Witches of East End - By Melissa de la Cruz Page 0,1

glass so that the bubbles at the top of the lip burst one by one until there were none left. This was supposed to be the happiest day of her life - or at the very least, one of the happiest - but all she felt was agitated.

This was a problem, because whenever Freya became anxious things happened - like a waiter suddenly tripping on the Aubusson rug and plastering the front of Constance Bigelow's dress with hors d'oeuvres. Or the normally lugubrious dog's incessant barking and howling drowning out the violin quartet. Or the hundred-year-old Bordeaux unearthed from the Gardiner family cellar tasting like Three Buck Chuck - sour and cheap.

"What's the matter?" her older sister, Ingrid, asked, coming up by Freya's elbow. With her rigid modeling-school posture and prim, impeccable clothes, Ingrid did not rattle easily, but she looked uncharacteristically nervous that evening and picked at a lock of hair that had escaped her tight bun. She took a sip from her wineglass and grimaced. "This wine has a witch's curse all over it," she whispered, as she placed it on a nearby table.

"It's not me! I swear!" Freya protested. It was the truth, sort of. She couldn't help it if her magic was accidentally seeping out, but she had done nothing to encourage it. She knew the consequences and would never risk something so important. Freya could feel Ingrid attempting to probe through the underlayer, to peer into her future for an answer to her present distress, but it was a useless exercise. Freya knew how to keep her lifeline protected. The last thing she needed was an older sister who could predict the consequences of her impulsive actions.

"Are you sure you don't want to talk?" Ingrid asked gently. "I mean, everything's happened so fast, after all."

For a moment Freya considered spilling all, but decided against it. It was too difficult to explain. And even if dark portents were in the air - the dog's howling, the "accidents," the smell of burnt flowers inexplicably filling the room - nothing was going to happen. She loved Bran. She truly did. It wasn't a lie, not at all like one of those lies she told herself all the time, like This is the last drink of the evening, or I'm not going to set the bitch's house on fire. Her love for Bran was something she felt in the core of her bones; there was something about him that felt exactly like home, like sinking into a down comforter into sleep: safe and secure.

No. She couldn't tell Ingrid what was bothering her. Not this time. The two of them were close. They were not only sisters and occasional rivals but the best of friends. Yet Ingrid would not understand. Ingrid would be appalled, and Freya did not need her older sister's reproach right now. "Go away, Ingrid, you're scaring away my new friends," she said, as she accepted the insincere congratulations from another cadre of female well-wishers.

The women had come to celebrate the engagement, but mostly they were there to gawk, and to judge and to titter. All the eligible ladies of North Hampton, who not too long ago had harbored not-so-subtle dreams of becoming Mrs. Gardiner themselves. They had all come to the grand, refurbished mansion to pay grudging homage to the woman who had won the prize, the woman who had snatched it away before the game had even begun, before some of the contestants were aware that the starting pistol had been shot.

When had Bran Gardiner moved into town? Not so long ago and yet already everyone in North Hampton knew who he was; the handsome philanthropist was the subject of rumor and gossip at horse shows, preservation society gatherings, and weekend regattas that were the staples of country life. The history of the Gardiner family was all everyone talked about, how the family had disappeared many years ago, although no one was sure exactly when. No one knew where they had gone or what happened to them in the interim, only that they were back now, their fortune more impressive than ever.

Freya didn't need to be able to read minds to know what the North Hampton hens were thinking. Of course the minute Bran Gardiner arrived in town he would choose to marry a teenage barmaid. He seemed different, but he's just like the whole lot of them. Men. Thinking with their little heads as usual. What on earth does he see in her other