions. “And yet you have managed to make your presence known.”
Donelle dismissed the comment with a wave of her hand. “Simple tricks and illusions.”
“Enough.” Mrs. Landy stood upright, her frame seeming to fill the room as her human form melted away. Plain grey cotton was replaced by brilliant white linen pouring over the pale skin of her strong arms and legs and falling to the tops of her sandaled feet. Gold and silver brooches sparkling with multi-colored gems adorned her shoulders. Around her waist the shining fabric bloused over a simple girdle in an arch that grazed her hips and upper thighs. Her soft auburn hair was piled on her head in elaborate braids and her eyes glimmered with the starlight of a thousand galaxies.
She took one step forward and towered over the water elemental that defied her. “You came here of your own accord. You gave yourself over to the service of the mistress. You will obey the rules set down by Meribelle and her successors until a true mistress releases you from you vow.”
Donelle’s gown erupted into a whirlpool of movement. “I am no oath breaker.” A second later, in a brilliant flash of light, she once again became a small golden white ball. The sprite zoomed through the air over their heads and disappeared into the mansion walls.
Eupheme and the Hobs watched as other Sprites followed. The Hobs and the remaining Sprites returned their attention to Mrs. Landy, who had restored her everyday appearance. She stared at the spot where Donelle had vanished for a moment as she settled her emotions. “As I was saying, soon Miss Gemma will return to Merivale, and we will have a true mistress once again.”
2
“Gemma. The boss wants to see you.”
“Okay.” Gemma finished the seam she was stitching before turning off the industrial sewing machine.
She walked through the noisy cleaning and pressing room with her hands stuffed in her pants pockets. She ducked left as a puff of scalding steam hissed close to her ear ignoring the two women laughing at her reaction.
Hernandez’s, the shift supervisor, had an office on the far back wall of the cleaning factory. Gemme reached it just as Cici, one of the pressers, opened the door. Her over teased hair was rumpled, and her dark lipstick was smudged. She gave Gemma the once over before she laughed and sauntered off.
Gemma stepped into the closet sized office with dirty green walls and one small filthy window.
“You wanted to see me?” Gemma sat on the scarred metal chair in front of his desk wiping a drop of sweat off her eyelid.
“Yeah.” Hernandez pretended to focus on the stack of receipts. “Gotta let you go.” He flung a sealed pay envelope in her direction.
Gemma stared at him. “What did you say?”
“Profits are down. I gotta let someone go. You’re it.” He rifled through the same pile of receipts.
“Why me? I show up on time. I don’t call in sick. I do good work. Why not Cici?”
Hernandez finally looked at her. “Cici knows how to play nice.”
Gemma’s teeth ground together. “Play nice” was Hernandez’s euphemism for putting out and everybody knew Cici was the best player in the factory. Bringing her up had been a stupid move, and Gemma knew it.
She snatched the check off his desk, shoved her chair aside and stomped through his office door slamming it shut behind her.
Gemma deposited the check on her way to the grocery store. She picked up some dried beans and a newspaper. It was a Wednesday, and the ads would be lean, but she couldn’t afford to wait. The rent was due in two weeks and her final check had been small. She could ask for more hours at the boutique, but Betty was barely keeping her little shop afloat as it was.
Gemma slowed down as she turned onto her street. It was summer and gangs of kids ranging in age from five to sixteen cluttered the road. Some kids kicked a soccer ball around while others stood on corners trying to intimidate passersby.
She kept her eyes focused on the younger children darting across the road in front of her. She wasn’t afraid of the would-be gangsters. After a year of living in this east San Jose neighborhood, she’d become an accepted fixture.
She pulled into the driveway leading to the building’s carports. A group of children were playing in her spot. “Go on. Shoo!” She waved them away with her hand. She had tried to learn a few Spanish phrases, but her accent was so bad the kids just laughed at her. She smiled at them as she got out of her car and collected her things.
“You’re home early.” Emilio was twelve, tall and thin like his father. His family lived two doors down from her apartment. His mother was a kind woman who often shared food with Gemma even though she could barely afford to feed her five children.
