Chapter Three A trip to the Cape
"A great deal has happened to me lately," thought Felicity as she sat in the back seat of the car on her way to her grandparents' cottage on Cape Cod.
Indeed it had. Finding out that her father, who seemed perfectly normal, was, in fact, a powerful wizard able to perform magical acts at will would have been quite enough for Felicity, but to discover that she shared the same powers seemed overwhelming to her.
"But, really, I'm still just a school girl," she tried to convince herself without much luck. She went back to reading the book that lay across her lap.
Felicity had convinced her father to let her buy two books at the Tides End Bookshop. One was titled Beginning Spells and Charms and was written by some school teacher in England whose name Felicity had now forgotten, as she had not read much of it. She expected to have a good deal of such reading to do at Salem Academy, anyway.
The other book, the one she now held, was, by far, more interesting to her. It was Wizarding in America, A History by Emmet Weatherwax.
The book itself was old but had been rebound, making it look new. In its pages Felicity had read of the great wizarding family of America, including the Stockwells, whose connection to Gringotts Bank dated back centuries. As it turned out, Aunt Joan's tales of the Stockwells being an old family were true.
Felicity also read how many of the magical peoples of early America had escaped from Massachusetts and fled --- either north to what was then the uninhabited woods of Maine, where they had founded the small town of Salem and established the first school of wizardry and witchcraft in America, Salem Academy; or south to Rhode Island, where more liberal attitudes prevailed and where Providence would become the center of the wizarding in America.
Felicity had thought how much more interesting her sixth-grade class in Rhode Island history would have been if Mrs. Thomas had only known about this book.
Felicity was in the habit of jumping around in books and, as this was such a thick title, she had picked out the parts which sounded interesting to her, such as "The Stockwells in America." She had now turned her attention to the chapter on the Salem witch trials.
"The Salem witch trials mark one of the darkest points in the history of our people," the chapter began.
"It is believed by some that the troubles began when agents of the first Lord Voldemort or perhaps the lord, himself, cast spells on the young women of the community to gain control over them..."
Voldermort, the name sent a shiver down her. For the first time, it occurred to Felicity that perhaps not all wizards were as benign as her father and Mr. Goldstine.
"Father?" she asked.
"Yes?" her father answered, as they turned onto Route 3 headed for the bridge that would take them over the Cape Cod Canal and onto the cottage.
"Are all wizards good, like you and Mr. Goldstine?" she asked.
"Do you mean do wizards sometimes do bad things like normal people?"
"No, not like that, really; are there bad wizards?"
"Yes, sadly there are. Just like there are bad mugg..."
"Martin!" Anne Stockwell's voice had the sharp ring of a schoolteacher correcting an errant boy.
"Just like there are bad people in the regular world," he continued, "there are bad wizards as well. They use their powers for gain or to control others."
"You mean like Lord Voldemort?" Felicity asked.
At the sound of that name, Martin Stockwell became visibly shaken. The car swerved wildly and horns sounded from behind them. "Voldemort," he uttered, half under his breath.
"Martin? Are you all right?" Anne Stockwell looked white with fright and concern.
Felicity sat back in the car seat. Whoever or whatever Voldemort was, the mere mention of his name had produced an effect on her father the likes of which she had never seen. She clutched the book to her chest as the car slowed and pulled off to the side of the road.
When the car stopped, her father turned to Felicity. For the first time in her thirteen years, she saw real fear in her father's dark green eyes.
"Where did you hear of Voldemort?" he asked, in a voice that meant that he expected a clear and immediate answer.
Felicity shrunk back further into the seat. "In this book," she said timidly.
Martin Stockwell reached back and took the book from Felicity. He looked at the page.
"Martin!" Anne was now breathing again following the wild ride.
"Voldemort," Martin Stockwell whispered. "How old is this book?" he said, flipping the pages to the front and examining the title page closely.
He looked out the front window for a long time. Finally he spoke. "It was all a mistake," he said slowly. "Some of these books had a mistake in them, that all. You needn't worry about it." He turned again and looked at her. "Why don't you read your spells book? It's far more useful and it will give you a head start in school next fall."
Felicity realized that while her father's words sounded like a suggestion, the tone in his voice made it clear that he expected her to comply.
"Uh, OK," she said.
"Martin Stockwell, who..." Anne Stockwell was usually fully able to go head-to-head with her husband on any issue but, this time, he looked at her in a way that stopped her cold. She had never seen such a look on her husband's face and hoped never to see it again.
Felicity sat back as the car eased out into traffic once again. She tried to amuse herself with moving items about with the simple spells her father had shown her, but they didn't seem to work well. No one spoke for a very long time. It was as if a dark cloud had enveloped the Stockwell family.
Their mood brightened a bit as they drove on and, by the time they stopped to eat lunch at a small seafood restaurant in Orleans, the whole matter seemed to have been forgotten.
Felicity considered asking for her book back but then thought the better of it.
Her father turned off Route 6 and onto the local streets at East Orleans. Felicity opened the car window and could smell the sea air now. The sky was a hazy blue and seagulls pitched and dived in the wind. They drove down Beach Street until they came Standish Road and then to Oliver's Way. At the end of Olivers Way, her father turned onto the sandy road that led to her grandparents' cottage.
Grampa Stockwell's cottage was a large rambling place, which faced out onto a shallow bay. It was covered with grey shingles that had never been painted. The porch looked out over the water and, above that, was a balcony; off the airy bedroom that Felicity had begged her grandfather to let her sleep in whenever she visited.
Felicity was the elder Stockwells' only grandchild and the couple indulged her in nearly every request, including this one.
Down by the water, her grandfather kept a small wooden rowboat tied to a short dock on the sandy shore.
The car came to a stop in front of the kitchen door to the cottage.
Emma Stockwell opened the screen door. She was a short, pleasant-looking woman of 70, with short grey hair. She wore a dark blue dress and a white apron with a flower print; and looked like all the other polite, well-educated, socially active women who lived in the suburbs north of Boston and summered on the Cape.
Felicity got out of the car and let Marx out of his plastic car carrier. He stretched and then ran under the cottage. Felicity knew she would not see him for several days, as Marx hated car trips and would always sulk about under the kitchen porch for a day or two before emerging.
Felicity gave her grandmother a hug. "Hi, Grandma," she said. It seemed odd to Felicity to think of her as a witch.
"Hello, Felicity," she replied. "I hear you had quite a birthday."
"I sure did!" Felicity said. She had grown to like the idea of being special.
"Well, there are some brownies in the kitchen for you," her grandmother nodded in the direction of the door.
"Thanks," said Felicity. As she headed for the door, she paused thinking she would get her things from the car first. As she did, she noticed her father handing her grandmother the book which had been the cause of such a commotion in the car.
"Put this someplace safe," Martin Stockwell said in a low voice to his mother.
The cottage, with its cream-colored interior with many windows, was bright in the afternoon sun. The blue curtains fluttered in the breeze. The furnishings were an odd assortment, none of which really matched. Felicity sat down at the table where her grandmother had placed the plate of brownies and quart of milk with a glass.
She took a brownie and started to eat it. Then she glanced at the paper carton on the table. A smile came over her face as she concentrated on the carton of milk. With a slight wave of her hand, the carton lifted off the table and started to tip. The only problem was the glass was not under it. Felicity grabbed the glass, but, by that time, it was too late. The milk was being poured onto the table and beginning to run onto the floor.
"Felicity!" It was her mother's voice. "Look at the mess you've made!"
It was indeed a mess. The last of the milk had poured from the carton and was now making its way to the floor. The carton stood suspended in air. Felicity looked down at the puddle of milk at her feet.
"Really, Felicity," her mother said, "if you're going to practice magic, you should do it with something a little less runny."
"Sorry," Felicity said, still looking at the milk as it inched its way across the floor in a small stream.
"Oh, goodness, those things will happen when a girl is this age." It was her grandmother, who had come into the kitchen. "Nothing to worry about, Felicity dear."
Taking a short wand from her apron, Grandma waved it above the carton. The milk, which had been creeping ever closer to the outside wall of the kitchen, suddenly reversed course and, in an instant, had flowed back into the carton, which then righted itself. She then move her hand toward the sink. The carton followed and then hovered above the sink for a moment.
"There now, you have it empty itself down the sink, dear."
Felicity looked at the carton, thought very hard, and waved her hand. Nothing happened.
"A wand really helps," said Grandma, handing her the wand. "Try again."
Felicity took the wand and pointed it at the carton of milk. But instead of tipping neatly into the sink, the carton took flight. It raced toward the kitchen door as her father was opening it and just missed his head as it flew thought the door and disappeared.
"We will have to practice some more, dear," said Felicity's grandmother, who seemed not the least disturbed by the loss of the milk.
"I hope this won't take long," her mother chimed in. "Unlike the rest of you, I can't rely on magic to clean the house."
Just then, a small brown owl flew through the open window and perched itself on the back of one of the kitchen chairs. Tied to its talon was a little satchel, much like the ones Felicity had seen at her father's bank.
"That must be from your Aunt Joan," Grandma said. She retrieved the paper from the owl and unfolded it. It read: "Will fly in tonight, Can't wait to see our birthday girl now that she's all grown up. I will be bringing gifts. Joan."
"Fly in?" Felicity asked.
"Just wait!" said her mother, with a twinkle in her eyes.
"A great deal has happened to me lately," thought Felicity as she sat in the back seat of the car on her way to her grandparents' cottage on Cape Cod.
Indeed it had. Finding out that her father, who seemed perfectly normal, was, in fact, a powerful wizard able to perform magical acts at will would have been quite enough for Felicity, but to discover that she shared the same powers seemed overwhelming to her.
"But, really, I'm still just a school girl," she tried to convince herself without much luck. She went back to reading the book that lay across her lap.
Felicity had convinced her father to let her buy two books at the Tides End Bookshop. One was titled Beginning Spells and Charms and was written by some school teacher in England whose name Felicity had now forgotten, as she had not read much of it. She expected to have a good deal of such reading to do at Salem Academy, anyway.
The other book, the one she now held, was, by far, more interesting to her. It was Wizarding in America, A History by Emmet Weatherwax.
The book itself was old but had been rebound, making it look new. In its pages Felicity had read of the great wizarding family of America, including the Stockwells, whose connection to Gringotts Bank dated back centuries. As it turned out, Aunt Joan's tales of the Stockwells being an old family were true.
Felicity also read how many of the magical peoples of early America had escaped from Massachusetts and fled --- either north to what was then the uninhabited woods of Maine, where they had founded the small town of Salem and established the first school of wizardry and witchcraft in America, Salem Academy; or south to Rhode Island, where more liberal attitudes prevailed and where Providence would become the center of the wizarding in America.
Felicity had thought how much more interesting her sixth-grade class in Rhode Island history would have been if Mrs. Thomas had only known about this book.
Felicity was in the habit of jumping around in books and, as this was such a thick title, she had picked out the parts which sounded interesting to her, such as "The Stockwells in America." She had now turned her attention to the chapter on the Salem witch trials.
"The Salem witch trials mark one of the darkest points in the history of our people," the chapter began.
"It is believed by some that the troubles began when agents of the first Lord Voldemort or perhaps the lord, himself, cast spells on the young women of the community to gain control over them..."
Voldermort, the name sent a shiver down her. For the first time, it occurred to Felicity that perhaps not all wizards were as benign as her father and Mr. Goldstine.
"Father?" she asked.
"Yes?" her father answered, as they turned onto Route 3 headed for the bridge that would take them over the Cape Cod Canal and onto the cottage.
"Are all wizards good, like you and Mr. Goldstine?" she asked.
"Do you mean do wizards sometimes do bad things like normal people?"
"No, not like that, really; are there bad wizards?"
"Yes, sadly there are. Just like there are bad mugg..."
"Martin!" Anne Stockwell's voice had the sharp ring of a schoolteacher correcting an errant boy.
"Just like there are bad people in the regular world," he continued, "there are bad wizards as well. They use their powers for gain or to control others."
"You mean like Lord Voldemort?" Felicity asked.
At the sound of that name, Martin Stockwell became visibly shaken. The car swerved wildly and horns sounded from behind them. "Voldemort," he uttered, half under his breath.
"Martin? Are you all right?" Anne Stockwell looked white with fright and concern.
Felicity sat back in the car seat. Whoever or whatever Voldemort was, the mere mention of his name had produced an effect on her father the likes of which she had never seen. She clutched the book to her chest as the car slowed and pulled off to the side of the road.
When the car stopped, her father turned to Felicity. For the first time in her thirteen years, she saw real fear in her father's dark green eyes.
"Where did you hear of Voldemort?" he asked, in a voice that meant that he expected a clear and immediate answer.
Felicity shrunk back further into the seat. "In this book," she said timidly.
Martin Stockwell reached back and took the book from Felicity. He looked at the page.
"Martin!" Anne was now breathing again following the wild ride.
"Voldemort," Martin Stockwell whispered. "How old is this book?" he said, flipping the pages to the front and examining the title page closely.
He looked out the front window for a long time. Finally he spoke. "It was all a mistake," he said slowly. "Some of these books had a mistake in them, that all. You needn't worry about it." He turned again and looked at her. "Why don't you read your spells book? It's far more useful and it will give you a head start in school next fall."
Felicity realized that while her father's words sounded like a suggestion, the tone in his voice made it clear that he expected her to comply.
"Uh, OK," she said.
"Martin Stockwell, who..." Anne Stockwell was usually fully able to go head-to-head with her husband on any issue but, this time, he looked at her in a way that stopped her cold. She had never seen such a look on her husband's face and hoped never to see it again.
Felicity sat back as the car eased out into traffic once again. She tried to amuse herself with moving items about with the simple spells her father had shown her, but they didn't seem to work well. No one spoke for a very long time. It was as if a dark cloud had enveloped the Stockwell family.
Their mood brightened a bit as they drove on and, by the time they stopped to eat lunch at a small seafood restaurant in Orleans, the whole matter seemed to have been forgotten.
Felicity considered asking for her book back but then thought the better of it.
Her father turned off Route 6 and onto the local streets at East Orleans. Felicity opened the car window and could smell the sea air now. The sky was a hazy blue and seagulls pitched and dived in the wind. They drove down Beach Street until they came Standish Road and then to Oliver's Way. At the end of Olivers Way, her father turned onto the sandy road that led to her grandparents' cottage.
Grampa Stockwell's cottage was a large rambling place, which faced out onto a shallow bay. It was covered with grey shingles that had never been painted. The porch looked out over the water and, above that, was a balcony; off the airy bedroom that Felicity had begged her grandfather to let her sleep in whenever she visited.
Felicity was the elder Stockwells' only grandchild and the couple indulged her in nearly every request, including this one.
Down by the water, her grandfather kept a small wooden rowboat tied to a short dock on the sandy shore.
The car came to a stop in front of the kitchen door to the cottage.
Emma Stockwell opened the screen door. She was a short, pleasant-looking woman of 70, with short grey hair. She wore a dark blue dress and a white apron with a flower print; and looked like all the other polite, well-educated, socially active women who lived in the suburbs north of Boston and summered on the Cape.
Felicity got out of the car and let Marx out of his plastic car carrier. He stretched and then ran under the cottage. Felicity knew she would not see him for several days, as Marx hated car trips and would always sulk about under the kitchen porch for a day or two before emerging.
Felicity gave her grandmother a hug. "Hi, Grandma," she said. It seemed odd to Felicity to think of her as a witch.
"Hello, Felicity," she replied. "I hear you had quite a birthday."
"I sure did!" Felicity said. She had grown to like the idea of being special.
"Well, there are some brownies in the kitchen for you," her grandmother nodded in the direction of the door.
"Thanks," said Felicity. As she headed for the door, she paused thinking she would get her things from the car first. As she did, she noticed her father handing her grandmother the book which had been the cause of such a commotion in the car.
"Put this someplace safe," Martin Stockwell said in a low voice to his mother.
The cottage, with its cream-colored interior with many windows, was bright in the afternoon sun. The blue curtains fluttered in the breeze. The furnishings were an odd assortment, none of which really matched. Felicity sat down at the table where her grandmother had placed the plate of brownies and quart of milk with a glass.
She took a brownie and started to eat it. Then she glanced at the paper carton on the table. A smile came over her face as she concentrated on the carton of milk. With a slight wave of her hand, the carton lifted off the table and started to tip. The only problem was the glass was not under it. Felicity grabbed the glass, but, by that time, it was too late. The milk was being poured onto the table and beginning to run onto the floor.
"Felicity!" It was her mother's voice. "Look at the mess you've made!"
It was indeed a mess. The last of the milk had poured from the carton and was now making its way to the floor. The carton stood suspended in air. Felicity looked down at the puddle of milk at her feet.
"Really, Felicity," her mother said, "if you're going to practice magic, you should do it with something a little less runny."
"Sorry," Felicity said, still looking at the milk as it inched its way across the floor in a small stream.
"Oh, goodness, those things will happen when a girl is this age." It was her grandmother, who had come into the kitchen. "Nothing to worry about, Felicity dear."
Taking a short wand from her apron, Grandma waved it above the carton. The milk, which had been creeping ever closer to the outside wall of the kitchen, suddenly reversed course and, in an instant, had flowed back into the carton, which then righted itself. She then move her hand toward the sink. The carton followed and then hovered above the sink for a moment.
"There now, you have it empty itself down the sink, dear."
Felicity looked at the carton, thought very hard, and waved her hand. Nothing happened.
"A wand really helps," said Grandma, handing her the wand. "Try again."
Felicity took the wand and pointed it at the carton of milk. But instead of tipping neatly into the sink, the carton took flight. It raced toward the kitchen door as her father was opening it and just missed his head as it flew thought the door and disappeared.
"We will have to practice some more, dear," said Felicity's grandmother, who seemed not the least disturbed by the loss of the milk.
"I hope this won't take long," her mother chimed in. "Unlike the rest of you, I can't rely on magic to clean the house."
Just then, a small brown owl flew through the open window and perched itself on the back of one of the kitchen chairs. Tied to its talon was a little satchel, much like the ones Felicity had seen at her father's bank.
"That must be from your Aunt Joan," Grandma said. She retrieved the paper from the owl and unfolded it. It read: "Will fly in tonight, Can't wait to see our birthday girl now that she's all grown up. I will be bringing gifts. Joan."
"Fly in?" Felicity asked.
"Just wait!" said her mother, with a twinkle in her eyes.
