Just before her hold slipped, Cleo finally called the others to withdraw. When she came back to herself fully, Cleo realized with a start the sweat plastered her hair to her head. Her shirt was drenched, and she swayed with the need to sit.
None of the others looked any better as they sank to the ground. Sophie looked like she was moments away from vomiting, and Grant hung his head between his knees. Mariana cradled her head in her hands, breathing deep and controlled. Cleo worried that Agnes had actually passed out when Agnes sprawled back against the grass. Her worry dissipated when Agnes burst into snorting laughter.
“What was that? That felt more slippery than my dog during a bath. I thought I was getting better, but I was not ready for that,” Agnes’ laughter was slightly unhinged.
Grant’s echoing laughter cut through the air, and they were suddenly all giggling like idiots.
Cleo ruthlessly suppressed her laughter. The connection was still floating between them, even though they had all withdrawn it. It was heady, intimate, and so tempting. Cleo could almost imagine herself laughing with them, luxuriating in that closeness and connection.
She got up on unsteady legs.
Sophie stopped chuckling, but her smile was still there when she called to Cleo’s retreating back, “Cleo, c’mon, it’s okay! We were only joking!”
Oh. They thought she was offended somehow. That was probably for the best, Cleo thought, with a sick twist to her stomach. She almost turned around to reassure Sophie, but walked determinedly back to the house.
The house was too-quiet and empty, compared to the warmth and connection of the circle outside. She walked through the porch, the plants sensing her sadness. Her pothos was especially sensitive to her mood and drooped a little. It would’ve been cute another time, but not tonight.
She dropped into the sofa. Her bones ached and she tipped her head back to rest along the back of the sofa, closing her eyes. “I can’t do this anymore,” Cleo muttered to herself. “I just can’t.”
“Can’t do what?” Mari asked into the hush of the room. Cleo startled, but her eyes opened slowly. Sometime during her wallowing, her coven had joined her in the living room.
Cleo half-smiled at her. “That curse, I don’t think any of us expected that,” Cleo lied.
Sophie’s face was uncharacteristically grave. “I am gently and lovingly calling bullshit on that, Cleo.”
Cleo just shook her head. She wasn’t getting into it. She felt their disappointment but felt helpless against it. What was she supposed to do? Get friendly and trigger the curse and shove them away through her own action? Or stay distant and have them go on their own eventually through her inaction? Her own curse was a cage, and Cleo felt near-tears.
Grant cleared his throat. “Maybe we can look through some more of Cleo’s Nan’s books, see if there’s anything there about this type of curse that we missed?” They hadn’t missed anything, but Cleo was grateful for the diversion, even if the tension in the room hadn’t dissipated with it.
“Now that we know how it feels, maybe each of us can go and… I don’t know, meditate about how to deal with it?” Agnes said tentatively.
Cleo sighed. “No.” All eyes turned back to her. “We’re punching above our weight here. We need either more education or other witches.”
“Do we know of other witches?” asked Mari slowly. “Because as far as I know, we’re it.”
Cleo sighed again, this time dramatically. “I think I might know of some more, maybe. But it’s going to be awkward.”
“You? Awkward?” Agnes smiled to take the sting off the words. It almost worked, and Cleo smiled back.
Time to wriggle her way into Ian’s family. Awkward indeed.
Chapter Seven
Cleo spent her morning with two-thirds of her mind on how to infiltrate Ian’s family. One-third of her mind was spent watering plants, picking the tomatoes and lettuces (which were doing great this year), and worrying about her onions (who seemed a little stressed). The small restaurants who bought from her seemed happy with the produce she grew, and she knew the plants liked the large sunny plot and Cleo’s attention. Even if, Cleo thought guiltily, it was only her partial attention at best.
She debated asking Ian over for coffee, ferreting out the names of his aunts and then introducing herself to his aunts on the sly. Cleo knew that was probably a bad idea, she was as subtle as a sledgehammer. She could also ask Opal if she knew Ian’s family, thereby bypassing the need for stealth and awkward conversation. She didn’t want to piss off Ian, though, since he was her neighbor (not because he was handsome, no, it was because she wanted to be a good neighbor).
“Hey,” a low voice said, too close.
Cleo jumped, the hose in her hand turning with her as she faced the voice. The water hit Ian in the face, then sprayed down his body as Cleo gaped at him in surprise.
“Sweet mother!” Cleo exclaimed.
She had managed to drench him. Utterly drench him. His t-shirt clung to his body in all sorts of interesting ways. His shorts molded to nice legs, water sliding down thick calves. His sneakers looked only damp, Cleo thought with relief. Wet socks were the worst.
“My eyes are up here,” Ian’s dry voice contrasted with the rest of him neatly.
“Sorry! Sorry!” Cleo was sure the heat from her face could probably dry him off nicely.
Ian’s laugh was so easy, it deflated some of Cleo’s anxiety.
“I shouldn’t have surprised a woman with a hose,” Ian said, “but I wouldn’t say no to a towel.”
Cleo was already moving towards the house. “C’mon.” Ian followed her, his shoes making a sad squelching noise. He definitely had wet socks now, Cleo thought glumly, and knew there was no chance she was going to be able to ask him about his aunts.
Ian stopped at the steps. “I’ll wait here. I don’t want to mess up your floor.”
Cleo looked at
