“I think that’s best,” she said with a nod. “What do you need me to do?”
“Watch, don’t interfere, and follow my lead.”
I poured a thin line of salt in a circle around the box, chanting:
At this place and in this time,
lock tight the doors of our minds.
Spirits who wander, spirits who keep,
do not bring our souls to weep,
guardians of the night and arts,
shield the keys to our hearts.
Glancing up at Patience, who sat silently watching me, I felt a wave of self-consciousness.
“That’s how it goes,” I said, my tone defensive. “It’s a protection spell.”
“Rock on, witchy woman.”
I almost never cast in front of others. But since this was for Sailor, I repeated the chant over and over, forcing myself to focus my intent.
I wished I had thought to bring Oscar with us. Even though he’s not a typical witch’s familiar, he shares with familiars one very important characteristic: He eases my spellcasting, helping me to open the portals to the next world and beyond more easily. Still, Oscar wouldn’t be able to transform in front of Patience, and I wasn’t sure whether he would be as helpful in his piggy form. We’d never had reason to try.
I took out a black tourmaline stone from the basket, repeated my chant, then set it on the table right outside the salt circle, just barely touching the white crystals. One by one I placed the rest of the stones: a slick agate, a bloodstone, a labradorite, a black onyx, a peridot, and, from an old Altoids tin, a tiny chip of precious emerald.
The stones studded the salt circle like ornaments on a wreath.
I sat on the floor on one side of the coffee table and nodded to Patience to sit opposite me.
I laid my hands, palms up, on the table. Slowly, she rested hers atop mine.
A shock of recognition, a tiny spark like an electric current, passed between the two of us. This happened at times with other magical folk, such as Aidan, though with him the recognition was greatly amplified, as if on steroids.
“We surround ourselves with a veil of protection,” I intoned. “We are safe within our space.”
I felt Patience focusing, lending her powers of concentration to mine. A light began to emanate from the two of us, rising above the salt circle, atop the box, growing brighter with each breath. It was strong and controlled, vibrating at a high frequency.
“No evil can penetrate our combined forces.”
The light spread from its origin above the box to fill the room, casting a pulsating glow.
“Guiding Spirit, hear my call.” A faint visage of the Ashen Witch appeared in my mind.
And then I opened the box.
Chapter 14
The slithering again.
“Ugh, you didn’t say there would be silverfish!” Patience said, rearing back. “I hate silverfish.”
“Silverfish?” I peered into the box. There were silvery blue insects slithering all over the cardboard and the items within the box.
“You don’t need a psychic. You need an exterminator.”
“There aren’t silverfish anywhere else in my apartment. Look at them; they seem to be confined to the box.”
Besides the admittedly creepy silverfish, there were a few items wrapped in brown paper along with an old newspaper and a photograph.
It was a formal wedding portrait of my father and mother. As I picked it up, I remembered carrying it with me from Texas, hoping it would aid me in my search. But of course my father had changed a lot since then. In the photo, his face was open, hopeful, his smile wide and genuine. The last time I had seen him, when he had come to San Francisco, he looked like an entirely different man. Not just older, but hard, jaded. Bitter.
My mother looked slightly dazed, and very innocent. She gazed up at my father adoringly, a beatific expression on her young face.
What does she look like now? I wondered. What would she be like? Why had she decided to board that bus, with all those elderly witches? When I knew her, she had taken pains to distance herself from anything and everything having to do with magic and witchcraft. Including her only daughter.
When will they get here, already? The anticipation was killing me.
In an attempt to focus my wandering thoughts, I unwrapped a small bundle that turned out to contain an old windup wristwatch. I started to turn the knob to see if it still worked, before I found myself hesitating.
“Maybe not,” I said. “Wouldn’t want to start the doomsday countdown, or whatever.”
“No, indeed,” replied Patience. “Wouldn’t want that. Maybe you should ask Aidan.”
There were several other crystals and stones wrapped in paper, a few herbs so dry they were mostly powder, and one more photograph: of me, as a toddler. Probably taken around the time my father left Texas. Left me, and my mother.
I chose another item, this one wrapped in muslin. Inside was a tiny, ornate glass bottle, encased in silver filigree. I held it up to the light of the candle. Inside, a few delicate crystals tinkled.
“What the hell are those?” Patience demanded. “More salts?”
“In a manner of speaking,” I replied. “This is a lachrymatory. In the Victorian days, when someone died, mourners collected their tears in a bottle like this. When the tears evaporated, the mourning period was over.”
“I’ve heard of that. I thought it was a myth.”
“Lots of things thought to be mythical are true.”
“Okay. I can roll with that. But why is this one important?”
“Renee-the-cupcake-lady has been collecting lachrymatories in her bid to take over San Francisco’s magical community. The salts that remain after the tears evaporate are essential to a number of spells. They’re quite powerful because they contain the essence of the bereaved. Concentrated grief, in a way.”
“Renee-the-cupcake-lady? Wasn’t that her weasel down in the shop?”
“Yep. Hard to believe the cupcake lady poses an existential threat to San
