at the stake in 1659. It was just the kind of juicy history you dreamed about having. 
Well, she did anyway.
  
  But there had been things in that long family tale that had special meaning for her, 
and the long account of Oncle Julien's life had been the most intriguing part of all.
  
  Even Mona's very own Aunt Gifford was far away from New Orleans tonight, in her house 
in Destin, Florida, hiding from everyone and everything, and worrying about the entire 
clan. Gifford had begged the family not to go up to the house for Mardi Gras. Poor Aunt 
Gifford. She had banned the Talamasca History of the Mayfair Witches From her house and 
from her consciousness. "I don't believe those things!"
  
  Aunt Gifford lived and breathed fear. She shut her ears to the tales îf the old days. 
Poor Aunt Gifford could be around her grandmother, Ancient Evelyn, only now because 
Ancient Evelyn said almost nothing anymore. Aunt Gifford didn't even like to say that she 
was Julien's granddaughter.
  
  Sometimes Mona felt so deeply and hopelessly sad for Aunt Gifford, he almost burst into 
tears. Aunt Gifford seemed to suffer for the whole family, and no one was more distraught 
over Rowan Mayfair's disappearance than Gifford. Not even Ryan. Aunt Gifford was at heart 
a tender and loving soul, and there was no one better when you needed to talk the 
practical things of life-clothes for a school dance; whether or not to shave one's legs 
yet; which perfume was best for a girl of thirteen? (Laura Ashley No.1) And these were 
the dumb things Mona actually did not know, half the time.
  
  Well, what was Mona going to do now that she was out on Mardi Gras Night, free, and 
nobody knew it, or might ever know it? Of course she knew. She was ready. First Street 
was hers! It was as if the great dark house with its white columns were whispering to 
her, saying, Mona, Mona, Come in. This is where Oncle Julien lived and died. This is the 
house of the witches, and you are a witch, Mona, as surely as any of them! You belong 
here.
  
  Maybe it was Oncle Julien himself speaking to her. No, just a fancy.  With an 
imagination like Mona's you could make yourself see and hear whatever you liked.
  
  But who knew? Once she got inside, maybe she'd actually see the ghost of Oncle Julien! 
Ah, that would be absolutely wonderful. Especially if it was the same debonair and 
playful Oncle Julien about whom she incessantly dreamed.
  
  She walked across the intersection under the heavy dark roof of the oak branches, and 
quickly climbed the old wrought-iron fence. She came down heavily in the thick shrubbery 
and elephant ears, feeling the cold and the wet foliage against her face and not liking 
it. Pushing her pink skirt down, she tiptoed out of the dampish earth and onto the 
flagstone path.
  
  Lamps burned dim on either side of the big keyhole doorway. The porch lay in darkness, 
its rocking chairs barely visible, painted black as they were to match the shutters. The 
garden seemed to gather round and press in.
  
  The house itself looked to her as it always had, beautiful, mysterious, and inviting, 
though she had to admit in her heart of hearts she had liked it better when it was a 
spidery ruin, before Michael came with his hammer and nails. She had liked it when Aunt 
Deirdre sat forever on the side porch in a rocker, and the vines threatened to swallow 
the whole place.
  
  Of course Michael saved it, but oh, if only she'd gotten into it once while it was 
still ruined. She'd known all about that body they found in the attic. She'd heard her 
mother and Aunt Gifford arguing about it for years and years. Mona's mother had been only 
thirteen when Mona was born, and Gifford had been there from the time of Mona's earliest 
memories.
  
  In fact there had actually been a time when Mona wasn't sure which one was her mother - 
Gifford or Alicia. And then there had been Ancient Evelyn always holding Mona on her lap, 
and even though Ancient Evelyn wouldn't talk very much she still sang those old 
melancholy songs. Gifford had seemed the logical choice for a mother, because Alicia by 
that time was already a prodigious drunk, but Mona had it right and had for years. Mona 
was the woman of the house at Amelia Street.
  
  They'd talked a lot in those days about that body upstairs. They'd talked about Cousin 
Deirdre, the heiress, who wasted away in her catatonia. They'd talked about all the 
mysteries of First Street.
  
  The first time Mona had ever come into First Streetright before Rowan's marriage to 
Michael - she had fancied she could smell that body still. She'd wanted to go up and lay 
her hands on the spot. Michael Curry had been restoring the house, and workmen were up 
there painting away. Aunt Gifford had said for Mona to "Stay put!" and given her a stern 
look every time Mona tried to wander.
  
  It had been a miracle to watch Michael Curry's work. Mona dreamed such a thing would 
someday happen to the house on St.  Charles and Amelia.
  
  Well, Mona would get to that third-floor room now. And thanks to the history she knew 
who the dead man had been, a young investigator from the Talamasca called Stuart 
Townsend. Still wasn't clear who had poisoned the man. But Mona's bet was it had been her 
Uncle Cortland, who really wasn't her uncle at all, but actually her 
great-great-grandfather, which was really one of the most fun puzzles in the family 
history to figure out.
  
  Smells. She wanted to investigate that other smell - the scent that lingered in the 
hallway and the living room of First Street. Nothing to do with a dead body, that one. 
The smell that had come with disaster at Christmas. The smell which no one else could 
smell, it seemed, unless Aunt Gifford had been lying when Mona asked her.
  
  Aunt Gifford did that. She wouldn't admit to "seeing things" or picking up strange 
scents. "I don't smell anything!" she'd said with annoyance. Well, maybe that was true. 
Mayfairs could read other people's minds a lot of the time, but they were good at 
blocking out each other.
  
  Mona wanted to touch everything. She wanted to look for the Victrola. She did not care 
about the pearls. She wanted the Victrola. And she wanted to know THE BIG FAMILY SECRET -