Iris buttoned up her black cardigan as the elderly minister stood over Penelope’s grave and recited from the Bible. The casket, which had not been lowered into the ground yet, was painted white with a fancy design of birds and butterflies. The tag on Iris’s sweater was bothering her; she reached back and tried to rip it out, but that didn’t work, so she just peeled off the cardigan and bunched it up and held it in her arms. It smelled like mothballs, though, which also bothered her, so she shoved the whole thing into her shoulder bag, next to her wand.
She’d only been to one other funeral in her life—her dad’s, which hadn’t been a funeral so much as a memorial service with his three friends from college playing the guitar as his ashes were scattered into the waters off Montauk, Long Island, near where he’d grown up. She remembered vividly the honeysuckle and salt in the air, the big waves at high tide. She hoped this funeral, Penelope’s funeral, wouldn’t make her cry as much as her dad’s, although it was entirely possible that she’d cry twice as much because there were now two deaths in her life. That was the thing about trauma; it could accumulate like waves and grow bigger, one on top of the other.
She took off her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose, hard. Mrs. Feathers’s trick definitely didn’t work for her; tears were already pooling in her eyes. Mrs. Feathers, who was standing just a few feet away, seemed to sense Iris’s agitation and gave her a sympathetic nod.
And in addition to her grief, there was her anxiety, which was escalating by the minute. Even with everything going on around her, she couldn’t stop thinking about her morningmare. And the more she thought about it, the more it felt like a premonition. What if Greta really was in danger? She had received a shadow message, after all. Div had received a shadow message, too, and she was attacked at the Jessups’ party.
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff comfort me.”
To avoid having a complete emotional meltdown, Iris had performed a calming spell pre-funeral, with a special tea blend. (As I sip this brew, clear my mind, and help me push through, for inside I can be aligned.) She crossed her fingers and toes now, hoping that the spell would get her through the next couple of hours.
Iris felt eyes on her. She swiveled her head this way and that, then realized that Colter was staring at her from the other side of Penelope’s casket. O-kay. Why? She’d only met him twice—on the first day of school, and in the cafeteria when she was having lunch with the two covens and Penelope. Or was he staring at Greta, who was standing right next to her? Nope, his gaze was definitely fixed on her. Should she play it cool and smile at him in a casual, I-don’t-know-anything-about-your-Antima-shoulder-patch-or-the-murder-board-in-your-family’s-house kind of way? But people didn’t smile at funerals because funerals were sad, so maybe she should just acknowledge him with a slow, melancholy nod?
Wait. But what if he’d figured out that she was a witch? Would he or his 1415, N-O, New Order group come after her? Was it even his group?
Iris began to scratch furiously at her right arm.
“It’s going to be all right.”
Greta was whispering in her ear. Her warm hand slipped into Iris’s hand and squeezed. Iris squeezed back. At Greta’s touch, she could feel the itching subside, the high pitch of unease relax a little.
“It’s going to be all right,” Greta repeated. “I promise.”
Iris nodded, and her glasses slipped down her nose. She pushed them back up again. When this was all over—when they’d solved the mystery of Penelope’s death and put the Antima out of commission and eliminated whatever other dangers might lurk over their coven and Div’s coven—Iris couldn’t wait to really immerse herself and learn more about the craft from Greta and the others. Iris pictured their coven meetings, joining together in their warm candlelit circle and pulling the universe’s energy into their hands and hearts so they could make magic together.
Their coven. So she’d definitely decided to join Greta’s coven. Huh. Go, me, making big life decisions and stuff!
“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever,” the elderly minister finished. “Family and friends, please say your farewells to our dear Penelope before she is laid to her final rest.”
People began lining up at the foot of the casket. Iris joined the line right behind Greta. Binx and Ridley were in the distance, still huddled behind a big stone… what was it called? A crypt? A tomb? A mausoleum? She wondered what in the hex they were talking about so intently that they would have missed most of the funeral.
Greta reached the front of the line. She picked up a long-stemmed pink rose from a white basket and laid it on top of the casket. She steepled her hands under her chin, in prayer.
“Penelope. May your soul fly to the stars and moons and become one with the universe,” she whispered, so softly that only Iris could hear. “May the Goddess watch over you always. May you be joined eternally in heart and spirit with all of your sisters, past, present, and future. Love and light.”
Iris was next. Suddenly nervous—more nervous than before—she began scratching at her arm again. Stop it, she told herself. Just do what Greta did.
She reached into the white basket and hastily extracted one of the pink roses. But a thorn caught the skin on her thumb and drew blood. Stifling a yelp, she shoved her thumb into her mouth.
“Pen-ner-o-blah,” she began, then pulled her thumb out of her mouth when she realized
