Legacy by Molly Cochran Page A

out loud and applauded.
    “That will do, Katy,” Agnes said. “There is no need to show off.”
    The wood clattered to the floor. “I’m sorry,” I said.
    “You shouldn’t have spoken, Agnes,” Jonathan said with quiet authority. He was methodically putting the planks back in place against the wall. “The girl’s got a gift.”
    Two red spots appeared on her cheeks. “Yes,” she said. “More than one. Come along, Katy.”
    Jonathan’s hands were full, so he didn’t tip his hat, but he acknowledged her leaving with a nod. It was clear to me that they were in love with each other.
    I was flushed and thirsty from my unexpected triumph with the wainscoting. Agnes gave me a glass of lemonade and a piece of cheese. “It’s important to eat something after doing magic,” she said. “Food brings you back.”
    I knew what she was talking about. While I was pushing, I felt light. Light, and growing lighter by the second. It was almost as if I were disappearing, little by little.
    “You are, first and foremost, a human animal,” she said. “Not a witch, not a mind, but a physical being. Don’t forget that,” she said.
    “I won’t.” It seemed to be the perfect introduction to what I wanted to talk about, so I jumped right in. “Actually, that’s why I’m here,” I said, trying to hide my extreme discomfort. “Because I’m an animal. Er . . .”
    She cocked her head.
    “That is . . .”
    She looked at me as if I were speaking Chinese. I supposed it hadn’t been a very good segue, after all.
    “Is this about a boy?” she inquired.
    Was I so obvious? “No,” I lied. “Of course not.”
    “Who is he?”
    “Peter Shaw.” So much for my expertise as a dissembler. “Do you think he’s gay?”
    “Excuse me?”
    I considered running, but I knew it wouldn’t do any good. One word from Agnes, and Jonathan would trip me up with a floating two-by-four. “Never mind,” I mumbled.
    “Are you considering him as a love partner?” she asked.
    I wished I’d never been born. A
love partner
. Old maid aunts actually thought in terms like that. This was all becoming a horrible dream.
    “He’s cowen,” she said finally.
    “No, he’s not. He was serving at the Halloween party, same as me. Isn’t that the litmus test—getting through the fog in the Meadow?”
    “He gets in because of Hattie,” she said. “Peter is her ward. Once he’s of age, I doubt that he’ll ever find his way back.”
    “But the Shaws are one of the twenty-seven families.”
    Agnes stiffened. “Not that they’d ever admit it.”
    “Does that matter? They’re the oldest family in Whitfield.”
    “Not the oldest,” Agnes said archly. “Only the richest.”
    “Does that matter?” I asked, wondering if there was some kind of reverse ratio between wealth and witchcraft.
    “Of course not,” Gram said, shuffling excitedly into the room. She must have been listening at the door. “There’s no need to be bitter, Agnes.”
    Agnes sniffed. “The Shaws have been denying their magical heritage for more than three hundred years,” she said.
    “Nevertheless, they are still one of the families.”
    “Only because their name is in the record,” Agnes insisted. “They have no magic.”
    “But of course they do!” Gram said. “Serenity Ainsworth’s own daughter married a Shaw!”
    “A Shaw who never changed his name,” Agnes muttered.
    Gram waved her handkerchief weakly. “Yes. What a pity.” She turned to me. “That was Zenobia,” she explained. “She was one of twins, also. Zenobia and Zethinia. Our family often produces twins.”
    “Zethinia fared better, I daresay,” Agnes said.
    Gram shook her head. “Alas, the Ainsworth women always marry for love.”
    “Why didn’t Mr. Shaw change his name?” I asked.
    “Because they have never held to our ways,” Aunt Agnes bristled. “They
want
to be cowen.”
    Gram uttered a little cry at that, as if Agnes had uttered a blasphemy. “Tragic,” she