Free Witches of East End by Melissa de La Cruz

where they were or if they even existed. How wonderful!” She took the bag, handling it reverently. The library was setting up an exhibition of drawings from the collection that would showcase the design plans of all the important houses in town. As the oldest and most prominent house in the area, Fair Haven was crucial to their catalog. Many architecturally important homes had blueprints lying around somewhere; the former owners kept them pristine for the new owners as part of a tradition of handing down a precious object of art.
    Ingrid clasped her hands and beamed at Killian, whom she regarded much more fondly this time. What he did with his time was no business of hers, after all. He was free to waste his life on indolence and apathy. “This is going to be so great!”
    “Glad to help,” Killian said. “I can’t wait to hear what you think. It’s a really interesting old house, there’s a lot of history there. If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to call.” He glanced at the wooden postbox Ingrid kept by the main desk for “Library Donations.” “What’s this?”
    She explained the situation: the city’s deficit, the library’s precarious fate at the hands of the city council.
    Killian frowned. “You’re not going to raise money by keeping a box by the door. You know what you should do, Ingrid, is get them to pay for something only you can provide.”
    “I’m not really sure I know what you’re talking about,” Ingrid said, slightly confused. “But thanks for the plans.” He really was so charming, she thought, getting the benefit of his megawatt smile. So thoughtful, too—to drop off the plans without being asked, and asking about the library as if he truly cared about its future.
    “My pleasure,” he said, waving a hand. “See you at the hoedown on Saturday?” A hospital charity was throwing a “barn-raiser” that weekend, complete with haystacks and square-dancing, the usual North Hampton summer theme party.
    Ingrid shook her head. Freya threw herself into the social scene, but Ingrid liked to stay home to knit, read books, and listen to old songs on her turntable. If she ventured outside the home it was usually with Hudson, two hens off to see a Truffaut revival. “I’m not going but I think Freya is.”
    At the mention of Freya’s name Killian perked up. “Is she, now?”
    Ingrid nodded. “So you’re staying then? For the summer?”
    “I think so.” Killian nodded. “See what kind of action I can get going around here.” He winked. “Don’t worry, I’ll be good.”
    “Guess we’ll be seeing you around, then.” Ingrid nodded.
    Killian bade a cheerful good-bye and roared off on his motorcycle, making a huge noise that rattled the windowpanes.
    W hen she returned to the back room, Hudson was waiting for her with his arms crossed. “Well?”
    “Well what?”
    “Did the handsome young man invite you out? Or did the two of you just exchange phone numbers”—at this juncture Hudson made air quotes with his fingers—“for a future ‘booty call’?” His lips twitched with a smirk. Sometimes Hudson was thirty going on eighty with the way he faux-adopted the language of “the youth,” as he called it.
    “No!” Ingrid wrinkled her nose. “Course not! He was just dropping off blueprints of Fair Haven. You know, for the show,” she said, holding up the bag. “And anyway, he’s much too young.”
    “Oh.” Hudson looked disappointed. “ Quel dommage. You looked so ecstatic for a moment I believed you had a date.” He went back to the card catalog. He had the thankless task of typing in all the archaic information into the computer. After resisting for many years, the library system was finally going digital. He began to type, hunting and pecking with one delicate finger.
    Ingrid shook her head. She checked on the drawing under the steam tent. Once she was done with it she would begin steaming the Gardiner blueprints. The exhibit was scheduled for the end of