Free The Devil's Serenade by Catherine Cavendish Page A

his Lottie. “Promise me you’ll wait for me. And that you’ll write to me every day I’m away.”
    “I promise, Freddie. Come home safely.”
    “I will. Jerry won’t catch me. You’ll see. I’ll be strolling up your path again in no time.”
    But you never did, did you, Freddie? Six months later your plane was shot down over the North Sea and I thought my world had ended. Part of it had.
    Today, all I have are the memories. No one—not even Nathaniel Hargest—can take those away from me. And now I can bear to listen to “our” song and play it again. I have my employer’s blessing to do so any time I choose. Who would have guessed it? Perhaps Mr. Hargest does have a heart after all.
    A tear splashed onto the page and I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. In all those years, I’d had no idea Aunt Charlotte hugged these secret memories to herself. I wondered if Mother ever knew about Freddie.
    I sighed and turned the pages. Occasionally my aunt made mention of her employer’s uncertain temper. An entry for November 30th, 1960 read:
    Mr. Hargest ordered me to fire the cook today. For the second time in a week she overcooked the cabbage. It was lucky I had my wits about me when he summoned me to tell me. He had a heavy glass paperweight in his hand which sailed close past me and smashed against the wall. His anger is something to be avoided at all costs. Needless to say I sent the cook packing! Goodness alone knows where I’ll find another one. News travels fast in this town and even as far as Rokesby Green. There’s nothing for it. I shall have to advertise in The Lady . I’m afraid Mr. Hargest won’t like the cost, but what am I to do?
    I read on, past 1960 and into 1961, right up until May 1964 where, curiously, some pages had been ripped out. Those that remained contained little enlightening information. Most entries concerned my aunt’s increasing discomfort with Nathaniel Hargest’s behavior although, infuriatingly, she revealed little in the way of detail beyond the occasional mention of her employer’s temper tantrums.
    Then there was a gap until 1967 and an entry for June 1st:
    I have taken up gardening. I find it comforting and quite therapeutic. I am hopeful of an excellent first bean harvest. My little vegetable garden has given me something to concentrate on. It has helped reduce the pain of the last couple of years and, of course, the kitchen benefits. Not that Mr. Hargest notices.
    News of little Madeleine’s birth has given me renewed hope. Maybe, in spite of everything, what they have told me is true. Maybe all will be well after all.
    There the makeshift diary ended, with nearly half its pages blank. I was more perplexed than ever. Who had told her all would be well? I hadn’t a clue what that was about. I was beginning to think I hadn’t really known Aunt Charlotte at all. She had harbored so many secrets. My sense of unease cranked up a notch.
    I put the book back where I had found it.
    The second drawer initially revealed nothing except a slim, black book, bound in leather. I picked it up and opened it. Book of Shadows was embossed in gold on the front. I remembered reading about those once. Wiccans had them. They wrote spells inside them, or favorite sayings, words of wisdom, potions and so on. Turning the pages revealed that Aunt Charlotte had filled hers with poems and recipes, but one curious little entry caught my attention. Headed, simply, “Willow”, it listed a number of occult uses of the tree—from carving talismans, to rituals for protection and for summoning spirits.
    Spirits of willow protect me. Spirits of willow come to me. Spirits of willow let no harm come from the darkness and the evil ones…
    May the Lord and his Lady protect me through this holy willow…
    I put the book down and rummaged through the drawer. My fingers closed on something and I pulled it out. A slim, tapering twig had been fashioned into a wand. A further dig and I pulled out a small