The House on Sagamore Road

By Cary Marc Grossman

Still recovering from the fire at Sagamore Road, and what she witnessed there, Robin Hanley’s daughter, Tess, is the one speaking to the ghost of Fryderyk Chopin now. Having inherited the abilities shared by her rock musician father and her witch stepmother, Tess must discover what started the long history of witches culminating in her family, and why they have the abilities they do. To accomplish this, she must delve back to pre-Dynastic Egypt, and the very first incarnation.
As Tess struggles to convince them that they might still be in danger, Robin and his wife, Suze, face the loss of a loved one and seek to counsel the troubled spirit of Suze’s cousin, Angie, an unwilling accomplice to the family secret.
Desperate to carry on the archaeological research of Suze’s late father, Tess must find the only person capable of giving her the missing facts to discover the cause of the phenomenon before it returns to strike at them again.
The second in Cary Marc Grossman’s three-part Chopin’s Family series, The House on Sagamore Road takes the reader back 26,000 years, to the birth of civilization.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cary Marc Grossman
• Release date: Jan 18, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370148202

Cary Marc Grossman

After dabbling in half a dozen rock bands on the Jersey shore, Cary Grossman returned to his native region of northern New Jersey, where he spent over three decades in retail management. He wrote much of his first novel, Chopin's Ghost, on a pad kept in his shirt pocket.

Book preview

Part One

The House

Chapter 1

Tess’s Journal

I was fifteen when I first saw Chopin in my stepmother’s house on Sagamore Road. He’d been haunting my dreams for years by then, but it wasn’t until after I had moved in with my father and his second wife, Suze, that I actually saw the great composer in flesh and blood. It’s a much different experience to see someone in real life, especially someone who’s been dead for nearly two centuries—he looked a lot less dramatic than he had in the dreams, which made me uncomfortable until I grew used to his visits. I knew, of course, that I could see him because I was a witch, but looking back now, I also believe it had something to do with that house.

A pretty Tudor affair with a turret in front perched on top of a steep hill in Syracuse, New York, the house was a haven to me after the drama of the previous five years. It was the tranquil eye in the hurricane, the one where you took what was left of your wits, gathered your loved ones, and latched onto something sturdy before the other side of the storm crashed in, shaking everything in its path. My name is Tess Hanley, and I had been dreaming of this storm since the age of eleven. My life was already a pretty windy place by then, and by the time I moved to Syracuse three years later, the house seemed the perfect refuge.

Even the green of the trees surrounding the property seemed an extra shade deeper than one would expect, the flowers along the front garden exploding in little bursts of color. Suze had had the place only a few months when my father moved in with her; I moved in the following fall. I was already an insomniac, just like Papa and Suze—they’d both been dreaming of the storm too. We’d all been dreaming of the storm since childhood, and of the fire, and of the darkly charming man from the early nineteenth century. We were witches, the three of us, a preternatural nuclear family.

Chopin waited until March of 2002 to come and see me. It was a raw, cloudy day and I was alone in the house. Suze taught literature at Dorion University in Syracuse, and was attending a monthly meeting with English Department head Estelle Porter. My father was in Wisconsin with the band. My father, I should mention, is Robin Hanley, guitarist and creative force behind Harlow Shapley, the iconic rock band with an infamous career spanning three decades.

He’s also a notorious recluse, the man the papers claimed smoked marijuana by the brick, practiced black magic, and drove his first wife so crazy that she absconded with their young daughter, simply to keep the child away from her father’s erratic behavior—a disappearance more infamous than the Lindbergh baby. Between 1996 and 2001, my picture was on the front of every newspaper and magazine in the country. Yes, I’m that Tess Hanley.

I walked home from the bus stop on this particular afternoon, the damp cold seeming to permeate my every muscle and bone. I usually enjoyed the hike up the last fifty yards or so of Mountain Avenue until it wound east into Sagamore Road; I liked coming upon the house from this side, skirting the edge of the woods until, through the thinning trees, I could see the red brick front rising to the slate shingles covering the roof, the dark gray cobblestone driveway, and the plants and shrubs behind the tall iron gate lining the front walk.

Our closest neighbors to the west were scattered at least 100 yards down Mountain Avenue, which fell in a sheer, winding path for almost a mile before leading to Spruce Street and the town below. Our closest eastern neighbors were at the far end of Sagamore Road, almost a quarter mile away. It was a wonderfully secluded house, an important factor considering my father’s celebrity.

A three-foot wall of garden rocks retained the height of the front lawn from the street and continued up the driveway, which ran the entire length of the house to the garage in back. Suze had made the rear patio and gardens into a storybook landscape; pretty iron benches with polished, intricately carved wooden backrests rested lazily on wood chips between tall green bushes under shade trees, each little mound hemmed in with railroad ties and cornered with potted plants. There were three such sitting areas scattered around the yard, while a thin ribbon of tulips outlined the patio itself. Beyond the yard the land grew hilly; from the patio one could easily see my father’s observatory on the highest point of the property, a hundred yards or so north of the house. It was a picturesque residence, and I loved coming home to it.

It was a climb today, though. I’d left my hat and mittens at school and the wind licked at my ears and nose as I trod up toward the house, carrying my knapsack (I rarely use a purse). I noticed no cats hanging around the property; this was unusual, as there were normally at least two dozen strays patrolling our house on a regular basis.

Once inside, I went directly upstairs and grabbed my puffy terrycloth robe to take a nice long soak in the hallway bathroom. There was a large sunken hot tub in Papa’s and Suze’s room, but I never used it—some heavy magic surrounded that place and I didn’t like going in there.

The memories of witches tend to linger in places where they use their power, and I am extra sensitive to the images these memories throw. I experience a witch’s memories much more fully than Papa or Suze do. They might get a flash of an image from the past, a snippet of conversation, perhaps a certain smell or emotion. For me, however, the phenomenon is much more vivid. I sense what that person experienced in full, seeing and hearing what they saw and heard, feeling their emotions, sometimes even fathoming their very thoughts.

I trudged down the hall to the guest bathroom with a paperback collection of Shelly’s poetry, which I’d grabbed from my knapsack. Sekhmet, Suze’s adorable black Egyptian cat, was perched on a bookcase in the hall and I went over to kiss her hello. She always liked to rub the side of her face against mine. Suze had told me that cats have tiny glands near their whiskers which emit their scent; by rubbing their face on their loved ones, they claim them as part of their pride.

In the bathroom I washed my face at the sink and tied back my hair. I had my mother’s straight, light brown hair. My father gave me his high forehead and his dark eyes; his were deep set and piercing, though, whereas mine were rounder and more heavily lidded. I had Mother’s nose, sharp, straight and thin, but my mouth was wholly my own—rose colored with no lipstick at all, the top lip thin, slightly bowed, and curling up at the ends, the bottom lusciously full and round. Suze called it a fairy tale mouth. Combined with that subtle chin, she’d remarked, "it makes you a knockout when you smile.

I shivered as I bent to fill the tub. I could hear the wind gusting around the house outside, and sighed with rapture as the hot water enveloped me. When I heard the piano downstairs, I thought it to be my father, home early from touring with Harlow Shapley. No one played Chopin the way my father did, and I was certain that it was he, simply because he had surprised me once before in exactly the same manner.

Six weeks earlier, the band had had to postpone two weeks of dates. Benny, my father’s best friend and co-founder of Harlow Shapley, had sprained a finger and couldn’t play bass guitar. Papa arrived home unannounced at about eight on a Saturday morning.

Suze was at the market—she always did her shopping early, when the store wasn’t busy—and I liked to sleep late on weekends since I was always up well past midnight, school night or no. I was out cold, tucked into my nice comfy bed, sleeping the sleep of the completely innocent when I heard Chopin’s first scherzo crashing through my dreams. I woke bleary-eyed and tramped down the stairs to the front room, almost losing my balance.

The black gloves with the little teddy bear insignias I’d picked out for him when I was six lay on the mantle of the Steinway grand piano Suze had given my father for Christmas. Papa hadn’t even bothered to take off his black suede jacket or wool scarf. He had a week’s growth of beard and his dark wavy hair was longer than I’d ever seen it, well past his shoulders. Its color and length gave shadow and contrast to his slender, prominently tipped nose, wide mouth, and slightly cleft chin. My progenitor aborted his assault on the keyboard upon sight of me and, adopting a look of such false sympathy that I wanted nothing so much as to slam the piano lid down on his evil fingers, asked in tones of most tender concern, Oh, I’m sorry, did I wake you?

I glared at him, too angry to speak. Papa studied the cold murder in my eyes for a beat or two and then said, Well, as long as you’re up, would you care for some steak and eggs?

My father took breakfast seriously, and his steak and eggs were a savory experience. He always grilled the steaks on the barbeque outside with fresh oregano, soy sauce, and garlic, and as angry as I was with him, my mouth was already watering at the very idea. Papa had me and he knew it. He’d missed me and couldn’t wait until I woke to be with me, and his eyes shone in triumph now. Why don’t you go grab some T-bones from the freezer and thaw ‘em in the microwave, and I’ll fire up the grille.

I’m hip, I said, heading toward the basement stairs. It was impossible to stay mad at my father for very long.

So when I heard the music this time, I just assumed that Papa, for whatever reason, was home from the road early and announcing his presence in his usual inimitable style. After all, there was only one man alive who could play the first scherzo like that—the other had been dead for almost two hundred years.

Chapter 2

Tess’s Journal

I threw on my robe and raced down the stairs, ready to sail into my father’s arms the way I always did. I came to a dead stop in the front entryway as soon as I felt the cold and saw the clothes—the cape, the cut of the shoe pressing the pedal of the piano, the linen shirt of a quality no longer in existence.

The living room was freezing, despite the blaze roaring in the fireplace. The fire was one I hadn’t lit, the fireplace cold and empty when I had walked into the house, not five minutes ago. The flames glowed in the finish of the sixteenth century Italian coffee table and in that of the tall, arched bookshelves of dark mahogany, the wood and glass of the grandfather clock, and, of course, the polished surface of the Steinway Model D Grand and the eyes of the ghost behind it.

I knew who it was right away—he’d been haunting my sleep for years by then, but I wasn’t used to Chopin appearing quite so human. In the dreams he was otherworldly, able to use shadow and light to hide his face and enhance certain aspects of himself to the most striking effect. He had all the colors of dreams at his disposal then, and could make himself appear taller, or scarier, seemingly at whim. To see him in my living room under the light of day, small and modest, even frail looking, was another matter entirely.

He still made quite a dashing figure, though, with his wavy dark hair, long, stately nose, and wide, flaring nostrils. None of the paintings or sketches made while he lived had done any justice to his dramatic cheekbones or chin. The mouth was narrow, but full and sharply bowed. His eyes, however, were as intense as the music thundering from the piano—dark and penetrating, with the weight of two centuries in their gaze. His forehead furrowed with the concentration necessary to make his music, his spine bowed slightly over the keyboard.

I stood at the foot of the stairs, staring at him, the utter shock of his presence temporarily suspending my power of speech, a feat my father had always claimed to be quite against the laws of nature. Chopin looked up and gave the gentlest of smiles.

We are already old friends, child. The only difference is that you’re awake now. Come, Lil’ Coo, he said, gesturing in all manner of grace that I enter without fear.

I suppose he anticipated the same caution, even trepidation, to which he’d grown accustomed from my father and Suze. I certainly don’t think he expected me to run over and throw my arms around him. I hadn’t even considered whether or not he might be as solid as a human being—he was a ghost, after all—but he felt amazingly lifelike and hugging him seemed perfectly natural, except that he was cold. Cold as in not alive.

Thank you so much for getting me home, I whispered, the tears blurring my vision. I never would have gotten back without your help. I…love you so much!

My outpouring of affection surprised him, but not unpleasantly so. You would have gotten home yourself anyway, he murmured, patting my shoulder blades, the same gentle, aristocratic man of culture that he’d always been in the dreams with the same French accent. It was only a question of time before you sharpened your communication skills and connected with Suze or your father. I simply saved you a bit of time.

This was the modest humility of a true gentleman. Chopin had in actuality been instrumental in helping Suze to rescue me. He’d appeared to her in flesh and blood, something he’d never done before, to tell her where to find me. Papa and I had always been extremely close and, reunited after almost six years, picked up right where we had left off—hiking, going to museums and the ballet, shopping for books and movies, and remaining forever relentless in our pursuit of the world’s best chicken and rib joints. These had been our favorite things to do, back before my mother kidnapped me.

My parents split up when I was eight. They had always been a mismatched pair and their separation was anything but amicable—my mother may not have been the original psycho bitch, but she did go a long way toward perfecting the art. She had picked me up from school one afternoon for an overnight visit and simply taken off with me. She had already cleaned out all of the joint bank accounts my father had shared with her—over two million dollars, which my father had left there as a gesture of good faith, that she should know he wasn’t deserting her financially. Using trickery and deceit, she latched onto an underground shelter for abused women. She stole x-rays from the hospital, where she worked as an emergency room nurse, to provide false proof of my father’s physical abuse, manipulated the people in charge, and kept us out of sight for well over five years. As I write this, it has been almost twice that since Papa or I have spoken to my mother.

Chopin bade me sit down, but I was too excited to stay in one place. He gave me a look of stern resignation, the sparse, straight eyebrows crinkling down over the sharply cornered nose—he was so cute!—and, sighing, resumed his masterful caress of the keyboard.

I leaned a hand on the back of the sofa. What you just called me when I came in. Why did it sound so familiar?

The lips widened into a smile. Lil’ Coo? It is what your father called you, long ago.

When I was a baby?

The smile grew wistful now, fading slightly. In a manner of speaking.

Suddenly it seemed the room darkened and all the color drained from Chopin’s face. On the keyboard his hands were still flush with life, but the face was gray and dead, the eyes turned up to the whites. A shudder ran through me before the sunlight returned, as if from behind the shadow of a cloud, and then Fryderyk Chopin was smiling warmly at me again. It takes a good deal of concentration to remain longer than a few moments, and sometimes I am distracted, he explained. My apologies.

He was playing the fifteenth Prelude, the one entitled Raindrop—my father’s favorite. And he was playing it exactly as my father did, slow and pretty up front, then dark and moody and, finally, sad, always sad. It made me love him instantly. I wanted to know him intimately—not in a physical sense, but spiritually and intellectually, as a conscious mind.

How is this possible? I asked, trying not to sound like the breathless teenager I was. How is it that you can come and visit with us?

Time is finite in this particular dimension, he explained, smiling as if pleased with my curiosity. This is not so when you dream.

But I’m not dreaming now, as you’ve just said.

No, you aren’t, are you? The dark eyes shone.

I wasn’t yet used to his wit; it took half a moment for me to get the joke. "Do you mean that you’re dreaming right now?"

Apparently. His voice was that of a perfect gentleman, in the old sense of the word—a cultivated man of means with impeccable speech, taste and manners.

I took a breath, both to process what he’d just said and also to think of my next question. I’d had no idea at the time how regularly I would be seeing Monsieur Chopin and wanted to get as much information out of him as possible.

What do the dreams mean, and why do we get them?

They are the living memories of those who came before, others like you. We can see what they saw through their own eyes. We see the previous incarnation the easiest, but, occasionally, when circumstances are favorable, we can see back farther. They are memories, pretty Tess—memories of the past, memories of the future.

How can one remember something from the future?

Have you any idea of where the word ‘remember’ comes from? Chopin said patiently. In dreams, the past and future are one and the same.

That one blew my mind. Don’t ask a question unless you really want the answer, my father once told me.

Chopin smiled at me. You’re quite vivid in real life. I like you already.

Is that why you helped get me back to my father—to meet me in real life?

I meet with you now because you’re strong enough to see me. In Arizona you were only just awakening.

Then why? Why did you help me?

He smiled again, that sad, wistful smile I’d seen on my father’s face so many times. I wanted Robin to be happy. He’s a remarkable man, your papa.

I snorted. "I am positively livid with him right now."

Because he won’t let you look at Professor Scott’s research.

I had first read Ken Scott’s books in 2001, just a few months after I’d returned from my mother’s captivity. A classic of modern archaeological study, Legacy in Stone and its sequel, The Age of the Lion, were certainly not the kind of reading most fourteen-year-olds would choose, but I’d had a collegiate reading level at nine and I devoured those books. They stayed on the bestseller list for years and had been instrumental in my own decision to become an archaeologist.

Based on his field research with Professor Randolph Gundel, a geologist from the University of Washington, the books listed compelling scientific evidence to support the theory that humans had reached a civilized state many thousands of years before science presently believes likely, as well as a technology that even today defies explanation. This was the civilization Professor Scott had called the Viracochas, after the ancient Peruvian god whose namesakes the Incas believed carried the legacy of technology from the civilization before the last Ice Age to the one directly after. Between the publication of those books and his sudden death at fifty-eight, Scott had collected massive amounts of additional evidence, and I wanted that research like nothing else.

Ken’s work is crucial to my own, I said emphatically. I think Suze would give me the keys to Ken’s office in a second if it wasn’t for Papa—how am I supposed to figure it all out if he won’t let me look? For godsakes, maybe I can find a way to avert the fire we’ve all been seeing in the dreams!

You cannot. Chopin’s eyes were kind but sad, like his voice.

It was so cold in the room that I could see my breath in front of me. I went to the fireplace and rubbed my hands together. "You’re not here to give me music lessons, are you?"

His laugh was surprisingly childlike. I would not presume, Mademoiselle! And your father already had extraordinary potential at the time he became my pupil.

How come I’m not musical? Every other incarnation was.

But you are not another incarnation, Mademoiselle, you are part of the same one. You are the strongest as well. He smiled. Strictly speaking, you’ve more important things to do.

He sprang suddenly from the piano bench, strolling around the room, looking in wonder at the television, the stereo equipment, and especially the photographs—he loved photographs. Suze is not musical either, yet once she became aware of her abilities, I found her quite easily.

I couldn’t stop staring at him. It was spellbinding to see him there, in actuality. His hands were almost girlish—slender and delicate with smooth skin and fine fingers. The word musician did not spring to mind upon sight of them. My father had beautiful hands, gracefully dexterous with long, sinewy fingers, perfectly suited to stretching for hard-to-reach chord variations and impossibly difficult arpeggios. Chopin’s hands looked more like mine.

He was still talking—he’d spent a lot of time alone, even when he’d been alive, and I was soon to learn that, unless he was playing the piano, it was often impossible to shut him up.

…since Suze was already zeroing in on your signal anyway; she has truly remarkable hearing.

I nodded, still awestruck at him. Do you have any idea of why we hear? How did the telepathy start?

I haven’t a clue as to why we hear, but as it is a characteristic that clearly breeds true through each successive incarnation of witch, we can deduce that it goes back all the way to the beginning.

He was studying a photo of Suze at twenty-one—an artsy pose shot from above, her lovely white skin hauntingly perfect, the emerald green eyes focused right on the camera, the black hair combed back behind the delicate ears. Among an incarnation as strong as this one, however, it is difficult to speculate—Suze and you, for example, have the potential to hear each other anywhere in the world. I had the strongest feeling that you should get along very well with Suze. I don’t know how I knew, only that I did; perhaps this is a trait that goes all the way back as well.

I shrugged. I think Suze and I both fulfilled a need in each other, namely that she needed a kid to love and I needed a mother.

I never had a problem with Suze. This is quite an accomplishment on her part, considering the fact that she is my father’s second wife and, in essence, my mother’s replacement. Most kids would hold resentment whether they wanted to or not, but I liked Suze right away. My father and I had needed a replacement for my mother—after the way she’d betrayed me, using me as a pawn to help destroy my father, I could certainly never again trust her in the role. And Suze was a logical choice. She was a witch, for one thing, just like the two of us. She was in the club, so to speak.

Besides, Suze went out of her way to come and rescue me from my mother’s clutches, simply because of how much she loved my father. And she’d earned my trust by not betraying my location to Papa, as I had innocents in Arizona to protect. I’m sure the fact that she began our relationship as my liberator helped to put us on the right foot, but that wasn’t the reason I felt such an immediate connection with her—if Suze wanted you to love her, you simply did. She flew into Phoenix alone and connected to Tuscan. By then we were already talking inside each other’s heads and I directed her right to me.

She actually went to the length of chartering a jet to help guarantee my safe return to my father. Besides, I figure that after everything you’ve been through, you deserve to fly home in style, she said, reaching into the mini-bar fridge as soon as we were in the air. Would you care for a Punch Cola, Little Miss?

"Oh my God, you must be reading my mind," I cried, not realizing, of course, what I’d said.

Suze cracked up laughing. I seriously cannot believe you said that!

Just slipped out. I popped open my can and downed half its delicious icy cold contents as I studied her.

Suze had just turned thirty-one when I met her face-to-face; I’d already been seeing her in the dreams, but they had a way of distorting life. In the dreams I was able to focus on only one small characteristic of her face at a time. Sitting in front of me, she was a deadly combination with the eyes of a woman and the cheeks of a little girl. The mouth, too, had the innocence of youth as well as the full expression of experience, much fuller than mine. Her nose was deceptively cute, almost turned up when seen face on. It was only in profile that I noticed the slight hook at the end.

I tried to keep my line of vision moving over her face simply to avoid getting lost in those huge green eyes, all the more vivid against the soft black sheen of her long hair. Let’s go back to the part where you teach literature at Dorion.

Suze dug in her purse to show me a wallet photo of what appeared to be a large and well-stocked library. The viewpoint of the photo was from the upper tier of the room, looking down upon the splendid comfort and seemingly endless shelves of books. Not just any library, Suze told me with a hint of pride, It’s the private library of the late Professor Kenneth Eldon Scott, and I grew up in that room.

Kenneth Eldon Scott had been founder of the Archaeology Department at Alexandrian University in Ithaca, New York, already a legend on campus when he met Suze’s mom, Catherine Cologna, called Cat. They married almost immediately, and had a two-year-old son, Raymond Antony Scott, by the time Cat gave birth to Catherine Suzanne, whom everyone knew as Suze.

And would there happen to be a library in your own home? I asked, sounding more than a little hopeful.

Suze took a sip of her soda and shook her head. Couldn’t nail down one room for them—my whole house is the library. Ivy grows all over the outside and books spread like ivy on the inside. The smile faded from her face. Tess, have you seen Chopin anywhere except your dreams?

Her question threw me. What? No, how could he—oh my God, you and my dad have seen him in real life?

Suze checked my eyes for any sign of secrecy. Your father’s seen him only in the dreams, but Chopin visited me in the flesh right before I left to come and get you. She looked hesitant. Are you sure you haven’t seen him while you were awake? Your dad told me that you used to see him when you were small.

I stared at her. That was real? I thought I just dreamt it—that was him?

Your father thinks so.

Suze, what is all this? Why do we have the dreams and why do we see Chopin at all?

Suze stretched in her seat and yawned. She’d left Syracuse at four in the afternoon; it was now after two in the morning and she had gone through numerous levels of hell to come and get me. There was exhaustion in her voice but always a gleam of mischief in her eyes, even as she made a serious point. We’re not sure yet, but we’re beginning to center in on it. Chopin told me that this has been going on for thousands of years, that it’s the same family appearing and reappearing and that of all the successive incarnations, we’re the culmination. I’m not exactly certain of how he’s defining the word culmination, though. Your father thinks it’s connected to the stars, and—

He thinks everything is connected to the stars.

Suze chuckled and shook the long black hair from her face. Yes, but in this case I would have to agree with him. The Egyptians were obsessed with astronomy, and not just because of agriculture and navigation. They were fascinated with the sky.

"So it does go back to the Egyptians!"

Suze guzzled the rest of her soda. Chopin said that it goes back farther than that—a lot farther. The main thing, honey, is that you must tell us if you ever see him when you’re awake, not because we don’t trust you, but because it may give us clues to figuring it all out. Do you understand?

I nodded. Okay, Suze.

Again she looked hesitant, as if choosing her words very carefully. Tess, the temptation to keep it to yourself may be very strong in a situation like this. You must promise me.

I raised my right hand with two fingers extended. Witch’s honor.

I was briefly afraid that she might take this as sarcasm, but her smile told me not to worry. She interlocked her first two fingers with mine and said, Witch’s honor. The two of us already felt that we’d had a history together, as we’d been dreaming of each other for years by the time we met. Once we connected with my father, we all flew to Benny’s place in Italy; we’d been through quite a bit by then and needed a serious time-out. My father and Suze married shortly after and when we returned to the States, I moved into Sagamore Road with them.

It was a gorgeous home, airy and uncluttered inside with cream-colored walls, high ceilings, and exquisite oak and walnut furnishings. Suze preferred wood floors and throw rugs to wall-to-wall carpeting. You can’t sweep under carpet, she always told me. The three of us were relatively neat, but Suze hated dust and vacuuming was a constant obsession for her—that and watering all the plants. And she had told the truth on the plane—books did have the run of the place. They were in every room of the house, including the kitchen and bathrooms.

I fell in love with Sekhmet from the first moment. She was bowing in respect as we came in, but by that time I was used to the strange power Suze had over cats. As soon as Sekhmet raised her head and saw me, she rushed right over and began a brisk figure eight trajectory around my ankles. I spent countless hours reading in that house with Sek asleep on my belly or in my lap. She also developed the habit, quite early on, of attacking my feet.

She didn’t attack anyone else’s feet—only mine. That cat was as fast as light; she could appear out of nowhere and pounce on my bare feet, using only the points of her claws—just enough to make it sting—and then spring lightly off with an audible recoil as she landed on the rug and took off like a guided missile. I found it as funny as everyone else did, but it hurt!

She likes to play with you, said Suze, She can tell that you’re just as feisty as she is.

Suze was a major influence on me. I spent the first year of my relationship with Suze wanting to be her—it wasn’t until later that I finally allowed myself to settle into my own persona. Suze told me that it hit her at around the same age.

Who did you want to be before that? I’d asked.

Suze smiled. Angie.

Angie was Suze’s cousin. Suze always called her the female version of my father—exceptionally cool, somewhat dramatic personality, troubled past, and huge, intense emotions. You didn’t want Angie as an enemy. Once she loved you, though, she stood by you for life. She and her fiancé, Jason, were over all the time.

They made an adorable couple. Angie was what my father would have called a complete babe, a hauntingly gorgeous femme fatale with a lean, athletic body and a hypnotizing combination of aqua eyes, chiseled cheekbones, and large, theatrical mouth. Her face had sharper, rougher features than Suze’s did, but she had the same lustrous black hair.

Jason was a perfect contrast to her, tall and stocky with curly brown hair and puppy dog brown eyes. He was an absolute machismo hunk and I must admit to having a terrible crush on him when first we met. Angie was nuts about him—Jason was only the second man she had ever truly loved. The first had been my father.

Angie had worshipped Papa since she was a teenager. Harlow Shapley had always been her favorite band—she had all their old albums on vinyl, plus every bootleg recording she could get her hands on. She collected interviews, posters, CD reissues, and all their latest releases as well. Growing up, she’d worn the same brand of button-fly jeans he did, smoked his brand of cigarettes, and dated boys who looked like him.

Jason was a Shapley freak too—I saw more photos of my father at Jason’s and Angie’s house than I ever had at home. They even had a Harlow Shapley room, a guest room which they’d transformed into a shrine of the band. It was actually a little creepy for me to walk into that room for the first time and see my father scowling down from the pictures and posters all over the wall. It was also extremely cool in a way; the brash young man on the framed covers of Tune Magazine was one I hadn’t yet been around to know.

He was more than just Angie’s obsession, Suze had told me once, His music helped get her through some of the more hellish periods of her life. But yeah, she definitely had a big time crush on him.

Doesn’t that bother you? I asked her.

Suze just flashed me the knowing smile. "That was a long time ago. I know how much Angie loves Jason and I know how much your father loves me. Angie and your father are like brother and sister now. They act as though they’ve always been brother and sister."

We settled into our routines. Suze returned to Dorian University to teach. I returned to high school to learn. My father returned to making music and complaining that I had no friends my own age, but how was I to achieve this when all the kids in my classes were two years older than I was?

I had skipped the fifth grade at age ten and had just skipped grade eleven upon my return from Arizona, the youngest senior in my school. I come from ambitious stock, I guess, and I’m impatient, just like my father. I had made up my mind to be an archaeologist and, once decided, rushed headlong into the maelstrom, as Suze would say. I was planning to attend Boston University at the age of sixteen—my grades and SAT score had already gotten me accepted. I hadn’t the time for friends. I was hanging out with the coolest crowd anyway—I mean, no one in school measured up to Suze or Angie, or Papa, when he was home.

When he wasn’t home, Suze and I would fly out every weekend to wherever he was playing. I have great, lasting memories of arriving home from school, throwing a few things into my flight bag with my homework stuffed into my knapsack, and rushing off to the airport with Suze—flying first class was awesome! On many occasions we would arrive to have the limo whisk us right off to whatever venue the band was playing. There would be someone waiting to escort us to the wings of the stage, where we could watch my dad play his music in front of thousands of people.

My father was the most normal, fun-loving man on the planet—he looked more like a garage mechanic than a rock star. Once he stepped into the stage lights, however, the transformation was astonishing. The spotlight brought shadow and contrast to the hollow in his cheeks, his dark eyes, and sharply cornered mouth. He could slide across the stage on his knees, leap off a wall of speakers as if he weighed nothing, and get the most amazing sounds out of an electric guitar. Angie and Jason would be there too, as often as their schedules would allow. We’d watch the band rock the crowd, and then hang out or sightsee with them until Sunday night, when it was time to fly home.

All summer long, Chopin kept me company while my father and Benny thundered around the country. He’d appear whenever Suze was at Dorion, or busy elsewhere—when I was alone, always when I was alone.

The power that Suze has over cats—what’s up with that?

That characteristic has remained constant through each successive incarnation. Marcelina had a kinship with cats—

You mean Princess Czartoryska. Chopin and Marcelina Czartoryska, the wife of Polish Prince Adam Czartoryski, were among the last incarnation of witches.

Yes. The princess certainly had a unique communication with cats. Suze, however, is another matter entirely—you all are. You’re the culmination.

You mean that we’re the strongest witches.

"I don’t know if ‘witch’ is the proper word. I don’t know that there is a proper word. Whatever it is that we are, the present incarnation is the strongest—since the original, of course."

I rose to get yet another can of Punch Cola, shivering as I passed him. Chopin was perusing a plastic cube he’d noticed on a corner table, displaying photos of Suze fitting into small places. Barely over five feet tall with a curvy but tiny frame, Suze could insert herself into the most compact of spaces and my father loved taking pictures of her sitting in the basement sink, peeking out of a kitchen cabinet, perched atop a closet shelf, or lying in a dresser drawer. So you’re saying that Princess Czartoryska didn’t have the same control over cats—can I get you anything? Can you…

Thank you, no, he said with a dismissive wave. And no, I can’t. Eating and drinking are human characteristics and I’m not exactly human anymore. Chopin looked suddenly blank, and again the room darkened as it became much more obvious that I was in the presence of a ghost. His face drained of color but it was the expression, or rather the sudden lack of one, which I found so unnerving. I apologize—where were we?

Marcelina.

Ah, yes… At this his face fell and the room grew frigid with his sorrow. I shuddered—it had to be close to zero in here. Had there been any breeze, I would have been at risk of frostbite. Marcelina had an affinity with cats, he said softly. Suze, on the other hand, can draw an army of them in a matter of moments, the same way Robin can draw a storm.

It was true. I’d seen her do it once, completely by accident. I had noticed, of course, how there were always cats on or about the property since I’d moved in—it was impossible to ignore them prowling the grounds, perched in the trees like sentinels, meeting with Sekhmet through the windows of the front room, bowing low whenever Suze passed by. The cats always stayed outside and always treated Sekhmet with the greatest respect—as much as they paid Suze.

Sekhmet, however, was an extremely playful cat. She wasn’t yet two years old and could be quite devious when it came to cat play. Her favorite game, besides attacking my feet, was to hide by a traffic area—a hallway, for instance, or the opposite side of a doorway or entryway—until some hapless human victim should pass by unawares, and then bullet across their path as fast as she could and as close to their feet as she dared. I lost countless bowls of cereal, or cups of hot chocolate or tea, and could not possibly recall for the reader how many times I came dangerously close to bodily harm.

She did it to my father the mosts, simply because she achieved the loudest and often funniest reaction with him. She would stalk him for hours with the steady patience of a hunting tiger to trip him on his way to the toilet, upset the dishes he carried to the kitchen, bruise his shins on the stairs, blacken his eye in a doorway, and, on one occasion, causing his head to crack into a wall and make a funny noise.

Cunting little pussy! my father would bellow.

"Papa, that’s a horrible, vulgar word and why would you use it as an adjective?"

My father was on tour with the band on this particular morning and Suze had been up late the night before, talking with him. Papa had called from his cell phone the moment he’d stepped offstage in Portland and kept Suze laughing until two in the morning. She was up at six-thirty because she had an early class, and stumbled toward the stairs to make coffee, wearing a thin blue summer robe. Stepping off the landing with her left foot, she grasped the handrail. Her right foot was heading toward toward the next step when Sekhmet shot down the stairs as if she had a rocket in her ass, streaking just under Suze’s foot and upsetting her balance.

Suze’s hand still clutched the banister and she screamed as she fell, twisting her ankle and ripping the top of the banister from the wall. Stupid cat! she yelled.

I’d heard the commotion from my room and ran to her aid, still sleepy-eyed. I’m okay, she assured me, already on her feet by the time I got there. I really need that coffee now, though.

The heavy wooden banister was lying across the stairs. I pushed it to the side, out of the way, and was following Suze down the stairs when she came to a sudden stop. Her voice sounded soft and deliberately calm.

Tess, don’t be frightened; they just thought I was in danger. They wanted to make sure I was okay.

Her tone had me wary right away. I actually heard them first, scratching on the shingles as they scurried across the roof. I got the real picture as soon as I saw the large bow window in the living room. There were cats crawling all over the ledge, cats fighting to look in the house, cats walking on other cats. A few fell off the sill and that was when I saw how many were out there—they covered the entire front of the property. There had to be close to a thousand cats; more were coming in from the street and there seemed to be some confusion near the middle of the lawn, as those arriving met others trying to leave.

I heard Suze speaking to them inside my head. Go on, go home, she pulsed, silently. So grateful for your concern, but I’m fine. Go in peace.

I couldn’t help staring at her in awe. Do they actually understand what you’re saying?

Suze nodded toward the window, where the cats were already dispersing. They don’t understand the words as much as the tone of my thoughts, the expression of the pulses. She looked at Sekhmet, poised on the back of the sofa, and waved her index finger from side to side. Bad cat, she said.

I crossed the front room, following Suze toward the kitchen and stealing one more look at the departing felines. It happened, I told myself, knowing that the incident would soon seem very distant, the way a dream does a few minutes after waking.

Cats loved Marcelina, Chopin told me. She had an understanding of them, but she couldn’t talk to them and certainly could not influence them.

How does Suze communicate with them? Are all cats telepathic?

Only Suze can truly know that.

You mentioned my father’s ability to draw a storm and affect the weather. How does he do that?

My father could change the temperature of a room simply by entering it—warm when he was happy, cold if he was sad or upset. When he’s angry he can gather a storm in less than a minute. He doesn’t do it very often anymore because he has much more control now. It manifests itself these days only when his emotions are strong enough to distract him, namely when he’s too pissed off to be paying attention.

All of the Viracocha can manipulate the elements. It is a sign of maturity, Chopin said, looking at me like a stern parent. I would not suggest you attempting this yet—even Robin had problems controlling it at so young an age.

The Viracocha, I ruminated, You’re using the word as Ken Scott did, then.

Meaning the human civilization prior to the last Ice Age—before the Egyptians and Sumerians.

Didn’t the word mean ‘Foam of the Sea?’

That’s what the Incas called them. Their legends tell of teachers coming to them from across the sea after a great cataclysm, bringing the tools and knowledge to restore civilization—you’ve read Ken’s books.

I felt guilty, not telling Suze or my father that I was seeing Monsieur Chopin, especially with such regularity, but there would have been some sort of reaction on their part and then he would have stopped coming. I couldn’t risk that—I was too hooked on him. Hour after hour, our conversation came in peaks and valleys until one balmy August night, when I finally approached the question both of us knew I’d most wanted to ask. The things my father and Suze see when they dream—

It is difficult for me to speculate on that.

But the visions of a great fire and a huge storm, the sense of impending doom…

You must understand that only the present incarnation sees these images. I have no knowledge of them.

Surely my father has gone over this with you in exhaustive detail.

Neither he nor Suze can even recognize the building—it’s too engulfed in flames. And as I told your father, there’s no way I can know, as it is obvious that these images are from the future. One can know the end of a story and yet not know the events leading to it.

There was a pause, during which I could hear my own breath. Do you know the end of the story?

Chopin smiled as though he had a secret. "Everyone lives happily ever after, Tess. Everyone always lives happily ever after—just like in Hamlet."

I scoffed. "Everyone dies at the end of Hamlet!"

Chopin mimicked me, scoffing exactly as I had. Everyone always dies, Tess, he said patiently. Do you not yet know enough about life to know that everyone dies at the end?

Chapter 3

Tess’s Journal

My family never spoke of the fire at Sagamore Road afterwards. Everyone walked on eggshells around me from the moment I came home from the hospital, and grew immediately uncomfortable whenever I brought up the subject. My plans to enter Boston University at sixteen became a faded memory; I finished out my senior year of high school and spent the next three years in the library at Cayuga Square, reading, always reading. I spent most nights in there as well, afraid to go to sleep. I kept dreaming of that horrible day and the dark storm spinning like a hurricane, covering the entire sky. I’d hear the roar of the flames surrounding Suze and me, and feel the blistering heat on my skin. I’d see the thousands of cats swarming all over the property and my father lying deathly still on the ground.

We had all moved into Cayuga Square with Suze’s mom, Cat. Angie and Jason had moved in too—their house in Bridgeport had been having foundation issues for months and they’d been looking for a new place to live at the time of the fire. Cat had been thinking of asking them to live with her anyway, with the intention that Angie would inherit the house, as Suze was quite happy with Papa and me in Syracuse and Suze’s brother, Ray, had long ago settled in Connecticut with a wife and family of his own. Cat didn’t want to offer the place to Angie, however, without asking Suze first.

A stately manor near the top of a gorge above Cayuga Lake in Ithaca, the house at 31 Cayuga Square had been home to Cat and Professor Scott since 1966. Suze and Ray had grown up there and, in a large sense, so had Angie. Papa and Suze were already living there by the time the hospital released me. No one wanted to go back to Sagamore Road, and Suze had thought it fate that she and Angie should need a place to live at the same time. She called Angie and told her to pack up and move into Cayuga Square too—the family should be together.

I was an easy sell. I would be getting a much larger room as well as free access to the private library of the late Professor Scott, on the east wing of the house. A huge room with a twenty-eight-foot ceiling, the library had a fireplace, a professional size pool table, a wet bar, and some serious stereo components. Most important, it contained more books than I’d seen in some public libraries, and I’d been in a good many. Science and history filled the ground floor, with an upper level for literature.

I had already seen the library—Cat had hosted Angie’s prenuptial dinner at Cayuga Square—and told Suze that I was fine with the idea of spending the rest of my life in that room. Papa wasn’t much harder to convince. He was happy as long as he had Suze and me in the same place. The only stipulation he made was that the Steinway Grand come to Cayuga Square with us. The ghost of Fryderyk Chopin had played that piano and there was no way my father was going to part with it.

Jason took a couple of days to think it over, but the idea made too much sense to refuse—Angie was three months pregnant, the Bridgeport house was sinking slowly into the ground, and Cayuga Square was big enough for the whole family to