Maybe I needed to make myself a Gutta Cavat Lapidem talisman.
Enough. Time to go back to basics. I stepped out to my terrace, pulled on my gardening gloves, grabbed my spade, and spent some time communing with my garden under the light of the waxing moon. Even when I was a young, out-of-control witch, plants had calmed me, while the rich soil soothed me. Graciela had explained it was because I tapped into—and contributed to—the ancient earth energy. That was my skill, my gift, my soul.
I worked the soil for nearly an hour, pulling weeds, pruning and shaping my herbs, bushes, and small potted trees. Before I realized what I was doing, I had started to gather snippets of plants in my basket: mugwort, jasmine, willow, oak leaves, holly berries, mistletoe, yarrow, broom, orris root, ivy, shamrock, rose, and heliotrope. Ingredients I knew well.
I returned to the kitchen.
Quietly, calmly, I began to cast a spell—not for Sailor, or against Renee—just for me. For strength and wisdom. For inner quiet, so I could remain open to the wonder of the night sky, and serve as the conduit between it and the earth beneath my feet. I filled my cauldron with river water and put it on the stove to boil. I chanted while crushing a few of the plants with my stone mortar and pestle, giving my thanks for their sacrifice. I added the rest of the ingredients to the brew, whole. I dropped in a dollop of goat’s milk, a pinch of cayenne, a smidgen of black pepper, and a dash of Tabasco sauce.
After I stirred for a while, the brew began to swirl on its own, and then came to a rolling boil. I cut a small X into my palm and added the secret ingredient: three drops of my own blood.
As always, a great puff of steam exploded out of the pot. I looked up toward the ceiling to search the fog for the face of my guiding spirit, the Ashen Witch.
But she didn’t appear to me.
The Ashen Witch didn’t come.
Long before I even knew what I was, long before I knew who she was—ever since I could remember—the Ashen Witch had come to me when I brewed.
When I looked down into the now-calm brew, I saw herbs floating atop the water. They formed a shape like Sailor’s doodle, the one I’d asked Maya to look up for me. The one the busload of witches seemed to be making with their path.
The one Patience thought was a demon’s sigil.
• • •
As I headed over to Jail #2 for visiting hours the next morning, I kept trying to come up with some way to convince Sailor to go back to work for Aidan. I didn’t think I could handle this alone, and Aidan had a point: Working for him had to be a better option than rotting in prison. Right?
I was so wound up by the time Sailor shuffled in that I just blurted it out.
“Did it ever occur to you that maybe Aidan is the one behind all of this?” was Sailor’s response.
“No. What are you talking about?”
He shrugged. “Think about it: It gets me back into his employ, brings you closer to him, and spoils Renee’s plans, all at the same time. Seems to me he has plenty of motive. Also . . . Aidan’s very good at glamours. Maybe he’s my mystery twin.”
“Could a glamour be used that way? To actually change someone’s appearance like that, so completely?”
“You tell me. This is witchcraft—it’s your strong suit. Remember?”
“Yeah, well, I might be experiencing a few glitches recently,” I said. “But . . . wait a minute. I was with Aidan that night. It wouldn’t have been possible.”
“Think about it: you were with him in the evening, but the murder happened in the afternoon. He could have gotten back to his office by then. Or knowing Aidan, he would more likely have gotten someone else to do his dirty work. Maybe someone who wanted to get in good with him . . . ?”
I didn’t want to admit that Sailor might be right . . . but it did make a certain amount of sense. Was Aidan that ruthless? And if it was true, where did that leave us?
“So, what time is your arraignment today, do you know?” I asked.
Sailor gave me a sardonic smile. “Changing the subject, are we?”
“No, I just wanted to know what time to be here for you. I want to post your bail, take you home, and then attend to some of the other items on my to-do list. Not the least of which is how to exonerate the likes of you.”
“You sure it’s not because you don’t like anyone to speak ill of your precious Aidan Rhodes?”
“Sailor, are you kidding me? You’re going to choose this moment to be jealous of Aidan?”
“I wouldn’t say jealous. . . .” He trailed off with a shrug. “I just don’t enjoy being a member of this supernatural ménage à trois we seem to have going. Anyway, to answer your earlier question, the arraignment hearing has been postponed.”
“Postponed? But . . . this is ridiculous. Until you’re arraigned, I can’t bail you out. How long can they hold you without charges?”
“Forty-eight hours in California. But if the prosecutor can show good cause, she can ask for an extension.”
“What’s the good cause, in this case?”
“Apparently there’s a question as to whether Dupree died from the injuries sustained in the beating.”
“But . . . what do they think killed him, if not that?”
“All I was told was that the medical examiner had some ‘concerns.’”
“Well,” I said, blowing out a breath, “maybe that’s good news, then, right?”
“When you’re facing murder one, any news is good news.” Sailor cast a quick glance over at the sheriff’s deputy, who appeared to be staring at the wall. “Here’s the odd thing: There’s a rumor going around that the prosecutor’s office received a couple of boxes of cupcakes.”
“Cupcakes,” I repeated. “You’re thinking Renee dosed the prosecutor’s office? Why would she want to help you?”
“I have no idea, but
