Wes waved me off and trudged up the porch steps. I scooted around the house. The total lack of light made locating the pouch’s hiding place a challenge. Once I found the patch of grass Tanner had coaxed into lushness, my palm found the loosened bit of plaster with ease.
Pouch secured around my neck, I tiptoed into a quiet house. Low voices drew me to the back porch. The screen door slid then stopped, its track jammed with blackened fir needles from the previous winter. I stooped, freed the slider, and popped my head out to let Rowan and Christoph know we were home.
“There’s a loaf of anadama bread on the counter,” Christoph said. “Would you like me to make you something to eat?”
I shook my head. “I’m showering first. Then I’ll make toast and fill you in. How are the kids?”
Rowan gave a half smile. “Thatcher’s holding up well, and Sallie’s in a deep sleep. I had Shamaha come over. She was at your initiation ritual, Calli, and she’s good with analyzing magically charged objects. Shama sped up the process of drawing the poison out of that poor girl’s system. We agreed the best thing for Sallie was a deep rest. The next step will be to support her body and mind as though she were going through withdrawal.”
“Thank you for everything.” I bent forward for the offered hug.
From the sound of water running through pipes, Wes was already using the boys’ shower. I ducked up the stairs, gave a quick peek into Thatcher’s room, and was rewarded with the sight of two sleeping bodies and a pervading sense of serenity. The same pink light I often conjured to surround my sons coated the walls, floor, and ceiling in shimmering bands. I closed the door, exhaled my held breath, and relied on the bannister to keep me on my feet.
The shower was life-affirming, clean clothes a gift, and two thick slabs of bread already in the toaster almost made me cry again. I composed myself while waiting then took the food onto the porch.
“I think I have about five minutes of consciousness left in me before I crash.” I snuggled into a corner of the swing, tucked a shawl around my legs, and brought the plate of toast into my lap. Commingled flavors of molasses and cornmeal kneaded into a base of whole wheat flour made my grandfather’s bread the panacea I didn’t know I needed. Slathered with strawberry jam made earlier in the summer, the snack was the perfect send-off to sleep.
Wes joined us, sitting on the arm of Rowan’s chair. Back and forth, he and I gave the bare details of the day.
“I’ll be leaving around five, five thirty in the morning,” Rowan said, leaning against Wes’s side. “I’m on call this weekend and back to my clinic on Monday. I’ve left my answering service instructions to prioritize calls from you, and I have my phone on me always.” She added, “Shamaha’s on the island for a witch’s gathering. She said you can call her anytime you have questions related to Sallie.”
Saturday morning I awoke to sticky bits of jam and toast crumbs stuck in the corners of my mouth. I had forgotten to brush my teeth before I finally typed The End on yesterday. Curled in the shadowed corner of my bed, I wasn’t going to rush the next few minutes. Sun streamed in my bedroom window, bright and clear, warning the day intended to go from warm to hot.
I hadn’t checked phone messages or my email before I passed out. Guilt wagged an accusatory finger, but I swatted the digit away. If something major had happened here, at the Brodeur house or with Malvyn in Vancouver while we were at the orchard, Rowan or Christoph would have let us know.
There were other responsible adults around, and I didn’t have to do it all or keep track of it all.
With that comforting affirmation lifting a bit of weight off my chest, I shuffled to the bathroom then to the kitchen, where I gathered the makings for a pot of tea.
Rowan had scribbled, “Call me anytime” on a Post-it note and left it on the refrigerator. The saying on the magnet she chose—My other car is a broom—made me giggle. Waiting for the water to come to a boil, I listened for movement from upstairs. All was quiet. I poured water over the basket of Assam, set a timer for it to steep, and tiptoed through the living room to the open glass slider.
Wes and Christoph were in the backyard, putting themselves through a series of elegant movements that could have been tai chi or chi gong, or the Magicals’ equivalent. I watched until the kitchen timer dinged.
I wanted to see Sallie and Thatcher with my own eyes. I knocked at his door and waited. Bodies stirred on the other side. Something brushed against the wood, and a faint scratching sounded close to the floor. When fur brushed my bared toes, I stifled a squeal, jerking my foot away from the paw sticking out from underneath the door.
I pressed an ear to the wood, knocked again, and hissed, “Thatcher. Sallie. It’s me.”
Turning the handle, I pressed the door open and was met by the feline version of Who, me? A fluffed-out Maine coon cat with gorgeous dark silver fur stared, both its ears flicking back like it was more than annoyed with my presence.
“Hey, Mom. That’s Jasper. Jasper, c’mon over here. Mom’s one of the good guys—girls.”
Jasper gave me the up-and-down, stretched, and walked to the edge of Thatcher’s bed. He sniffed at Sallie, scent-marked her chin with his, and crossed the braided rug to where Thatcher was curled on his cheery beanbag chair, sketchbook in hand.
“Shamaha brought Jasper over yesterday, Mom,” Thatcher said. “Said he’s the best magic-detecting cat she’s ever had and that we can keep him as long as we need to, even after Sallie’s better.”
“He’s amazing.”
