“You don’t like Cotillion?” I asked, surprised. All of them had done it, and so had my grandmother, my mom, my sister . . .

Besides, The Aunts lived for tradition and propriety. Cotillion should be one of their favorite things ever.

“We did,” Aunt Jewel said, stubbing out her cigarette as she stood. Ladies never smoked unless they were sitting, after all. “Until that woman took it over.”

More grumbling. I scooted forward on the edge of my stool. “Saylor Stark?”

Aunt Jewel rolled her eyes. “Such a silly name.”

“Before she came, Cotillion was held in the spring. Which is when it’s meant to be held,” Aunt Martha said, laying her hands in her lap. “Girls are supposed to come out in the spring; everyone knows that. That’s why it used to be called the Chrysalis Ball.”

“And now it’s what? The Mistletoe Ball?” Aunt May asked. She gave a derisive sniff. “That doesn’t even make sense. Unless she has y’all running around kissing people.”

“She would,” Aunt Jewel muttered, plucking a piece of lint from the pie emblazoned across her chest.

“Who ran it before?” I asked.

“Cathy Foster,” Aunt Jewel answered promptly. “And she did a lovely job of it, too. I never understood why she handed it over to a stranger.”

“I never understood why Saylor Stark was so bound and determined to be in charge of Cotillion, anyway,” Aunt Martha said. “Apparently, she’d run one back in her hometown in Virginia.”

Another round of frowns and clucking. “The whole thing was odd,” Aunt May mused, leaning back in her chair. “Cathy loved running Cotillion, and as far as I knew, she planned on passing it on to her daughter. Then Saylor Stark showed up, had one lunch with her, and suddenly, she was in charge.”

“Same with the Pine Grove Betterment Society,” Aunt Martha reminded her. “I thought Suzanne Perry was going to run that until the end of time. But it was the same thing. Saylor Stark marches her behind over to Suzanne’s house with a rum cake, and suddenly she’s in charge of the PGBS, too.”

I fidgeted on my stool, thinking about my conversation with Saylor. She’d called herself a Mage, but it seemed like witch was just as good a term. And she’d obviously used some kind of power on Cathy Foster and Suzanne Perry. And now that I knew why she’d taken over all of those things, my beloved Cotillion included . . .

“Do y’all know anything else about the Starks? Anything . . . I don’t know, kind of odd? Out of the ordinary?”

Aunts May and Martha exchanged another glance as Aunt Jewel got another glass of sweet tea. “Whole family is strange if you ask me,” she said, frowning. “Saylor appearing in town like she did, with that brand new baby. And buying up Yellowhammer.”

Right, that was the name of the Starks’ house. I knew it was kind of dumb.

“When we were growing up, people used to tell ghost stories about that house,” Aunt May mused. “They said a witch lived there a long time ago. Or something like that.” She waved her hand, raining ashes down on Aunt Jewel’s yellow gingham tablecloth. “Of course, you can’t swing a possum without hitting a haunted house in these parts, so I’m sure it was nothing.”

Aunt Martha shook her head. “I always thought it was odd that she didn’t have a husband. I’m telling you, I don’t think that boy is just her nephew.”

“Hush, Martha,” Aunt Jewel admonished. She went back to the table and began dealing cards again. “I’m not Saylor Stark’s biggest fan by any means, but no matter who she is to that boy, she’s done the best she could by him. And he’s turned out nearly as smart as our Harper!” Leaning forward, Aunt Jewel gave me a shrewd smile. “You’re still going to whoop him for valedictorian though, right, baby?”

I smiled back. “Absolutely.”

They started to play again, and while I was already about to go into a diabetic coma, I poured myself some more tea anyway. “Are there any other weird things that’ve happened here in town? Not only related to the Starks, but . . . I don’t know. People seeing things. Stuff disappearing, like . . . magic kind of stuff?”

All three of them exchanged a look this time, and then Aunt Martha very gingerly put her cards down. “Harper, have you been doing the huffing?”

“No,” I said, setting down my glass so fast that tea sloshed out onto the counter. I reached behind me for a paper towel and continued. “I was just wondering. For a research project. I’m doing a—a paper on local superstitions.”

Mollified, The Aunts resumed their card game. “Oh, well, in that case, of course there have been odd things,” Aunt May said. “There’s that window in the courthouse that supposedly shows a man’s face if the sun hits it the right way.”

“And they say the choir loft at First Baptist is haunted,” Aunt Martha added, pulling out another cigarette from her pack. “Although I think it’s just pigeons up there, and the janitorial staff isn’t doing their job.”

“You know, sweetie, now that you mention things disappearing, there was that man years back,” Aunt Jewel said, not looking up from her cards. “Real particular. Several people saw him lurking around town, dressed all in black, very suspicious. He was renting a room over at Janice Duff’s boarding house. One night, Janice hears this God-awful ruckus up there, and when she goes in, she swears up and down that she saw him dead on his bed with a big sword in him.”

My neck prickled as Aunt May nodded. “That’s right. I talked to her about it the next week at church. She said it wasn’t a regular sword either, it was one of those big curvy ones. Like in the old movies about sheikhs. What do they call those things?”

“Scimitars,” I croaked, my mouth dry.

“That’s right, a scimitar. Anyway, she calls 911, havin’ an absolute fit, but when the police get there, the man was gone.”

“And more than that,” Aunt May said, discarding a five of clubs. “There was no trace he’d ever been there. No blood, no clothes, no suitcase. Bed made up all pretty and everything.”

“Most everybody thought Janice was having a nervous breakdown. Happens when some women go through—” Aunt Martha dropped her voice to a whisper—“The Change.”

My hand was shaking as I poured myself another glass of tea. This time, I was pretty sure it wasn’t from the sugar. Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath and hoped The Aunts wouldn’t notice.

Not my problem, I tried to tell myself.

Aunt Jewel picked up a discarded card, and then turned a bright smile on me. “Anyway, does that answer your question, baby?”

I swallowed. “Sure does.”

Chapter 18

“I’m pregnant.”

“Huh?” Looking up from the pair of shoes I’d been pretending

to study, I turned to face Bee. “What did you say?”

“Finally!” Bee said, tossing her head back with an exaggerated

eye roll. “I said your name three times already, and when that

didn’t grab your attention, I decided to go dramatic.” Smiling, I tossed one of those little stockings you get to try on

shoes at her. “Well, it clearly worked. I take it you are not actually

carrying Brandon’s spawn, then?”

Bee snorted and lifted one foot, turning her ankle so that I

could admire the shoe from all angles. “No, thank God. My

mama would kill me. Now what do you think of these?” We were at the Pine Grove Galleria, our typical Saturdayafternoon destination. Today’s trip was especially important

since we were picking out our shoes for Cotillion. Or Bee was. I

hadn’t worked up the nerve to tell her I’d quit Cotillion yet, but

since we were already on our third store, I was going to have to

do it soon. I just wasn’t sure how to break it to her in the middle of Well Heeled. The store was relatively deserted and I didn’t see anyone we knew; the only other customers were a little girl, who was probably around ten, and her mom. Still, I was beginning to

wish I’d just said something in the car on the way here. Dutifully, I continued to inspect the white high heel she’d

slipped on. “Pretty,” I told her.

Bee frowned. “But not perfect.”

“I . . . don’t you think they’re a little high?”

Sighing, Bee slid her foot out of the shoe and put it back in the

box. “Probably. I’m good in heels, but I don’t want to pull a Mary

Beth.”

Next to us, the little girl was trying to talk her mom into buying her a pair of red sparkly ballet flats, but the mom was holding

her ground. “We’re picking out church shoes, Kenley,” she said,

exasperated, and I had to hide a smile.

Bee stood up and reached out, picking up a strappy sandal.

She ran her fingers over the jeweled straps. “This is pretty. It

would look good with your dress. Doesn’t it have sparkles?” I tried to keep from sighing longingly. Yes, my dress had sparkles. Subtle ones, but sparkles nonetheless. And a little bustle and

a short train, and about a hundred silk-covered buttons . . . and I

would never wear it.

I’d been trying to work up the nerve to tell Bee all afternoon.

First, I’d sworn I’d say something on the ride to the mall. And

when we’d walked inside, I had been all set to say, “Actually, Bee,

I’ve decided not to do Cotillion this year.”

Now we were on our third store, and I knew it was now or

never.

I took the shoe from Bee’s hand and set it back on the shelf. “It

would look good, but . . . I’m, um, not doing Cotillion after all.” Bee’s mouth dropped open a bit, but no sound came out.

Turning away from her, I moved over to a display of scarves. I’d