The Rules of Magic

by Alice Hoffman

There is no remedy for love but to love more. —HENRY DAVID THOREAU

she discovered an occult handbook called The Magus. Franny knew its history, for it was on their mother’s list of forbidden books. It had been so popular when it was published, in 1801, that not enough texts could be printed. People committed robbery in their desire to own it, and many devotees kept it hidden under the floorboards. Vincent’s well-worn copy was still just as potent as ever. It smelled like sulfur, and as soon as Franny saw it, she had a sneezing fit. If she wasn’t mistaken, she was allergic to the thing. The Magus was so hot to the touch she burned her fingers on its binding as she plucked it from its hiding place. It was not the sort of item a person picked up on a whim. You had to know what you were looking for, and you had to have the courage to handle it.

Any copies that had been unearthed at the turn of the century had been burned on a bonfire in Washington Square and there was a little-known law forbidding the book to be kept in libraries in New York City or sold in bookstores. Inside the book now splayed upon the table Franny spied images of witches led to a gallows hill. The date printed below the illustration was 1693. A chill of recognition ran through her. She’d recently written a report for history class on the Salem trials and therefore knew this to be the year when many of those set to be tried escaped from New England in search of a more tolerant place, which they found in Manhattan. While the antiwitchcraft mania raged in New England, spurred on by politics, greed, and religion, ignited by Cotton Mather and the infamous and cruel judge John Hathorne, in New York only two witch trials

had taken place, in 1658 and again in 1665, one in Queens, the other on Long Island, then called Yorkshire, in the town of Setauket, both involving residents who had ties to Boston. In New York, Franny had discovered, it was possible to be free. “Why would you want this thing?” Franny’s fingertips had

Franny could guess where The Magus had come from. The place on their mother’s list they were never to go. Downtown. It was rumored that what was outlawed in other parts of Manhattan could be found there. Hearts of beasts, blood of men, enchantments that could prove to be lethal. The chief reason their mother did not allow them to journey to Greenwich Village was that it was viewed as a society of bohemians, drug addicts, homosexuals, and practitioners of black magic. Yet Vincent had managed to find his way there.

“We don’t really know what we’re dealing with,” she murmured to her brother. “But it’s something, isn’t it?” Vincent said. “Something inside of us. I know our mother wants us to pretend we’re like everyone else, but you know that we’re not.”

The sooner we know what this is, the better. We want to control it, not have it control us.”

Every year a box of lavender-scented black soap wrapped in crinkly cellophane would arrive from Massachusetts. Susanna refused to say who the sender was, yet she faithfully washed with it.

Surely their mother was hiding something from them under the clouds of mascara she wore. She never spoke of her family, and the children had never met a single relation. As they grew older their suspicions grew as well. Susanna Owens spoke in riddles and never gave a straight answer. Uncross your knives, she’d insist if there was a quarrel at the table. Butter melting in a dish meant someone nearby was in love, and a bird in the house could take your bad luck out the window. She insisted that her children wear blue for protection and carry packets of lavender in their pockets, though Franny always threw the packets away the minute she was out of her mother’s sight.

“Do not call up darkness when you are unprepared for the consequences.”

What is meant to be is bound to happen, whether or not you approve. One June morning, their lives were forever changed. It was 1960, and all at once there was a sense that anything might occur, suddenly and without warning.

Other people’s judgments were meaningless unless you allowed them to mean something.

Their aunt seemed aware of parts of Vincent’s psyche even his sisters weren’t privy to. Vincent had never let on that he often experienced a rush of alarm when he passed a mirror. Who, in fact, was he? A missing person? A body without a soul? He was hiding something from himself, and perhaps it was best if he listened to some advice. He stubbed out his cigarette in a potted geranium, but remained unconvinced that he should care about his health or his habits. “We’re all killed by something,” he said. “But we don’t have to rush it, do we?” Isabelle removed the cigarette butt to ensure that the nicotine wouldn’t poison the plant. “You’re a good boy, Vincent, no matter what people might say.”

Franny had taken to sitting on the back staircase to eavesdrop. She’d bought a blue notebook in the pharmacy to write down her aunt’s remedies. Star tulip to understand dreams, bee balm for a restful sleep, black mustard seed to repel nightmares, remedies that used essential oils of almond or apricot or myrrh from thorn trees in the desert. Two eggs, which must never be eaten, set under a bed to clean a tainted atmosphere. Vinegar as a cleansing bath. Garlic, salt, and rosemary, the ancient spell to cast away evil. For women who wanted a child, mistletoe was to be strung over their beds. If that had no effect, they must tie nine knots in a strong rope, then burn the rope and eat the ashes and soon enough they would conceive. Blue must be worn for protection. Moonstones were useful in connecting with the living,

topaz to contact the dead. Copper, sacred to Venus, will call a man to you, and black tourmaline will eliminate jealousy. When it came to love, you must always be careful. If you dropped something belonging to the man you loved into a candle flame, then added pine needles and marigold flowers, he would arrive on your doorstep by morning, so you would do well to be certain you wanted him there. The most basic and reliable love potion was made from anise, rosemary, honey, and cloves boiled for nine hours on the back burner of the old stove. It had always cost $9.99 and was therefore called Love Potion Number Nine, which worked best on the ninth hour of the ninth day of the ninth month.

This is what happens when you repudiate who you are. Once you do that, life works against you, and your fate is no longer your own.”

Beware of love, Maria Owens had written on the first page of her journal. Know that for our family, love is a curse.

They believed all books should be read, for as long as the reader liked.

The curse was simple: Ruination for any man who fell in love with them.

I wish we were like other people. That was what Franny had been thinking. Oh, how I wish we could fall in love.

“I’m fated to lose everyone I ever love,” April said. “I already know that.” “Of course you are,” Jet responded in her calm, measured tone. “That’s what it means to be alive.”

Franny noticed the book that was kept in the greenhouse had been brought outside. The fat, overstuffed tome reminded her of a black toad, for it was bound in a covering that resembled frog skin, cool to the touch. It was filled with deeply personal information, some too dangerous ever to repeat. If there were no family member to inherit it, it would be burned when the owner died, out of respect and according to tradition. Some called such a collection a Book of Shadows, others referred to it as a Grimoire. By any name it was a treasured text of magic, and was imbued with magical power. Writing itself was a magical act in which imagination altered reality and gave form to power. To this end, the book was the most powerful element of all.

The journal in the library had been written during the last year of Maria’s life, but this, her secret book of spells, had been hidden beneath the floorboards of the house. The Grimoire contained instructions on how to craft talismans, amulets, and healing charms. Some formulas were written in ink that was specially made from hazelnuts or madder; others were written in the writer’s blood. There were lists of herbs and useful plants; remedies for sorrow, illness, childbirth troubles, jealousy, headache, and rashes. Here was a repository of a woman’s knowledge, collected and passed on.

They may have the journal Maria wrote in her last year at the library, but we’ve kept the important book hidden. It may be the oldest Grimoire in this country. Most are burned when the owners pass on, to ensure that they don’t get into the wrong hands. But this one never gets into the wrong hands. We make sure of it. From Maria onward, it has gone to the strongest among us.” The Grimoire was so crammed with papers that scattered pages fluttered to the ground as Isabelle handed it over. “When the time comes, you’ll be next.”

Do as you will, but harm no one. What you give will be returned to you threefold. Fall in love whenever you can.

“Anything whole can be broken,” Isabelle told her. “And anything broken can be put back together again. That is the meaning of Abracadabra. I create what I speak.”

Once upon a time I was young and beautiful. But that is the fairy tale, because it all passes in the blink of an eye.

The girls were so drenched that when Franny wrung out her long hair, the water streamed out red. That’s when she knew they had made a mistake.

he recited a quote from Cotton Mather. Families are the Nurseries of all Societies: and the First combinations of mankind.

“Unable are the Loved to die, for Love is Immortality,”

Don’t try to hide who you are, Franny. Always keep that in mind.”

In Massachusetts everything had a faint green aroma, a combination of cucumber, wisteria, dogwood, and peppermint. But the scent of the city changed every day. You never could predict what it might be.

It was here, one chilly night, that the sisters dared to unearth the abilities they had inherited. It was Samhain, the last night in October, All Hallows’ Eve, the night when one season ended and another began.

Was this what a familiar was? A being that knew you better than any human ever would?

as far as I can tell, love is like a train that will keep going at full speed whether you like it or not, so you may as well enjoy the ride. If you try to avoid it, you’ll just make everything worse. What’s meant to happen will.”

“Love is easy to find, but not so easy to get rid of.”

“Why is a raven like a writing desk?” he said, quoting Lewis Carroll’s unanswerable riddle in Wonderland.

Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live. Franny recognized the quote from Exodus, for it had been scrawled in the judge’s notes at Maria’s trial. It was the same quote that had been on the title page of The Discovery of Witches, written by Matthew Hopkins, the Witch-Finder General of England, in 1647, the man who was believed to be responsible for the deaths of three hundred women.

He wondered if what people said was true, that no one could hate you more than members of your own family.

A man standing on a hillside in California in a field of yellow grass. A street in Paris. A girl with gray eyes. A cemetery filled with angels. A door he’d have to open in order to walk through.

She took back her wish right then and there, but unfortunately such things simply can’t be done.

There on the threshold was a beetle. “Fuck,” Vincent said. He went to stomp on the creature. He knew what it was from his readings in The Magus, and he now advised Franny that deathwatch beetles are wood borers that can be heard in the rafters calling for mates. They signified a death. You cannot destroy destruction, The Magus warned. Though you may try. Vincent had gotten rid of the beetle, but not its message. You cannot unwrite a death that has been written. There was no spell strong enough to do so.

All of the quarters in his hand were tarnished. He had no idea that the silver in a man’s pockets always turns black if he kisses a witch.

Mysteries could be solved, if one applied logic and patience.

The night was perfect and she worried about perfect things, for there were often flaws seen only under a microscope, with a very clear eye.

“It wasn’t fate. It was the interruption of fate. No one can control such things.”

Franny knew that from now on she would be held hostage by her responsibilities.

All of the women had bunches of hyacinths, which Jet and Franny were given as well. The flowers were to remind them that life was precious and brief, like the hyacinth’s bloom.

He was broken and carried three hundred years of history and hatred.

On some nights it was best to remember the past, and not shut it in a drawer. Three hundred years ago people believed in the devil. They