Back in 1690, some people believed Maria Owens was a witch. Others claim that she was just unlucky in love. Both were true. And in fact, both traits became family tradition: garden-variety witchcraft combined with sorrows in love, in somewhat unequal proportion. Maria Owens made her home on a small island in New England. All of her daughters and granddaughters and great-great-great granddaughters grew up here, just as beautiful and careless and unfortunate in love. Myself and Aunt Jet live in the old Owens house, and we took in two of our nieces, Sally and Gillian, after their parents died. Of course, as in any close family, there were rituals and customs to be passed along to the next generation, and we taught them what the Owens women have always known: the ancient arts of white magic. But the strength that comes from the use of this practical magic also carries a price - it seems that all the men we fall in love with die untimely deaths. So as Sally grew, she watched us weaving spells for the lonely and the lovelorn, and one day decided that she'd never suffer the misfortune of falling in love. She cast her own spell, making sure that the only man she could ever truly love would have a combination of qualities she'd never be able to find.Her sister Gillian, on the other hand, grew up to break hearts the way other people break kindling for firewood. Sally lives with us now in Maria's old house, with her two daughters Kylie and Antonia. (Their father died, of course.) Sally - who was obsessed with being "normal" even as a child, poor dear -- tries to go around pretending to be like other people, keeping me and Aunt Jet from teaching Kylie and Isabelle spells and rituals. But the more she denies her own powers, the more they seem to bubble up.After All
