“Now that I think of it,” I started, “I can’t recall a single ceremony aside from birthday parties. And I’ve never belonged to a coven.”
Dr. Renard stood and removed the disposable gloves. “Scoot back and then you can sit up.”
I used the small sheet to wipe the excess gel from between my upper thighs before pivoting my legs to the side. I offered up both inner elbows for Dr. Renard’s inspection and looked away as she drew three vials of blood. When she finished, she opened the door and called for her assistant.
“Rachel, can you please send Calliope’s samples to the Grand St. Kitts lab in Vancouver? Thanks.” She closed the door, hooked her foot around the rolling stool, and pulled up close. “If you’re truly at the start of menopause, there are specific ceremonies you must participate in to advance your magical abilities before your moon blood stops for good.”
The hot fingers poking through my belly slid to the back of my neck, dropping fiery bits of slag along my hairline. “What do you mean? And how do you know?”
“Has no one talked to you about this?”
I shook my head, choking down the bubble of loss threatening to rise and burst. “My mother died when I was six. Her older sister raised me. I’m a witch, like my mom, but my magic is...” I turned my hands and studied both palms, as though I was a fortune teller and all the answers lay somewhere between my thumb mounds and a lifetime’s accumulation of forked lines. “My magic isn’t very strong.” Shrugging, I rubbed my now-sweaty palms on the examination smock, unable to fully breathe out. “I’ve tried to use my mother’s old books and notes to teach myself basic spells and counter-spells, but there’s nothing in them about what to do for…for menopause.”
“Calli, would you like me to put you in touch with my local contacts?”
“I would,” I said, feeling hopeful for the first time in days. Months. “Are you in a coven?”
She nodded. “I am. And I’m trained in Western medicine too. Obviously. What about your ex-husband? And your sons?”
“I suspect Doug’s mother had some magic. And I think my boys do too, but…Goddess, this is hard to admit, Dr. Renard…”
“Rowan. Please, call me Rowan.”
“Rowan. Okay.” I sucked in a big breath. “I’ve never actively sought the company of other witches. I mean, I haven’t avoided them, but my husband—my ex-husband—insisted I not use my magic and it was just easier to not practice, to not even talk about magic.”
“Tell me about your sons.”
Relief. “Harper’s eighteen. He’ll be a senior in high school this coming year, and Thatch is sixteen and a half.”
“And their magic?” Rowan asked, speaking over her shoulder as her assistant knocked on the door and entered.
“Doctor Renard, the hospital called. Lolly Brooks has gone into labor, so…”
“I’ll be right out.” She turned to me. “Let’s talk later. I want to hear more about your sons. And you. I’ll call with the results of your tests within the week. And here.” She scribbled on the back of a pamphlet. “My coven is based in Vancouver. We’re all healers and followers of Airmid, but Belle and Airlie live here on the island. Their addresses and phone numbers should be listed in the local directory. The other woman, Rose, can be challenging, especially if she doesn’t get a good first impression, but give her a chance.”
“Thanks, Rowan. For everything.” I extended my arm and accepted the hug she offered instead.
I took my time changing into my clothes. Zipping my pants, I stared at the wall without seeing. My entire body deflated when I sighed. I wasn’t pregnant, a state of being I had some familiarity with. I was entering my menopausal years, completely unknown territory. I wasn’t about to watch a life grow inside me, I was about to…I had no idea. Doug had slowly isolated me to the point I had few female acquaintances and no real friends. Post-divorce, I’d been trying to connect with other women. But shy of wearing a sandwich board advertising my loneliness, I hadn’t figured out how to find a bestie.
Folding Rowan’s note, I slipped it into the back of my cell phone case and half wondered if there were apps for updating one’s magical abilities and for gathering friends.
At least I was on top of things at work. Next up was a visit to the Pearmain orchards. A manila envelope with no return address had arrived at my office via Canada Post. Inside, a handwritten message—accompanied by a few out-of-focus photographs—accused Clifford and Abigail Pearmain of using banned herbicides on their certified organic apple orchard.
As an acquaintance of the soon-to-be-retired growers, I doubted they dabbled in forbidden chemistry. As a Provincial Agent for the SSIAC—Salish Sea Islands Agriculture Commission—it was my responsibility to investigate. What troubled me was the accuser’s apparent desire for anonymity.
I arrived at the turn off to the orchard without remembering a thing about the drive out of town. The untrimmed grass growing in the center of the single lane dirt road brushed the undercarriage of my car. I parked on the verge next to a dented pickup truck, grabbed my cross-body bag, and pocketed my phone. Making sure my wand—more ceremonial than useful—was in the bag too, I peeked into the truck’s cab. There was nothing unusual about the portable coffee cup in the built-in holder or the soft leather briefcase on the passenger’s seat. I flipped the door handles; both were locked.
The winding driveway to the farmhouse and outbuildings was pitted and unkempt, which was unusual for a thriving apple farm. Grasses going to seed lined the
