“What’s happening? What are you doing?” Ridley asked.
“A geolocating spell. Iris is right. We need to find that gray house with the birdbath and the oak tree, like, immediately. I think Greta might… she might be in terrible danger. Or maybe we’re too late, and—”
“She might be dead,” Iris finished in a choked voice.
30 TEA FOR TWO
They began as witch-hunters, then they discovered that they were themselves witches.
And oh, how irresistible is Power!
(FROM THE GOOD BOOK OF MAGIC AND MENTALISM BY CALLIXTA CROWE)
Greta was having a dream. Finally. Perhaps the marigolds under her pillow or the wild asparagus root or the peppermint had worked, after all; or perhaps the Goddess had intervened.
Greta hadn’t told Iris—she hadn’t really even admitted it to herself—but she envied Iris’s prophetic abilities. Sure, Iris’s dreams and visions could be terribly dark, like the one she’d had about… what was that again? Greta lying in a queen’s arms, dead? But messages from the magical realm, like poetry and art, often held layers and layers of meaning. And Greta’s poetic, artistic temperament was well-suited for receiving and deciphering these layers. And also sitting still with upsetting images, unafraid, letting love and light sift through and illuminate them.
Perhaps it was all part of the Goddess’s plan, though… the years of dreamlessness followed by this new power. Greta would use it well. This was a beginning.
The dream, her very first dream, was about springtime.
She was in her garden, Bloomsbury, planting new seedlings that she’d cultivated inside the house over the winter. She’d made little labels to go with them, too, recycling dozens of Teo’s Popsicle sticks; she’d written the English names on one side and the Latin names on the other, in elegant cursive. Yarrow; Achillea millefolium. Dill; Anethum graveolens. Cilantro; Coriandrum sativum. Eyebright; Euphrasia officinalis. Balm of Gilead; Populus balsamifera.
“Hi there!”
A woman entered the garden through an ornate black iron gate. She looked familiar. Was it the social worker from school?
“Mrs. Feathers?”
“Yes. How are you, Greta? Are you enjoying the day?”
Greta stood up and brushed her hands against her long wool skirt. She knotted her velvet scarf around her neck. “Yes, thank you! Are you here to see Penelope?”
“Is she here?”
Greta glanced around. “I thought she was, but I haven’t seen her in a while.”
“No worries. I’m sure she’ll be joining us soon. Or perhaps we’ll be joining her.”
“At her birthday party?”
“Yes, at her birthday party. It should be quite magical!”
Greta’s gaze dropped to the ground. The seedlings were already starting to grow. She could see them shooting up, millimeter by millimeter. How miraculous! Bloomsbury must be enchanted, after all. A few feet away, a family of robins splashed around in the stone birdbath. No, not robins. Crows?
And then the dream shifted… and suddenly Greta and Mrs. Feathers were inside a room, sitting on either side of a low, old-fashioned-looking table. Dozens of candles cast a warm, glowing light. The room had high, molded tin ceilings, a velvet couch, and a stained-glass window. Also a red chair with a doll on it.
Strange… the doll was bound to the chair with thick ropes. Was that part of the birthday festivities?
On the table was a silver tray with a full tea service. The teapot and cups and saucers were bone-white with an unusual flower design.
“Welcome to my home, Greta,” said Mrs. Feathers.
“Thank you. Are those lilies?” Greta asked, pointing to the design on the tea set.
“No, they’re angel’s trumpets. Do you know them?”
“Brugmansia. Family name Solanaceae. Order Polemoniales.”
“Yes! What a clever girl you are! No wonder you’re such a talented witch.”
Greta frowned. Mrs. Feathers wasn’t supposed to know that she practiced the craft. “What do you mean? I’m not a—”
“And these are white baneberry,” Mrs. Feathers cut in, pointing to a different flower on the tea set. “Also known as doll’s eye.”
“Actaea pachypoda.”
“Exactly. A-plus. Now, shall I be Mother?”
Greta knew that expression from old English novels, from a time when mothers were expected to pour the tea for everyone.
“Yes. Sure. What you said before, though. I… I’m not a witch.”
“Of course you are. And as it turns out, you’re also a scion of Callixta Crowe. So is Penelope. Was.”
“Callixta?” Greta was so confused. She remembered that name from somewhere. And wasn’t scion the same thing as descendant? “Penelope and I are related?”
“Yes, through Callixta’s lineage. That’s why we had to harvest her heart-fire, and that’s why we must harvest yours.”
Heart-fire?
Suddenly, Greta saw that the doll was no longer tied up in the red chair. She was. The doll was lying on the floor, bleeding. A one-eyed gray cat was licking her wounds. Crying out, Greta strained against the ropes, but they were unyielding.
“You see, Maximus needs the heart-fire of Callixta’s scions in order to stay alive,” Mrs. Feathers continued.
“I don’t understand. Who is Maximus? Are… Are you guys Antima?”
Mrs. Feathers laughed. “Antima? No, no, no. We made you and Div and your other witches think that the Antima were after you.”
“But Ms. O’Shea said—”
“Ms. O’Shea isn’t relevant. And she won’t be returning to Sorrow Point.”
“W-what?”
A slow drumbeat of panic was building inside Greta. She glanced around wildly—what if this wasn’t a dream? She had to get the hex out of here. This woman seemed off, dangerous.
Her eyes fell on the one-eyed cat. Its whiskers were covered with the doll’s blood.
But it wasn’t the one-eyed cat anymore. This cat had two eyes, the color of emeralds. And long golden fur.
Gofflesby.
“Gofflesby! What are you doing here?” Greta cried out. She turned to Mrs. Feathers. “Did you hurt him?”
Mrs. Feathers lifted the lid off the flowery teapot. Steam rose in the air, and she smiled, satisfied. “I would never hurt him. He is one of my familiars.”
“What? No! He’s my familiar. And… wait, you’re a witch?”
“I sent him out in the world to help us find Callixta’s scions and to confirm their identities. He found you. There are other animals like him out
