Dark Arts Read Online Free PDF

into his
pocket. She had an Italian accent that was unmistakable, and a
manner that made it impossible to refuse her insistence. “You don’t
recognize me, but then, we only met once when you were thirteen or
fourteen.”
    Maxwell took another look and recalled
immediately. She’d visited the house within weeks of his father’s
death. “You were here to talk to Allen.” He said, remembering the
late night, when Bernie and he came in from the barn to find her
and his father at the kitchen table, talking soberly. They thought
little of it at the time, but he didn’t see Miranda after that.
    “I took Miranda in after her mother passed,”
she said. “We returned to the old country, that’s Italy, we’re
Sicilian. After a few years there we moved to Spain to meet her
father, then New York. Two years there was enough, too fast, too
busy, and Miranda had enough time to know our people there, so it
was time to come here, at her mother’s house in Chelmsford. Back
just in time for the Gathering.”
    Maxwell looked to the barn, where people
from the tents were beginning to congregate for lunch. Many of them
were dressed in the loose dresses and bellbottoms of the sixties,
and they were all ages. He faintly recognized a few from the year
his father and he made the journey to Canada from England. As he
returned his attention to Miranda’s Aunt, he thought he saw his
father out of the corner of his eye, standing in one of those half
button-up collared T-Shirts he wore all the time and his dark
framed glasses, puffing his pipe by the main barn door. He looked
back immediately and saw nothing but bare barn door. He shook his
head. “I’m sorry, I can’t remember your name.”
    “Gladys,” she told him. “And my sister there
is called Susan. I understand, it was a long time ago, and you
weren’t interested in some woman visiting. You’ll have to get used
to me now though,” she said with a wink.
    It had been a long time since Maxwell felt
he was in a situation where he felt he had little to no idea as to
what’s going on. When he caught sight of Bernie’s father, who was
only a slightly thicker, greyer version of his tall son, he was
relieved. Allen waved him towards the large gazebo off to one side
of the barn, and Max got off his bike. “Looks like someone wants an
update on his son,” he said.
    “And a few other things,” Gladys said,
falling in step beside him. “Miranda missed you, you know. She
never forgot you, sent letters to Bernie a few times. I was always
surprised that she never sent one to you.”
    “Bernie never said he got letters from her,”
Max said, allowing the stout woman to loop her arm through his.
    “She was a shy girl until a few years ago. I
suppose I can’t call our Miranda a girl anymore,” she chuckled to
herself. “New York will show anyone their shouting voice, except
for our Miranda. She found her singing voice there, but I think she
wants to see what is here for her, for now. New York can be tiring
for people who are bred for the country.”
    “I’ve never seen traffic like I’ve seen in
New York,” Max said. “Wish I’d known she was there, I’d have
dropped in.”
    “You would have been able to see one of her
shows,” Gladys said.
    “Think she’d sing after things are set in
the barn? I hear there’s some band playing, locals I think.”
    “Your band,” Gladys said, poking him.
“You’re funny, I didn’t expect funny. If you don’t play that disco
music, then she would, I’m sure. She should, I’ll tell her
later.”
    “Good bands don’t play disco,” Max said.
    They arrived at the Gazebo and Max’s stomach
rumbled at a tray of sandwiches in the middle of the table. He
shook Allen’s hand; it felt calloused from fingertip to wrist.
“Your son’s coming in a couple hours. He had to mind Zack and
Darren into the wee hours last night.”
    “And you didn’t?” Allen asked, amused.
    “I’ve got a remarkable constitution,” Max
replied. “Mind if