A Taste of Magic by Tracy Madison Page A

You’ll know the truth, and when you do… we can talk then.” She twisted her wedding band, a gesture I recognized as nervous ness.
    I weighed her words and decided to forge ahead. “Something has happened. And I think I do know the truth. But I need to hear it from you.”
    A tremble passed through her. She shifted her gaze so it rested on me. But she stayed quiet.
    “I think I did something that interfered—changed— someone. I’m not sure, though, which is why I need you to explain that card to me,” I said.
    “Tell me exactly what happened.” Her voice was soft but insistent.
    I crossed my arms. I knew my grandmother well enough to know I’d have to act tough to get the information I wanted. “Not until you tell me everything.”
    Indecision played over her face. A current of energy passed between us. She wanted to tell me; the truth of that was in her eyes, in her expression. At that moment, I knew I wasn’t crazy.
    My arms shook, just a little, as I reached across the table to grasp her hand. “Come on, Grandma. Spill the beans. What did you do?”
    “You’re asking the wrong questions. It’s not what I did— it’s what you can do and why you can do it.” She pulled her hand out of mine. “I don’t know. When I told your mother, she didn’t take it very well. This time, I decided to take it slow. I really want it to work for you.”
    “My mother?” What did she have to do with this?
    “Do you promise to consider everything I say? And to not make any rash decisions?”
    “Yes. I can do that.”
    “Say it.” Her chin was set.
    I sighed. Semantics, you know? “Yes, Grandma. I promise I will think it through and not make any rash decisions.”
    She wagged a finger at me. “I’m going to hold you to that promise.” She waited a beat, probably to be sure her words had meaning to me, and then continued. “How much do you know about your great-great-great-grandmother? Her name was Miranda Ayres.”
    “I know nothing. You talked about her once, a long time ago, when I was little, but I don’t remember anything but her name. Why?”
    “It started with her. It’s because of her. So you need to understand who she was and what kind of woman she was before you can understand the answers to your questions.”
    “Fair enough.”
    “Miranda’s family came from Romania, but she was born in this country. She was a gypsy. And I mean a real gypsy, Elizabeth. Complete with magic, curses, and trickery.”
    “Magic isn’t real,” I blurted.
    “You’re wrong. But you already know that, or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
    She had a point, even if I wasn’t ready to admit it. But come on—magic?
    “So, my great-great-great-grandmother was a gypsy. Go on.”
    “Miranda and her mother traveled with a large group of other gypsies. Some were blood family, others weren’t. It was a tough life back then. When Miranda was a teenager, her mother passed away. I don’t know how, and I don’t know why, but it left Miranda in a precarious situation. A lot of the other gypsies were envious of her—of her power.”
    “How old was she when her mother died?”
    “Sixteen or seventeen, I think. But she was young. Too young.”
    “Did she have any brothers or sisters?” My heart went out to the young girl who’d lived so many years before. I hoped she’d had someone on her side. Someone who loved her.
    “None. She was surrounded by people who should have been her family. Who should have protected her and watched out for her. Instead, she was alone.”
    “I know that feeling,” I mumbled.
    Grandma Verda frowned. “You have family and friends who want the best for you. You’ve felt alone, but you really aren’t. There’s a difference.”
    “I know. That’s not what I meant. I just … understand, I guess.”
    Her eyes remained on me, her expression both sad and thoughtful.
    “What did she do?” I asked.
    “She did what any young woman would do. She met a man, and she fell in