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  For Jeff—you are my compass

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  They say it takes a village to raise a child, and I’m pretty sure the same should be said of a book. Endless love and thanks to my parents, Joe and Linda Appicello, for always being there for me: as sounding boards, career managers, babysitters, beta readers. This book simply wouldn’t have been possible without you. To my husband, Jeff, my best friend and biggest champion, who believes in me and encourages me even when (especially when) I most doubt myself. Thanks to my sisters, Bridget and Jill, for the late-night conference calls and virtual martinis, and for reading this book in all of its first-draft messiness, as well as to my parents-­in-law, Alice and Paul Kelly, who were true lifelines during this book’s revisions. And of course, to Penn and Summer, for all of the joy and for reminding me of what matters most. You guys are my village, and what an awesome village it is.

  A million thanks to my brilliant and amazing agent, Adriann Ranta, for being my champion, for the constant support and encouragement, and for always making time, and to her partners-­in-crime, Allison Devereux and the entire Wolf Literary family.

  Endless thanks to my talented and incisive editor, Navah Wolfe—her insight and guidance helped me shape what vaguely resembled what I was trying to accomplish into a story I’m very proud of. Thank you for challenging me and for pushing me, Navah, and for those “You Can Do This” emails at the beginning of our process that meant the world.

  Many thanks to the rest of the Simon & Schuster family who made this book possible, including Joe Monti, Saga Press’s fearless editorial director; designer Michael McCartney, who is batting a thousand on Saga Press covers; the incredible ­managing editor Bridget Madsen; Jacquelynne Hudson, for her interior design savviness; wonderful production manager Elizabeth Blake-Linn; ace publicist Ksenia Winnicki; Valerie Shea, for her copyediting chops; and fabulous design coordinator Tiara Iandioro. Thanks as well to Steve Stone, who illustrated the beautiful cover on the front of this book.

  Thanks to the Freshman Fifteens, the Class of 2K15, and the Fearless Fifteeners for their continued support over the past few years, particularly my friends and confidantes Chandler Baker, Virginia Boecker, Jen Brooks, Kelly Loy Gilbert, Lori Goldstein, and Kim Liggett. And much appreciation to my fantastic critique partners, Erika David and Lisa Koosis—Erika, your cheerleading meant so much on this one.

  And last but perhaps most, thanks to the readers. To me, the fact that this book is in your hands is the absolute best kind of magic.

  THE AMERICAN ISSUE

  A Sorcery-Free Nation and a Stainless Flag

  * * *

  VOLUME XXVI WESTERVILLE, OHIO, JANUARY 29, 1919 NUMBER 6

  * * *

  US IS FREE FROM MAGIC’S SPELL

  36TH STATE RATIFIES ANTI-SORCERY AMENDMENT JAN. 16

  Nebraska Noses Out Missouri for Honor of Completing Job of Writing Anti-Sorcery Act into Constitution; Wyoming, Wisconsin, and Minnesota Right on Their Heels

  JANUARY 16, 1919, MOMENTOUS DAY IN WORLD’S HISTORY

  * * *

  September 1926

  * * *

  PART ONE

  THE SORCERERS

  BLACK WOODS

  JOAN

  Magic can achieve a lot of things, but it can’t undo the past. I’ve sworn off sorcery, buried my magic with earth, blood, and tears below the ground, but I’d gladly sell my soul to use it just once more, if sorcery could find a way to bring me back in time. If it could bring me right to the edge of where I once stood and shattered my world into tiny shards, and make me walk away instead.

  I’ve managed to trick myself from time to time. Even after all these months, I’ll sometimes wake up and forget for those few hazy minutes between sleep and morning, and the world will feel different. Like all the color hasn’t been stolen out of it, like she might be in her spell room mixing lavender and poppy, whispering her words of power, sneaking in some work before breakfast as dawn creeps into the windows behind her. It’s such a warm and comfortable feeling, like burrowing into a blanket, and I want to snuggle in tight, burrow a little deeper, even as my mind’s coming into focus, even as my heart’s catching on to being duped and starts beating faster, faster, then double time.

  And then it hits me like an avalanche of bricks.

  She’s gone.

  But that’s the problem with tricks. The world can feel even emptier, once their hold on you is over.

  I start drying the load of glasses I’ve just rinsed, ­arranging the tumblers on the bar behind me like an army of clear, thin soldiers. Out the window, the gray sky of late afternoon has deepened into a sad twilight over our backyard clearing. It’s almost five o’clock, and both our sham liquor bar and Uncle Jed’s shining room need straightening. I don’t have the luxury of running headfirst into the dark right now, of getting lost again in the black woods of the past.

  There’s a rattling coming from the closet near the stairs to Uncle Jed’s shining room, and my cousin Ben emerges with our mop, the loop-ends so dark they look like tangled strands of a witch’s wig. He slaps it on the floor, over that same spot he always cleans, where one of Jed’s lightweight regulars lost control on a shot of Jed’s shine last year and got sick in the corner. The government says this place won’t be ours anymore in a few weeks, but Ben and I have both become experts at living in denial.

  “Just forget it,” I say. “That stain’s never coming out.”

  “Gotta try, right? In case the Drummond loan officer shows up?” Ben huffs and puffs as he sends the mop slogging across the thick plank floor.

  I let a tiny bubble of hope rise inside my chest, despite how smart it may be to pop it. “You got Jed to finally sign the paperwork?”

  Ben doesn’t meet my eyes, and the thrusts of the mop become stronger. “No, I had to forge it.”

  I nearly sling back what I really think of Jed, but somehow I manage to bite my tongue. Ain’t Ben’s fault his pop’s a waste of breath and bones. Besides, the peace under our roof is delicate, something that needs to be handled with care. “I guess considering all the ways we’re breaking the law, forgery’s the least of our worries,” I say, and start slotting the glasses underneath the bar.

  “Here’s hoping to God this bank man pulls through, Joan. ’Cause I don’t think we’ve got another option.”

  “We’ll figure it out,” I say, to remind us both. “We always do.” And it’s the truth. We will, because we have to. Because that’s my charge—to fight and scrape my family out of the hole Uncle Jed and I dug them into.

  But Ben doesn’t answer. Most probably ’cause everything that could be said has already been said before. We’ve had this conversation over a dozen
times since Uncle Jed got the cabin repossession notice. Not that we know exactly when it came—Jed stumbled out one night he was half-fit enough to work and shoved the crumpled thing under Ben’s nose, mumbling about not understanding the “legalese.”

  “I’m opening. You ready?” Ben flicks off the lock on the door across from the bar. He takes the little sign off the floor that says OPEN FOR BUSINESS and hangs it from the nail on the outside. “Fridays always bring the best crowd. If we can get my pop downstairs on time for the early performance, we’ve got a chance of making a few bucks before Charlie opens.”

  Charlie is Charlie Newman, the only other sorcerer in Parsonage besides Jed, at least since Mama passed six months ago. Charlie’s shining room is our only real competition—next one’s someplace about ten miles south on the way to Drummond—and his place puts our dingy basement to shame. I’ve heard it has an honest-to-God performance stage with bleachers around it for his tricks, a couple cozy chairs for settling in for his sorcerer’s shine that’s always served after. Not that we ever worried about Charlie before: people don’t come to shining rooms for bleachers and cozy chairs. They come for magic, in and out of the bottle, and Jed used to perform circles around Charlie.

  But then Jed got hooked on drinking his own shine, got all cracked up. And the night of Mama’s death broke him wide open. Just like the rest of us under this roof.

  “Ruby still resting?”

  Ben nods. “Thought I’d let her be.”

  “All right, go on, straighten up downstairs,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”

  I duck under the bar and walk through the flap door that leads to the front half of our cabin. Uncle Jed’s bedroom is closed off like always, his thin, grating wheeze throttling behind the door like a failing steam train. Across the stub of a hall is the room I share with Ruby and Ben. I don’t knock, ’cause I don’t want to startle my sister. I just crack it open and quietly slip in.

  The room feels thick, hot and dark like a mouth, tastes like sweat and heavy sleeping. Our three cots swallow most of the room, so I kneel down at the corner of Ruby’s and slide my way around till I can see her little face. It’s slack, her breath long and deep. Ruby hasn’t had a real fever in almost a month, but she still lies around here most of the day. Town doc wrote it off as the sleepy sickness, since he can’t figure out what’s wrong with her. But his field is science, not magic. And I know too well what magic can do, why it’s even more dangerous than the lawmen touted when they got on their soapboxes about the need for the Eighteenth Amendment. How it’s a living, breathing thing, something that makes ties and connections, appreciates sacrifice, a power that can have a mind of its own. It’s Mama’s old tracking spell that’s poisoning Ruby, the last traces of Mama’s blood still swimming inside of my sister, the magic that once let Mama keep close tabs on spirited Ruby’s whereabouts now a foreign, powerful poison. But the blood’s hold won’t last forever, and Ruby’s body is fighting it. She’s getting better, I know it, I can see it, she’ll survive.

  “Ruby.” I gently shake her. “Ruby, you need something to eat? Shining room’s opening.” She doesn’t move, so I carefully touch her forehead. She’s soft and warm. Six years old and sleepy, flushed perfection.

  “Joan?” Ruby finally flutters her eyes.

  “Did you take some of the dinner I left in the kitchen before you rested?”

  “I’m not sure.” She yawns. “I forget.”

  “Well, remember. And if not, you’ve got to put it in your belly.”

  She gives me a little smile and buries her mussed-up, tangled head back into her pillow. “Tell me the story first.”

  “Ruby, honey, there’s no time for stories.”

  She gives me what we call her “silly face,” which is when she presses her eyes shut tight, sticks her jaw out, and chomps up and down like a deranged shark. And then of course she has me. I sigh. “Which story?”

  She smiles victoriously and rests her head on her arm. “You know which one.”

  “All right, but the abridged version.” I clear my throat. “Long ago there was a young sorcerer who was the most powerful in the land. But when there was a terrible tragedy, the young sorcerer fell sick, and she was so important that the world became sick with her.” I lean in to push back Ruby’s thin, sweat-damp hair. “One day she realized how much her kingdom needed her to be well and to rule. So she found her strength, got out of bed, and ruled like the kind, strong sorcerer she was meant to be.”

  Ruby flashes me another smile, but then she closes her eyes. “Joan,” she whispers, “I think I forgot what she looks like.”

  I don’t answer, because her words hit me right in the gut and I can’t, because any hollow words of comfort I could give her shatter before they find their way out.

  “Her face is mixed up like a puzzle . . . I don’t even know if it’s really Mama anymore.” Then Ruby looks up at me, a wild panic lighting up her eyes, and I have to keep myself from doubling over. Long ago, an evil sorcerer broke her sister’s heart, and her penance, to die trying to piece it back together.

  “Mama’s with you, Ruby, always watching over you.” I swallow, trying to recover as I rub her back. “She’s not going anywhere, okay? You really need to eat.”

  Ruby finally swings her legs over the edge of the bed.

  “Go on, it’s on the counter, help yourself. Then read a little, all right?”

  “Can’t I come back there with you and Ben, and watch Uncle Jed?”

  “Not tonight.” I keep Ruby away from Jed at all costs. We might be under the same roof, Jed and me, but I try my damnedest to avoid even looking at the junkie. I do my part: taking care of Ruby, handling the finances, helping with the bar and the kitchen, and let Jed take care of his: which at this point, is stumbling in shined to his performances. Anything we need to say to each other, Ben says for us.

  “Maybe tomorrow, all right?” I say, softening, as I help Ruby get her bearings and stand.

  She sighs but says, “’Kay, Joan.”

  By the time I get back to the bar, there’s already three shiners cozied up at one of the tables near the stairs down to Jed’s shining room. I know this crowd—they’re field hands out at McGarrison’s farm, and some of the only regulars who still come in every Friday for Jed’s early performance.

  The oldest field hand, a freckled farm-boy type with dirty hands and weathered overalls, with a name like Willy or William (I never manage to remember), slaps the table and calls to Ben, “Been a long week, Kendrick. Sure as hell need me some magic.”

  “We always appreciate your loyalty, Mr. Sterling,” Ben says, as I join him behind the bar. “Fact, my father’s been practicing a new trick all week for you.” Ben didn’t inherit the magic touch from Jed, which is a crying shame, seeing as he’s such a good performer: Jed’s barely left his room this week. “Let me go get him, and get this show started.”

  “You fellas want anything from the bar?” I nod to our half-empty shelves, the smattering of time-worn whiskey and rum bottles. The liquor bar’s our legitimate storefront: our cover for Jed’s shining room downstairs, which is our only real source of income now, since Mama passed. But if you’re after the legal stuff, there are liquor bars easier to get to in Norfolk County, with better selections and better ambiance: the people who walk through our door are coming for my uncle’s magic. At least, they were in droves when his magic was really something to see.

  “No thanks,” William says. “Don’t want to muddle the shine-high.”

  His sidekicks shake me off too.

  “Your choice.” I cross over to our small black register and pull the bottom drawer open. “It’s one dollar per fella for the show and the shine.”

  Each of the patrons starts mumbling complaints, but they all line up in front of the register and begrudgingly hand me a buck. After paying, the trio crowds around their table again, waiting. I can feel thei
r impatience for the magic from here.

  “Have you shined since Charlie’s on Wednesday?” William asks his buddies.

  “Nah, don’t have the cash for more than twice a week, but I’m hankering right now,” the guy across from him answers.

  “Sorcerer’s shine is so damn expensive, I’m gonna need to mortgage my home to feed the habit.” William throws a glance my way as he adds, “You fellas read anything about this new magic product they’re smuggling in from Ireland? Fae dust?”

  The guy across from him snorts. “A trippy blue powder they’re claiming they stole from a magic plane?” He shakes his head. “I ain’t that gullible.”

  “Don’t know, news is saying it’s real. And somehow, it lasts—you can buy and store it, and get high whenever you want, instead of hitting up some sorcerer like a junkie a few times a week.” William turns to me. “Joan, you hear anything about the dust? It’s all over the papers.”

  “Don’t get the papers here,” I answer quietly.

  “Guess smugglers are getting smart, since shine’s impossible to transport, what with all its magic fading after a day. Apparently the coast guard’s scrambling to keep up with these dust sweepers.” William throws me a teasing smirk. “The Irish might put you all out of business, if you’re not careful.”

  I don’t feel like small-talking with these shiners—I’m short on patience, long on nerves that Ben can’t even wake Jed right now—and besides, these junkies have no idea what they’re talking about. Magic products all go down different, each have their own wild ride and risks, and there’s nothing out there that gives the world a glow like sorcerer’s shine.

  But I force my lips to fold into a cardboard smile, to play nice for the clientele. “That’s what they said about obi, sir, the island elixir folks claim is brewed with lost souls and ghosts. That it was going to put us all out on our tails in weeks. And yet we’re still here, serving good old-fashioned sorcerer’s shine.” At least, for now.