30 years ago

Elizabeth VanBuskirk sat on her rocker in the Cottage and stared at the changing landscape of Sleepyside-on-Hudson. She sighed, deeply. Where had the time gone?

She was an old woman now. Older than her mother had been when she first handed her the Book in the Great Hall and explained about the Quilter's Curse. Or its blessing, depending upon who you spoke with.

Was there magic? Or was it merely a mirage? A combination of wishful thinking, God's will, and shadows?

Either way, it didn't matter. Her part in the history of the Great Book was over. After the last charm had ended with the old man becoming a bitter recluse, she had decided that whatever magic had been instilled in her since birth was gone.

Age made even a quilters eyes week, she thought, as she threaded a needle to work on a new four patch. She never knew who the recipient would be but somehow, just as she attached the batting a need would arise.

She looked up and watched as her precious books and sacred treasures were packed into cartons by impossibly young movers. The Cottage, the heart of her magic, was sold and she was moving to Pennsylvania to live with her daughter and son-in-law.

From the Book in the Great Hall: May 2, 1867 – Richard Underhill, Croton Point,

Watercolor quilt. Grandmother's brooch.

Seventeen year old high school senior Trixie Belden grumbled as she followed her best friends, Honey Wheeler and Di Lynch, into the used book store. The aroma of old books – other people's history and stories – clung to each dust mote and danced in the afternoon light. "You know I hate shopping," she griped. She pushed her sunglasses up into her hair, headband style. The dim interior of the bookstore was a sharp contrast to the golden October sunshine.

"Oh, suck it up, buttercup," Honey said with a teasing glint in her wide hazel eyes.

"Maybe you can find a mystery to solve," Di said with a giggle.

Trixie laughed at her friends' good-natured teasing. "Maybe I will," Trixie threatened. "Things have been a little dull around Sleepyside since the boys left for school," she said, referring to their combination of friends and brothers.

Trixie, Honey, and Di along with Mart and Brian Belden, Jim Frayne, and Dan Mangan made up their semi-secret club known as the Bob-Whites the Glen, or the BWGs, for short. Mart and Brian were Trixie's brothers. Jim was Honey's adopted brother. Dan, a former gang member, had come to live with his uncle Bill Regan, the Wheelers' groom, four years ago. Dan had been welcomed into the tight-knit group of friends.

Honey nodded. "I agree." She waved at a stack of old books whose sole purpose seemed to be to collect dust. "Trixie Belden, I give you leave to find us a mystery to solve."

"You guys are lucky it's a book store. I do like books. There's something mysterious and romantic about worn spines and discolored pages."

"Good," Di said with a laugh. "Enjoy yourself here because our next stop is the shoe store. They're having a sale on riding boots and Mummy said I could get a new pair."

Trixie smiled and wondered what it would be like to have anything material she truly desired. Maybe not anything, Trixie conceded, but mostly anything. How to pay for college was not a question for either Honey or Di, Trixie thought. Both of their fathers were wealthy beyond her comprehension. She wasn't jealous, exactly. But maybe, in the secret part of her soul she never wanted to examine, she was slightly… envious. Yeah, that was the word. Envious. With Brian and Mart already in college and her a high school senior, Trixie knew money was tight for her parents. Brian was working as an EMT to help with costs and Moms had taken a part time job at Crimpers.

Trixie tucked a stray blonde curl behind her ear and delved into the dusty tombs as her friends went to pick out some newer paperbacks. She missed reading for pleasure but between studying for her SATs, working on her Senior Thesis due in April, her volunteer work, and helping her mother with farm chores, she just didn't have as much time as she'd like to dive into a new book.

A large family Bible-type book caught her attention. The old leather spine creaked with a history begging to be explored as Trixie slowly opened it. Power surged into her like the stinging shock of a metal doorknob on a dry winter's day. She flexed her hand in surprise, frowned, and continued on with her investigation. Hand written and starting in 1777, it appeared to be part ledger, part diary of womanly wisdom, and part memory book.

Wasn't 1777 an important year in the Revolutionary War? Trixie made a mental note to Google it when she got home. A dozen men's quilted shirts were traded for a wedding ring and four shillings to a woman in Croton's Point, New York. Hmm, Trixie reflected. That's really close to Sleepyside.

Unable to control her curiosity, she pulled out her phone and did a quick search. The trade occurred just before the battles of Fort Montgomery and Clinton. The colonists lost those battles, she noted, but by destroying the forts, they were able to get control of the Hudson Valley away from the British. So a win out of a loss. Her brow creased for a moment as a memory from Greek history tickled her mind. Wasn't there something about a Pyrex or pie – something? Pyrrhic, she thought with internal glee. A pyrrhic victory? The colonists won control of the valley but at a very high cost in life.

As she leafed through the heavy antique pages of the book, another name caught her attention. Richard Underhill. The founder of Underhill Vineyards in Croton?

Curioser and curioser.

Some of the entries were barely legible on the old laid paper. Others made no sense. Who traded quilted jackets for a handful of clay marbles?

The Great Book spanned decades, generations, even centuries, it seemed. Ancient velum pages passed into lined laid paper that made way to more modern woven paper which gradually passed into modern pulp parchment. Trixie examined the binding, wondering how the pages had been added. She didn't see how the book had simply extended itself over its 200 year history and yet somehow, it had.

Her finger tingled as she traced the most recent entries, astounded. The last entry was from the 1970s.

Two hundred years of recorded trades set in meticulous, if mysterious, detail. Towards the end, two names caught Trixie's attention. One was Frayne. The other was Belden.

From the Book in the Great Hall: Tiny and perfect, each stitch soothes the soul and fills the heart with love. Some people use mantras, prayer beads, or the steady beat of a drum to fill the silence of the soul. A quilter has her stitches.

A perfect stitch tells the story of its quilter and the quilt tells a story and the story is our past.

"I cannot believe you found a mystery," Di said later as the girls gathered around the large table in their clubhouse. Her glossy black hair shone in the afternoon light as the three girls relaxed.

"You told her to," Honey reminded her.

"Yes, but I didn't think she'd actually do it!"

Trixie smiled absently at her friends as she gazed up from the tiny, perfect hand writing. "What do you think this means? There's some kind of barter system but nothing really makes sense. On one line, an entire quilt costs 20 shillings and a tintype of Master Stephen's beloved girlfriend. But on the next line, the quilter is trading a quilted skirt for a willow whistle." She frowned, pressing her fingers together to relieve the sting of awareness. "There's no parity."

Honey raised an eyebrow. "Parity? Is that another SAT word?"

Trixie grinned and shrugged. "Well, the tests are coming up in November."

"You could ask Uncle Andrew why he paid five dollars and traded a calculator for a pair of quilted gloves," Honey said.

Trixie frowned and shook her head. "It almost feels too personal to ask. It's like something we should explore on our end and in our way. I want to know who this book belongs to." She thought about it. "Tell you what, if we can't figure it out on our own, I'll call Uncle Andrew and ask. It was so long ago, he may not even remember!"

"Something tells me he'll remember," Honey predicted. "This ledger is two hundred years old. It was definitely important to someone."

"Let's go to the more modern entries. Maybe there are some clues or names we'll know," Di suggested. "You know, other than Belden and Frayne. All the names we recognize have been local so maybe we'll see a name of someone still living. Someone who Trixie can interrogate – uh, I mean question." Her violet blue eyes blinked as both of her friends looked at her sharply. "What? You don't think I haven't been listening and watching as you two have dragged us all into one mess after another?"

Trixie nodded and pushed past the dedicated lists until she hit the Twentieth Century. Suddenly, she gasped. "Wait. Brom Vanderheidenbeck! Old Brom is in this book! He traded a Franklin half dollar and a willow whistle for waistcoat. What's a waistcoat?" she muttered.

"What's a Franklin half dollar?" Di asked.

"It's a vest," Honey supplied.

"A half dollar is a vest?" Di asked, her brow furrowing in confusion.

"No, a waistcoat is a British term for a vest. The Franklin half dollar was the coin that existed before President Kennedy was assassinated."

"Gotcha," Di said, nodding and taking note of this new information.

Trixie nodded absently. "Interesting." She rose and paced the small clubhouse they had repurposed out of the old gatehouse on the Wheeler property. "Bobby used to get willow whistles from Old Brom. Let's go see him."

"Bobby?" Honey asked, taking her turn at being confused.

"No, silly! Old Brom."

Di shivered. "Old Brom used to tell the boys all those scary ghost stories about the Hudson River Valley. He scares me."

"He's harmless," Trixie said with a wave of her hand. She glanced at her watch. "Gleeps! It's almost three o'clock! I need to get home to get dinner on the table. Moms took that gift wrapping job at Crimper's for the holidays and she's working tonight. Tomorrow is Sunday – maybe we can combine exercising the horses with a trip out to Brom's cottage?"

The girls agreed to meet right after breakfast the next day and Trixie reverently, almost reluctantly, wrapped the book up in her scarf. She placed it carefully in the storage area under the bench seat, patting it almost reverently before closing the lid.

From theBook in the Great Hall: We must never sew when we're feeling sad, hopeless, or mean. Our thoughts will surround our stitches and our negative emotions will saturate our Quilt. Curses can be a shadow in our hearts with no more notice than a cocklebur caught in your sock. We must be careful not to sew in negativity or sadness else a curse, even the smallest of bad wishes, may be passed on.

October in the Hudson Valley was a sight worth seeing, Trixie thought with a smug glance over Susie's ears the next morning. If she'd been a painter, she couldn't have chosen a more beautiful palette. The electric blue of the morning sky softened gradually as it joined the peaceful mauve of the horizon. The garish calico hues of the trees were gentling into tabby browns – like a barn cat hiding in the shadows. Trixie, Honey and Di had gotten an early morning start as they exercised their horses and made their way to Old Brom's cottage.

It was no strange idea for the people of Sleepyside to believe in enchanted stories and ghostly visits. From the beginning, there had always been magic. Native American families - Mohicans to Algonquin to Lenni Lenape - would gather and tell tales. From the haunted dark glen at Raven Rock to the Old Dutch Church; from mourning cries and wailings seen about the great tree where the unfortunate Major Andre was taken; to the whispers that the waters of the Pocantico River divided one world from the next, there was a contagion in the very air of the Hudson Valley that blew from one haunted spot to the next.

Old Brom Vanderheidenbeck embraced that history.

The girls came upon the older man chopping wood in the clearing behind his home.

"Where's Dan when you need him?" Di asked with a smirk.

"Where's shirtless Dan when you need him?" Trixie agreed with a laugh.

Honey groaned. "You two are incorrigible!" she complained. "Diana Lynch, everyone knows you're head over your Christian Louboutin's for Mart Belden." Diana shrugged, smiling with the truth. "And you, Beatrix Belden, are a goner for my semi-clueless brother."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Trixie said with a sniff and toss of her sandy blonde curls.

"Is that why I have to put up with thinly veiled messages from Jim asking how you're doing and if you're dating anyone?"

"Really?" Trixie asked, her blue eyes lighting with interest before shuttering down. "Well, he knows my number. If he were interested, he could ask me himself."

Di snorted. "Yeah, right. Who is going to want to date the 'Belden Princess?' Mart told me your dad had a serious discussion with Jim after you turned sixteen. I think Jim is waiting for you to graduate."

"Daddy did what?" Trixie said. "I am…I'm… flummoxed!" she announced, finally finding the right word, much to Honey's amusement. "Not a word, Wheeler, about my use of SAT words!"

Honey mimed locking her mouth and tossing away the key, but the glint of humor in her hazel eyes told Trixie all she needed to know.

"Ladies, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?" Brom asked as he noticed their arrival.

"Mr. Brom," Trixie greeted, dismounting from Susie's back. "We were out exercising the horses and thought we'd stop by and say 'hi'," Trixie lied cheerfully.

Brom waved a greeting to Di and Honey. "I have some apples if you think your horses would like one," he offered.

They all thanked him profusely as he offered apples and buckets of water for their horses.

"I tell you ladies, this land is as haunted as any land in the country," Brom said, wiping his forehead with an old rag. "Did I ever tell you about the woman in white? She died in a snow storm around the glen at Raven Rock. Locals swear they have heard her shriek on winter nights before a storm. I can, personally, attest to it, too. Camped there one cold January night and I shivered with fear when I heard her cry out."

A cloud passed in front of the warm October sun and Di shivered in its wake.

Trixie saw one of Brom's willow whistles when he stopped for a drink of water. "Mr. Brom, where did you learn to make those old whistles?"

Brom frowned, thinking back along his life. "Can't rightly say, to tell you the truth, Miss Trixie," he finally admitted. "Seems like I've known how to make 'em since forever."

Trixie bit her lip, deciding how to proceed. Honey's way was with tact and carefully worded questions. Trixie's way was to push forward with bold queries and indelicate directness.

Stupid SAT words, she thought.

"Mr. Brom, we were wondering if you ever had a quilted vest," Trixie asked. Apparently she was doing it the Trixie way.

Brom's brow creased at the unexpectedness of the question. His eyes opened in shock by some distant memory before he averted his eyes.

"We were working on a play for school," Honey improvised, tactfully jumping to Trixie's rescue. "And we were looking for some quilted goods. Do you know anyone in town who may have some old quilts we could borrow for our production?"

Brom's throat worked as he took another long swallow of water. "What play are you doing?"

Honey blinked.

"We're doing 'Mary T. & Lizzy K.," Di improvised. "It's the story of Mary Todd Lincoln's seamstress."

"We are?" Trixie asked, her blue eyes wide with surprise.

"Of course," Di said, warming to her tale. "Lizzy Keckly was an amazing seamstress and also was known for her beautiful quilts. You know everyone here in Sleepyside, Mr. Brom. We thought you might be able to give us the name of someone local who might have some quilts we could borrow."

"Why didn't you just ask your mom, Miss Trixie?"

"I…uh… didn't want to bother her with how busy she's been. New job and all," Trixie said.

"Oh. Well, I'm sure she would have told you Mrs. Vanderpoel makes the best quilts in the Hudson Valley. Mrs. V and her sister Mrs. VanBuskirk are always sewing."

"Mrs. Vanderpoel has a sister?" Diana asked.

Brom nodded. "She lived in Pennsylvania for a while but recently moved back to be closer to her sister." He looked up at the sun as it traveled in the sky. "Might not have enough time today yet to go out and see her, but I'm sure she'd love your company and a chance to talk quilts with you ladies."

Trixie nodded and thanked Brom for this new piece of information. The girls remounted their horses and headed back home.

From theBook in the Great Hall: Families, like Quilts, are stitched together with a patchwork of memories with all the odd bits and pieces fitting to create the beautiful whole. Always remember, good friends and families are like Quilts.

They age with you, yet never lose their warmth.

Fifty miles away, Jim Frayne walked under the cinnamon and gold canopy of leaves in Central Park. There were endless events in NYC in October. Anything you wanted was in New York, he mused. Amazing Italian food. Lincoln Center. Broadway. The New York Comic Con was coming up. The museums. There was CMJ Music Marathon & Film Festival, the Columbus Day Parade down Fifth Avenue, the Webster Hell Halloween Party, and even a Revolutionary Era Walking Tour if you were so inclined. Autumn was the perfect time to be in the City.

And Jim hated it. He hated it with a hot, hot hate.

He needed to feel Jupiter's muscular back beneath him. He needed to be in the preserve, tracking deer, or looking forward to a BWG event.

Or, as Dan brutally reminded him that morning, he needed to get laid.

Except the object of his affection, lust, desire, every dark fantasy, and ultimately his love, was off limits until May when she turned eighteen.

He assumed. Because when he had stoned up enough and asked Mr. Belden when Trixie would be old enough for him to court her, Mr. Belden had gotten that serious look in his eyes and said, "Well, Jim. That all depends."

"On what, sir?" Jim had asked, swallowing and pulling his courage up from his toes.

"On which one of us dies first," Mr. Belden had responded without a glint of humor in his dark brown eyes.

Why? Why did he have to be so freaking honorable all the time? Why couldn't he just take what he wanted and damn the consequences?

He sighed, lost in thought and no longer seeing the exquisite colorful October day. He couldn't damn the consequences because this was Trixie he was thinking about. And Trixie deserved his best.

Even if that meant waiting until May.

He was twenty years old. He was rich. He was lucky to have had two families who loved him. He had a great group of friends.

And yet, he couldn't shake this dark and foreboding feeling he was hurtling breakneck down the wrong path.

He sighed, heavily. He'd changed majors at the end of his sophomore year and now that he was in the middle of his senior year, it was time to face the music.

Or his father.

He shook his head to clear it and pulled his phone out of his pocket. "Dad? We need to talk," Jim said. He listened for a moment. "Okay. I'll drive up this weekend," he agreed.

His phone chirped and he looked down. "Hey, Trix – how are you?"

"Jim, Jim, Jim!" came her excited voice. "You'll never guess what I found?"

That was easy. "A new mystery?"

"Kinda," she said with a laugh. "Maybe. But you know that old book store in Tarrytown?"

Jim nodded even though Trixie couldn't see him. "Sure," he said as he began the walk back to his apartment overlooking the Park. "I found a bunch of cool old books there, especially on the history of New York and the Hudson Valley. What did you find?"

"I'm not completely sure," she said. "But Honey, Di, and I are trying to solve the puzzle. It seems like some kind of old ledger book but there are plenty of pieces of homey advice, too."

"Okay. So what makes this book special? I'm sure there are millions of old ledger books in the tri-state region."

"It seems both your mother and my uncle did business with whomever owned this ledger," Trixie said, her voice rising with her excitement.

"Really?" Jim said, nodding to the doorman and going towards the elevators. "I'll be up this weekend to talk to my dad. Maybe we can look through the book? Together?" Alone, he wanted to say but refrained.

He was sick and tired of refraining.

"I'd like that, Jim," Trixie said, suddenly shy. "I was actually hoping to talk to Mrs. Vanderpoel. Maybe you could drive me, if you're free?"

"I'd like that," Jim said, echoing Trixie's words. "Hey, I'm getting in the elevator and I might lose you. I'll be up Friday after class. Do you want to get a burger?"

Trixie sighed, and Jim felt his bubble of hope deflate. "Oh, I'd love to but Moms took a part time job at Crimpers and I'm on dinner duty." She was quiet a moment. "How about after dinner? Maybe dessert?"

"Sure," Jim agreed. "I'll call you when I get home and we can make plans?"

"Sounds good," she said before they lost connection.

Jim pumped his fist. Maybe he could shake off this malaise on his own.

From theBook in the Great Hall: Each charm has multiple components: need, request, sacrifice, and belief. Magic's deepest shadow lives in the sacrifice. The Guardian can probe and ask but only the requester can determine if the sacrifice will secure the charm. What is acceptable? Any keepsake or item with emotional value or meaningful object may be acceptable sacrifices. But will it be enough? No one – not even the Guardian – knows.

"You changed your major?" Matthew Wheeler asked, astounded. For the last five years, Jim's focus had been laser-like.

"I hated it, Dad," Jim confessed, misery etched across his forehead. "I was looking at a lifetime of paperwork and state bureaucracy. Of dealing with gang bangers and drug dealers. I wanted to help boys like me, not be one voice drowning in an ocean of troublemakers!"

Matthew nodded. "So, what did you decide to do? Or do I even get to know what I've been paying for over the last three and a half years?"

Jim winced, knowing he deserved the barb. "I love being outside. I can't imagine spending 40 or 50 years at a desk." Heart heavy, he sat, quietly thinking. "I have actually been thinking of something," he started slowly.

"What is it, Jim?"

"I've been doubling up on my classes and I'm a year out from having my Masters in Architecture. I worked on a crew helping restore and refinish houses. I love the history of the area and I thought restoring old buildings and flipping them would be a great fit for me."

Matthew nodded, fingers steepled as he thought. "I can see you doing that," he said, slowly. "Was there something else?"

Jim bit his bottom lip. "I had a project in mind." He hated asking for anything, even knowing his father would buy him whatever he wanted. Old habits and the desire to succeed on his own ran strong in his veins.

"I'm listening," Matthew prompted.

"I wanted to buy that small brick Dutch colonial cottage on the other side of the Preserve. It was for sale back in August but when I went to call the realtor, I found out it had been sold."

"Blackthorn Cottage? Yes, I got it for an excellent price. Why?"

"Would you consider selling it to me?"

"I can turn it over to you, but I'm not sure I want to sell it. I like where it's located on the outside edge of the preserve. Controlling that property allows me control who has access to the preserve."

Jim nodded. "I understand. How about if you sell it to me with a Right of First Refusal clause?"

Matthew's green eyes gleamed. "You've been studying," Matthew said. He nodded, once. "I'll place a call and make it happen."

Guilt crossed Jim's features. "You don't think this is nepotistic?"

Matthew shrugged his broad shoulders. "I don't see it that way. My son is learning the ropes of his chosen career. Along the way, he'll bring an historical building back to life. And I can buy it back when you're done." He crossed to the window. "Want to discuss it on an afternoon ride through the preserve? I may even let you ride Jupe."

Jim stood and smiled. "I'd like that, Dad. I have a date later but we should have time for a short ride."

"A date?" Matthew said, leading the way out of his office. "Anyone I know?" he asked with a touch of humor.

"So, you changed majors?" Trixie asked, her eyes bright and curious. "And didn't tell anyone? I'm hurt, Jim."

She sat across from Jim at Wimpy's, sharing a root beer float and a plate of cheese fries.

"It was all administrative duties, Trix," Jim said, flushing with embarrassment at his own arrogance. "I guess I should have realized that a long time ago, but I was so focused on my goal, I didn't really look at the path I was on."

Trixie snorted and picked up another loaded French fry. "I know what that's like."

Jim smiled, his eyes crinkling with humor. "Just once or twice, huh?" He swallowed and rubbed his hands up and down his jean clad thighs. "And I was embarrassed. I'd been talking of nothing else since I was fifteen!"

"You were embarrassed to tell me?"

Jim picked her hands up and cradled them in his own, his brow furrowing at the tiny red burns on her fingertips. "I was embarrassed to admit it to myself, Trix. I'm sorry. Please don't be mad at me."

"I'm not mad, Jim," Trixie said, her voice soft. "I just wish you had trusted me."

"I do trust you," he vowed, his eyes meeting hers, his honesty and earnestness connecting their gazes. The deep azure of her blue eyes distracted him from a question he was sure he was going to ask.

"So, what's the plan then?"

"Plan?" Jim repeated, still a bit dumbstruck.

"For your visit!" Trixie exclaimed with a laugh.

"Oh," Jim said, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. "This weekend, I'm going to help you solve your mystery of the Book in the Great Hall. When I go back to school, I'm going to finish out my degree in architecture. For my final year project, I want to remodel Blackberry Thorn Cottage. That's the old place on the western edge of the preserve."

"That could be so cool! Is that what you want?"

Jim shrugged, finishing the float and signaling the waitress for a refill. "Maybe. I'm not completely sure yet. But I'm a wood-working, horse-riding, get-things-done kind of man, Trix. Not a paper-pushing and schmoozing-at-fund-raisers man. Dad and I talked about it when we went for a ride this afternoon."

"What were you planning on doing to the old cottage? Modernize and put air conditioning in and all that?"

Jim shook his head. "I went to a seminar on how air conditioning makes architects lazy. In the old days, placement of the house and cross breezes were important. Also, the planting of deciduous trees."

"You're starting to sound like Mart," she teased.

Jim laughed. "Trees with leaves provide shade in the spring and summer," he explained. "But provide needed light in the autumn and winter after the leaves fall. Nature's own air conditioning."

Shyly, Trixie touched the back of Jim's large hands, pleased that the touch of his skin soothed the burns she was developing from contact with the Book in the Great Hall. "I'm glad he was there to talk to you, today. I know it's been a while since you two have gone riding together."

An odd phenomenon existed for forever friendships - time and distance lose their ability to interfere. Trixie and Jim's conversation slipped by effortlessly, as though no time or space had ever separated them. As easy as falling, they talked for hours, pausing only for occasional thoughts and laughing with easy grace.

At nine o'clock, Jim paid the check and they went out to his Jeep. "Want to swing by the clubhouse," Trixie asked. "My curfew isn't until ten. I can show you the book before we head up to Mrs. V's tomorrow morning?"

Jim placed his hand low on Trixie's back as he led her towards his truck. "Sounds good. Let's go see if we can find a few more clues to solve your latest mystery," he agreed. Maybe, he decided, it wouldn't be so hard to silently claim what was his.

From theBook in the Great Hall: Sacrifices were to be kept in perpetuity. As long as a Guardian drew breath, as long as the Cottage existed, the sacrifices remained. Money, however, was not a sacrifice. Money was replaceable. A Guardian cannot suggest to a client they pay for a spell with money but she is allowed to keep money if it's offered to her as a personal, non-magical gift.

"Well, at least that explains some of the entries," Trixie said after Jim picked her up the next morning. "Sacrifices made in exchange for magic." She tucked the book in its protective shawl into the safety of her backpack and handed him a breakfast sandwich.

"I wish I knew what Uncle James had wanted," Jim commented, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel.

"When we find the owner of the Book, we can ask."

Jim nodded but Trixie could tell he had already moved on to more practical matters. "You can put your bag on the back seat, Trix," he said, moving some of his own books aside. "It should be safe. The weather was so gorgeous, I couldn't resist opening the Jeep up."

"I love going topless – especially in the fall when the air is crisp and beautiful," she said, climbing into Jim's Jeep. They both blushed at her unintended double entendre.

Mrs. Vanderpoel's home was of yellow brick. The bricks were small handmade ones, brought over from Holland by early Dutch settlers. The house was surrounded by trees, on a wandering road that led from Glen Road back about a mile through the woods, to the fringe of the Preserve.

"I love her snug little cottage," Trixie remarked as they crested a small hill and her home was in view.

Jim nodded, his mind wandering with design ideas. A fresh coat of paint, certainly. "There seems to be some wood rot around the eaves in the roof. She should have that fixed before it spreads. I could probably get my tools out and fix that for her." Deeper concerns about the older home crowded his mind. Was there lead paint? How was her furnace? Were the joists still sound?

Trixie grinned and took his hand as she led their way up the path to the small cottage. "You're getting ahead of yourself, Jim. My mystery is on our agenda this weekend. Your woodworking skills get exercised next weekend."

Jim smiled and brushed a light kiss across her forehead. "Deal." Yeah, maybe this silently claiming thing would be easier than he had anticipated.

Jim knocked on the door, his eye unwittingly noticing many of the needed repairs on the old house. Trixie arched her eyebrow at him and he shrugged with humor.

"Trixie! Jim!" Mrs. Vanderpoel exclaimed as she opened the door. "Excellent timing, you two. I have some windmill cookies just coming out of the oven."

Trixie's blue eyes gleamed. "Oh, yummy yum! And I don't have to share with my brothers."

"I think we can save a plate for Bobby," Mrs. Vanderpoel said with a smile. "So, to what do I owe this visit from two of my favorite people?"

Trixie and Jim sat at the kitchen table and accepted servings of milk and cookies with the grace of adults enjoying a childhood memory. "Well, actually," Trixie began, nodding to her rucksack, "I think I found something that belongs to you."

Mrs. Vanderpoel's eyes gleamed. "Oh, how mysterious!" she said. "I can't imagine what I've lost."

Trixie wiped her hands before pulling the ancient book out of her pack. She handed Mrs. Vanderpoel the carefully wrapped package. "The girls and I found this in a used book store in Tarrytown," she explained.

"Oh, dear," she said with a breathy sigh as she parted the scarf. "I haven't seen this in more than thirty years." Her eyes widened and her breathing became slightly shallow.

Trixie nodded. "Can you explain it to me? What is it?"

Mrs. Vanderpoel sat heavily on a chair and Jim frowned at her sudden paleness. "Are you okay, Mrs. V? Do you need a glass of water?"

Mrs. Vanderpoel nodded and sat heavily in a chair, staring with disbelief at the book. Jim rushed to get her a glass of water and Trixie hopped up to remove a batch of cookies out of the oven.

Jim shared a concerned glance with Trixie and she nodded, indicating she had her cell phone out if she needed to call 911.

"You haven't touched it, have you?"

"I did, yes," Trixie said, coloring and hiding the tell-tale crimson tips of her fingers.

"Oh, child, no. You can't touch it any further," Mrs. Vanderpoel exclaimed, wrapping the book up in the scarf. "I'm not even sure I should be touching it. No one but the Guardian is allowed access to the book."

"The guardian?" Jim asked, placing a cool cloth across the older woman's nape to calm her down. If her breathing didn't settle, he was definitely placing a call to Dr. Ferris.

"My sister," Mrs. Vanderpoel said on a breath. "Elizabeth was the Keeper in our family. Keeper of the Book and Guardian of the Spells." She looked small and frail, suddenly, to Trixie's eyes. "Betty moved back to Sleepyside a few weeks ago." She took a long drink of the water. "I haven't seen this book since she moved away."

"What is it, exactly?" Trixie asked, her voice quiet.

Mrs. Vanderpoel closed her eyes. "I'm sorry, children. I need to rest. Can you come back tomorrow? Maybe I can explain it further then?"

Trixie's mouth opened to protest, but realized before Jim could interfere, that she has pushed the older woman to her limits. "Of course, Mrs. V. Is it okay if I come by tomorrow after school? I have to help Moms with dinner, but I'll have an hour or two."

A quiet and unusually subdued Trixie followed Jim out to his Jeep.

"You don't really believe all that about a spell book, do you, Trix?" Jim asked as they drove away. "There's no such thing as magic."

Trixie stared at him, her mouth agape. "Of course there is magic," she argued. "Maybe not the kind that makes whole buildings disappear but of course there's magic." She stared straight ahead, fists clenched, and her joy in the fall afternoon fading like the brightly colored leaves. "There has to be magic," she finished mulishly.

"Trixie, everything can be explained with logic," Jim said, his hands firm on the wheel, astounded by Trixie's lack of reasoning on this subject.

"Like the burns on my fingertips?" Trixie challenged, wiggling her fingers at him. "How do you explain that?"

"Acidic old paper," Jim said, promptly. "Or maybe something in the old ink they used."

"There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Jim, than are dreamt of in your philosophy," Trixie returned, smartly.

Magic existed. She was sure of it.

Because if there was no magic, what else explained two hundred years of people asking for help? What else explained her singed fingers or the sheer power of the leather-bound book? What else explained this bubble of hope and trust and intensity that was blossoming between her and Jim?

Magic, pure and simple.

From the Book in the Great Hall: Everything in life – no matter how small, is precious. Beautiful quilts are made from the smallest of scraps. All sorrows can be patched and all joys quilted as long as we sew with love.

With some trepidation, Trixie and Honey approached Mrs. VanBuskirk's apartment in the center of town.

"Why are you so determined to find the answers," Honey asked. "When did you start believing in magic?"

"You know how the quilting group at work has the pastor say a prayer over the quilts they make to give to the hospitals?"

"Yes."

"There is something there," Trixie said. "A link between the thoughts of the quilter and the recipient of the gift. The way I felt wearing the jackets you sewed for us. Owning and wearing something you made for me made me feel loved. I don't understand it completely, though. It's like having something between my teeth. Something is there and I can't get it out."

Honey snorted. "We need to work on your metaphors, Trix."

Trixie smiled and knocked on the door. It was opened by an elderly woman with a snug white bun and sharp blue eyes. "Mrs. VanBuskirk?" Trixie said. "I'm Trixie Belden and this is my friend Honey Wheeler. Could we talk to you?"

Elizabeth VanBuskirk smiled in recognition. "Oh, yes, of course. Sarah called yesterday and told me you had found the Book. Please, come on in," she invited.

"Are you feeling sick? No ill effects?" Mrs. VanBuskirk inquired seriously. "The Book isn't meant to be touched by someone outside of the Guardian."

Trixie showed her the burn marks on her hands and fingers.

"Be careful and be watchful," the older lady said. "Pay attention to your health. The Great Book went missing when I moved. Lost or stolen, I don't really know."

"Maybe someone whose charm didn't work?" Honey guessed.

Mrs. VanBuskirk nodded, thoughtful and quiet in her memories.

Over fried Welsh cookies, Mrs. VanBuskirk regaled them with tales of her well-traveled history.

"Oh, William and I had so much fun in Paris in the 50s," she said. "We got the loveliest fabrics there. Let me show you the quilt I made. I call it my Parisian quilt."

She brought them into a room filled with quilts.

"We really wanted to know more about the quilts," Trixie asked. "The ones in the Great Book," she clarified as Honey admired the exquisite workmanship.

"How did it come to be called that?" Honey asked.

Mrs. VanBuskirk smiled. "It sat in the Great Hall of the house," she said simply. "I suppose we could have called it 'The book in a bookshelf' but that seemed to lack a certain mystique."

"And the quilts?"

Mrs. VanBuskirk sighed and sat heavily on a sturdy rocking chair in one corner of the room. "My family was considered charlatans by some. Saviors by others. The desperate would come and beg for quilts. Begging for help. Help me find my true love. Help my baby live."

"Did it work?"

"Sometimes yes. Sometimes, no. Magic, if it exists, is a tricky thing. The quilter's thoughts have to be pure. The client has to truly believe. The sacrifice has to be enough."

Trixie fell silent, deep in thought.

"Just ask," Honey said.

"What would you like to know?" Mrs. VanBuskirk asked.

"Nell Frayne came to see you years ago. Can you tell me that story?"

Mrs. VanBuskirk was quiet as she rocked and thought.

"Nell knew her husband was dying," she said, softly, tears forming in her eyes. "She begged for a healing quilt but his cancer had spread. She waited too long."

Honey and Trixie exchanged a look. "I don't understand. James Frayne survived his wife," Honey said softly. "The magic didn't take?"

"Magic is an incomplete science," she finally said. "Too many forces have to align in order for it to work properly." She was quiet again before saying, "The magic worked, after a fashion. Mr. James lived but Nell died within the year."

"So do we count this as a mystery solved?" Honey asked as the girls gathered at Crabapple Farm for a sleep over the following weekend. They had a busy day scheduled tomorrow as all the Bob-Whites had all agreed that Mrs. Vanderpoel's cottage needed some work and Jim wanted to hone his skills.

Trixie shrugged, still stung by Jim's rejection of Mrs. Vanderpoel's magic. Her fingers ached to hold the book again and she fought against the yearning need. She wasn't Gollum in search of his Precious. It wasn't her book and it was back to its rightful owner.

"How can Jim think there is just this? Only what can be seen and weighed and measured?" she asked, disappointment shining in her bright blue eyes. Disappointment because he obviously thought she was a superstitious naïve child. "That everything – finding him in Mr. Frayne's house, the fire, your dad adopting him – how can he think that was all logical and normal? That there was no love – no magic – behind any of it?"

Diana poked her head into the bedroom, her hair wet and matted with Vicious Violet hair dye. "Trix. He's a guy. He sees logic, not necessarily that love and magic are intertwined."

Honey waved her hands. "I believe there is something more, but who knows? Are Tarot Card readers genuine? Or mediums? There's a lot out there, Trix, that remain either unproven or unexplainable."

"But you didn't see Mrs. V's face," Trixie argued. "She believed it."

"Trix, phone call," Bobby called from the kitchen.

Trixie groaned and stood up. Di's timer called her in to wash her hair and Honey resumed working on a paper for school.

"It's Uncle Andrew," Bobby said, handing her the receiver.

"Hey Uncle Andrew," Trixie said. "How are you doing?"

"I'm doing well, Trixie," he said, his voice booming across the miles of telephone wire. "But I got a message I didn't quite understand. What's this about borrowing five dollars and a calculator?"

Trixie smiled. "No, Uncle Andrew. I recently came across an old book that belonged to Mrs. Vanderpoel's sister. In it, she wrote you traded five dollars and a calculator for a pair of quilted gloves. I was asking about that."

Uncle Andrew's silence echoed on the phone. "Her sister - did Miss Elizabeth VanBuskirk pass on? Is that how the book got out?"

"I don't know, Uncle Andrew," Trixie said, slowly. "I found it in a used bookstore and got it back to Mrs. Vanderpoel." She nervously wound the cord around her index finger. "Can you explain it?" she asked again.

"No," Uncle Andrew said, abruptly. "It's a little like Fight Club," he said. "The first rule of Miss Elizabeth's was that you don't talk about Fight Club."

Curioser and curioser, Trixie thought. She didn't want to mention her visit to Mrs. VanBuskirk. If Uncle Andrew wanted to keep his secret, who was she to pry?

The thought made her gasp in surprise. Maybe she was growing up?

From the Book in the Great Hall: A quilter only appears to be quietly quilting. Also being sewn are winks, mischief, sighs, fragrant possibilities, wild dreams and a pinch of magic to make the world go 'round. When I give to you what I make with my hands, I share with my heart.

Trixie Belden doesn't get sick, Trixie thought with a shake of her blonde curls. She certainly wasn't going to start getting sick on the first morning of a Bob-White project. But still, she couldn't seem to shake the tight feeling in her throat or her own labored breathing.

I'll be fine, she decided. No case of fall allergies were going to keep her home.

"Where should we start, Jim?" Trixie asked as she unfolded from the backseat of Honey's cherry red VW Bug.

"I have it divided into three projects," Jim started. "Yard work, which includes pruning back some branches; carpentry, including replacing some boards on the porch; and giving the porch a fresh coat of paint today and sealer tomorrow."

"I get to cut wood," Dan said, with a smirk, making a goofy show of flexing his muscles.

Jim rolled his eyes. "Do you even own a shirt, Mangan?"

Di gasped and looked at Trixie. Trixie smiled and looked at Honey before all three girls dissolved in giggles.

"What?" Jim asked, his brow furrowing.

"Never mind, big brother," Honey said, winking at her friends. "Just one of those things where it's only funny now if you had been there then."

"Di, you should probably help with the boards on the patio," Mart said, coming up from the tree line. He paused, taking in Di's appearance. "Is your hair purple?"

"Oh, good. I thought it was my eyes," Dan said.

"It's vicious violet," Di said with a sniff. "And I think it looks fabulous."

"And beautiful with your eyes," Honey said, loyally.

Mart nodded, wisely staying silent on the matter of Di's hair. "At any rate, Brian and I found a wasp nest. He left to get some wasp spray to get rid of it but I know you're allergic."

Di shuddered. "Oh, I have no plans on spending this weekend swelling up like a balloon and having steroid induced hot flashes."

"Okay, sounds good," Jim agreed. "Trix, you and Mart gather up the branches. Di and Honey, you'll help me with the patio. We'll paint while Brian takes care of the wasps and then take a break."

"One coat or two?" Honey asked, indicating the paint cans on the stairs.

"Two," Jim replied. "But we'll see how the paint dries. I might have to come over tomorrow morning to get the second coat on."

Just then, Mrs. Vanderpoel came out, bundled up in a bright blue sweater. "I'm off to my sister's for the day," she announced. "I want to thank you Bob-Whites for all you're doing to help me."

"Our pleasure, Mrs. V," Honey said, warmth imbuing her voice. "And next month, when the weather gets chilly, we'll come out to help you put plastic on the windows like we did last year."

With a cheery wave, Mrs. Vanderpoel climbed into her ancient but well taken care of sedan and pulled out onto the road.

Twenty minutes later, Trixie was elbow deep in loose branches. "Hey, Mart, can you hand me the loppers? I think you guys missed a branch and if this one falls, it could hit that window."

Mart, further down the path, said something she couldn't hear. With a roll of her eyes, Trixie got the cutters herself and climbed the tree to cut down the branch. Balancing the long handled cutters in one hand, Trixie muttered and invoked a series of epithets against brothers who weren't helping. Pushing a stray curl off her sweaty brow, she struggled to climb the tree in order to reach the higher branch.

Too late, she realized why her brothers had left this branch alone. Dozens, if not hundreds, of angry wasps danced in the air and filled it with their angry call.

"Hey, Trix, leave that one branch alone," Mart said, coming back up the path. "That's where Brian and I found the wasp nest."

Brian Belden prided himself on being sensible. Rational. Practical. Calm under duress. He wasn't fiery and take charge like Jim. He wasn't a smart ass like Dan. He wasn't the chronic tease like Mart.

And if he sometimes wondered if he was boring, he shrugged it off. Name one medical specialty where patients wanted a comedian, he would think to himself. None.

But as he pulled up to Mrs. Vanderpoel's cottage after a quick trip home to get wasp spray, his calm cool demeanor fled like Reddy after a squirrel. An ambulance waited, its lights blinking garishly in the golden fall sunlight.

"What happened?" he said, approaching a crying Honey and a cursing Mart. "Where's Jim?" He scanned his group of friends. "Where is Trixie?"

"Thank God we had an EpiPen in the first aid kit," Di said, approaching her friends. She and Mart embraced, seeking solace and finding comfort.

"What happened?" Brian asked, feeling less and less in control as the moments went on. "Is that Trixie?" he asked, but no one responded. He looked around, seeing the prone body of his sister on the gurney.

"I'm a certified EMT," Brian said, approaching the young man and woman working on his sister. "This is my sister. What happened?"

"Wasp stings," the woman said. "Dozens. Your other friend got hit a few times, too. As soon as we get your sister stabilized, we're taking her to Sleepyside General." She noted a few more things on her clip board. "Is she normally allergic to wasp venom?"

Brian shook his head. "Trixie is … Trixie," he said lamely. "Fearless. Constantly pushing upward and onward. I can't believe she's hurt at all."

"I'm fine," Jim said as he feinted his way around the second Emergency Medical Tech. "I need to check on my… on my Trixie," he said with a mulish set to his chin and a "back off" glint in his green eyes.

"We're just loading her up now," the young woman said, casting a stern look of her own at her stubborn patient. "Let's get loaded up."

"I'll call our parents," Brian said. "We'll meet you at the hospital."

Three days later, Jim sat in an uncomfortable plastic chair, staring listlessly as Trixie remained unconscious.

"You can't die," he whispered, his forehead resting against her small freckled hand laying on the bed. Logically, of course, he knew that people could die from high doses of wasp venom. But not Trixie. Indomitable Trixie. Indefatigable Trixie.

His Trixie.

The doctors were baffled why she continued to be in this unresponsive state. After getting the swelling down in her throat, she was breathing on her own.

"It's okay if you need to sleep, baby," he said, feeling the still burned edges of her fingertips. A thought stirred in his mind as his rational mind fought with his heart.

Were there more things in Heaven and Earth than were dreamt of in his philosophy?

"Jim, you need to get some sleep," Mrs. Belden said, approaching her still daughter. She stared for a long moment, willing her daughter's eyes to open, blue eyes bright with curiosity.

Jim nodded, temporarily leaving his post at Trixie's side. "I need to go do something," he said. "Take care of her for me, Mrs. B?" he asked.

It was on the tip of her tongue to remind Jim that Trixie was her daughter and she didn't need him reminding her to take care of her, but his red rimmed eyes and haggard, drawn appearance made her hold her tongue and nod her head.

"She's my baby girl, Jim. What else would I do?"

Jim nodded, hugged her fiercely, and took off down the hallway towards the elevator. He was a man on a mission.

Half an hour later, he arrived at Mrs. Vanderpoel's house. Both Mrs. V and her sister sat on the patio, talking. Mrs. Vanderpoel introduced the anxious young man to her sister

Jim spread his hands in front of him as he appealed to the two women. He was helpless and out of his element. "I need," he started, his voice cracking with emotion. "Trixie has to get better."

"Magic isn't a guarantee, Jim," Mrs. VanBuskirk said, rising and approaching the desperate young man. "It didn't work for your great aunt. I can't guarantee it would work this time, either."

"Trixie explained to me how I need to make a Sacrifice. I don't have anything," Jim said. "Nothing material to give that is worth what Trixie means to me." He swallowed, hard, considering his idea. "Except my favorite memory. Of my mom. If I give you the memory of my mom on Christmas, will that be a big enough sacrifice?" Tears began to fall and his big shoulders shook. "It has to be enough," he said. "It's the only thing in this world I treasure more than Trixie."

Mrs. VanBuskirk took him by the hand and led him inside her sister's snug little cottage. "You know if you give me your favorite memory, it's mine. You'll never be able to take that memory out and think of it again."

Jim clenched his fists as doubt assaulted him. What if it didn't work? What if it was all smoke and mirrors and he lost his favorite memory and Trixie?

Suddenly, he sighed and released his worry. It would work. It had to.

"It was December and Dad and I were bringing in a Douglas fir tree from the woods. Snow was swirling in the air, but not really falling with any intensity and the kitchen was full of the sounds and scents of mom baking," Jim began and watched as Mrs. VanBuskirk listened.

From the Book in the Great Hall: Chains do not hold friendships together. It is threads. Hundreds of tiny threads which sew people together through the years.

A week later, Jim approached the hospital bed with a small quilted throw blanket, its four square pattern sewn lovingly with bits and pieces of Bob-White memories. His first bright red club jacket, faded by time and sun and laundry. Pieces of navy silk from the dress Trixie had worn to his senior prom.

All of the Bob-Whites had given up an article of clothing, a memory, in order to create this unique blanket to keep Trixie safe and warm. Brian donated his favorite flannel shirt – the one Trixie had always "borrowed" because it was navy blue, well washed, and deliciously comfortable to wear. Di handed over a team T-shirt in lightest lavender from their first bike race to raise money for the school art program. Honey cried as she handed Jim her first pair of dungarees. Jeans she had only gotten because of her friendship with Trixie. Mart donated his Cosmo McNaught T-shirt.

Dan had stared at him a long moment when Jim explained what he needed and why. Finally, he nodded. "I still have my old black leather jacket," he said, smiling wistfully. "I imagine old worn leather won't look so good on the quilt, but maybe Mrs. VanBuskirk can use the lining or something?"

Jim took each of their friends' sacrificial gifts and brought them to Mrs. VanBuskirk's house. Seemingly endless days later, the lovingly pieced quilt was ready for him to pick up.

He had ignored the world while Trixie was in her hospital bed. His dad who fussed over how much school he was missing. Mr. Belden shooting him dirty looks for not taking better care of his princess. Mrs. Belden, with her blue eyes that reminded him so much of Trixie's. They were all background noise as he muddled through his days. Aimless. Disjointed. Depressed.

What would he do if Trixie didn't recover?

But deep inside, he knew this would work. When he was done telling the story of his favorite Christmas, he felt the memory physically lift from him. What remained was a shadow, like the mist of last night's dream.

But now, he was here; with a quilt wrapped in brown paper with a string tied around it for safety.

Jim said a prayer as he unfurled its beauty and practical comfort and tucked his special girl within its loving embrace. And waited.

He'd wait an eternity, if that's what it took, he thought.

And as Trixie's bewildered eyes opened up, Jim realized there was magic.

And the magic was love.

A/n:

Yes, I love research. I love American history. I love Jim and Trixie. Writing this story was a lot of fun for me and I hope reading it was as much fun for you.

Big thanks go out to Pam for her boss editing skills and endless patience with my addiction to commas. Any mistakes that remain are, naturally, my own. (See? I love me some commas!)

This story is inspired by and dedicated to my great Grandmother Elizabeth VanBuskirk. She was a quilter until she died and would love to show off her endless small stitches and countless quilts. She made me want to quilt and one of these days – I swear! I will find time to learn how. Despite being Dutch, she would make Welsh Cookies (recipe below).

In October 1867, Harper's Weekly published a story referring to Richard T. Underhill as the "grape king" of Croton Point.

In his multi-volume History of Wine in America, Thomas Pinney says the Underhills were the "first dynasty in American viticulture . . . The scale and the long life of their vineyards give them a claim to be the real founders of the winegrowing industry in New York."

Fort Montgomery and Fort Clinton became the battleground of two fierce battles in the American Revolution. On October 6, 1777, approximately 700 American troops, comprised of 300 Continental soldiers, 100 artillerymen and 300 militiamen defended the "twin" forts against 2100 Loyalist, Hessian, and British regulars led by Sir Henry Clinton.

Although these two battles were won by the British; who then destroyed both forts and broke the first chain across the Hudson River; the battles sufficiently delayed British reinforcements from joining Burgoyne in the upper Hudson Valley. This allowed time for the Americans to gain desperately needed militia reinforcements, culminating in the defeat of the British in Saratoga with the surrender of General Burgoyne.

Major John André (2 May 1750 – 2 October 1780) was a British Army officer hanged as a spy by the Continental Army during the American Revolutionary War. In The Legend, this spot is haunted by the ghost of the ill-fated and is where Ichabod Crane first encounters the headless horseman.

"Mary T. & Lizzy K." is an actual play about Mary Todd Lincoln and her seamstress. Elizabeth Keckly was a freed slave when she met Mary Todd Lincoln. Keckly, a gifted seamstress, became the private dressmaker for the first lady.

Stoned up is a charmingly male expression meaning "man up".

For Jeep Wrangler owners, going topless means swapping the Wrangler's hard shell for a canvas soft top.

Welsh Cookie Recipe

Ingredients

2 cups all-purpose flour
3/4 cup sugar, plus more for sprinkling
2 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon finely grated orange zest
1 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
1/2 teaspoon fine salt
1/2 cup unsalted butter (1 stick), cold and diced, plus more for cooking
3/4 cup currants
2 large eggs, slightly beaten
2 to 3 tablespoons buttermilk
Melted butter, for cooking
Directions

Whisk the flour, sugar, baking powder, zest, nutmeg and salt in a medium bowl. Rub in the butter with your fingertips until the mixture looks sandy. Stir in the currants. Beat the eggs and 2 tablespoons of the buttermilk together. Stir into the dry ingredients to make a shaggy dough, add more buttermilk if the dough is dry. Gather dough into a disk, wrap in plastic wrap and refrigerate for 1 hour.

Roll the dough on a floured workspace into a piece about 1/4-inch thick. Cut into 2 to 3- inch rounds.

Heat a griddle or frying pan over medium-low heat. Brush the pan surface with butter. Cook the cookies until slightly brown and cooked through, about 4 to 5 minutes on each side. Transfer to a rack, sprinkle with sugar and cool. Store in a cookie tin.

Copyright (c) 2004 Television Food Network, G.P., All Rights Reserved.

911 is the universal number in the United States for all emergency services.