“Did you feel anything just now or when I was shopping in town?”
“No. Nothing.”
I backed up, shifted, and drove to the road. An SUV with tinted windows was parked in the pull-off area by the bank of rural mailboxes. The sign on the driver’s side door declared it property of the Flechette Realty and Development Group. With at least six offices on the lower mainland and Salish Sea Islands, it was inevitable I’d see my ex or his fellow agents out with clients, but I didn’t recognize the citified woman behind the oversized sunglasses.
“Tanner. What was the name on the business card left at the Pearmains’?”
He scanned his phone. “Adelaide Dunfay.”
Bingo. I would bet my two pots of motherwort Ms. Dunfay’s presence on this sparsely-populated road was anything but coincidental. “Can you keep an eye on the car behind us?”
Moody one moment, alert the next, Tanner repositioned the back of his seat and adjusted the mirror on his side of the car. “What’s up?”
“Not only is that one of my ex’s SUVs, the name on the door matches the business card from the Pearmains. And I haven’t seen a single For Sale sign anywhere on this road.”
That solidified his attention. “Any reason to suspect Doug or his family would send someone to follow you?”
“Well, no,” I mused, signaling the upcoming right-hand turn with my blinker. “But the boys are supposed to spend the weekend with him, and they mentioned he’s bought a new condo in Vancouver and I’m curious, that’s all.”
The SUV’s left blinker went on. The driver peeled away and accelerated up the winding road toward the other side of the island.
“Should we turn around and follow her?” I asked.
“No.” Tanner flipped his visor up. “How long were you two married?”
“Twelve years.”
Three or four kilometers passed before he spoke again. “He involved with anyone now?”
“No idea.”
“Are you?”
I negotiated the final set of tight curves, pulled into my driveway, and chuffed out a breath. “Nope. I have mysterious troll heads and missing bodies to occupy my time.”
Harper and Thatcher were eager to talk about the mentoring program. Tanner offered to drive them to the Fulford ferry, which would give them time to ask questions and me time to start packing.
Rose’s note included a meal plan for Saturday dinner and Sunday breakfast. I held the list with both hands, circled my kitchen for inspiration, and settled on homemade granola. My version was so laden with nuts and chunks of dried fruit it could double as a snack and best of all, I had everything I needed on hand.
I gathered the ingredients, set the oven to a low temperature, and measured, mixed, and tweaked. Once the baking trays were in the oven, I set a ten-minute reminder and settled on a stool to read the book Rose provided.
Underneath the list of camping supplies were the objects required for the ritual: Wand. Athame. Bowl. Red dress. Yarn or ribbon, at least three yards.
Shit.
I marked my place in the book and scrabbled off the stool. Somewhere in my bedroom closet or the attic crawl space was a collection of sewing notions and unfinished craft projects, bits and pieces that had belonged to my aunt and my maternal grandmother. Or so my aunt said. Surely, I could cobble together the needed length from those remnants.
The timer dinged. I dashed to the kitchen, stirred the granola, and returned to my closet. I located one rubber band-wrapped shoebox that harbored a small stash of holiday ribbons, but very little of it felt nice to the hand or as though it could last through a ritual—even though I had no idea what the ritual entailed. I would check the attic after Tanner returned.
He was returning, right?
I reviewed our last conversation, the hurried bits as the boys stuffed clean clothes and toiletries into their backpacks after pulling out the smelly stuff from two nights before. Yes, Tanner had reiterated, he’d stay another night—if I was willing to again provide a bed—and figure out his next move after we debriefed.
Better to keep reading and lower the risk of burning the granola, and ask for help getting into the attic.
Car lights swept across the kitchen, and the familiar rattle of the Jeep settling to a full stop brought me out of Rose’s book. The granola had cooled, and I was completely immersed in reading about the many stages of a woman’s life, be she Magical or human, and the rituals meant to herald us into each stage.
Turns out, at the tender age of forty-one, I lacked fully one-hundred-percent of the suggested minimum rituals needed to help grow and sustain my magical gifts. It was a wonder I’d managed to keep my hands working under such dire straits. The weight drawing down my shoulders pooled in my heart and the bottoms of my feet. Maybe the couch could just swallow me whole.
“How are you?” asked Tanner, stepping into the kitchen. He brought his face close to the cooled granola and inhaled. “And this smells delicious.”
At least I could cook. “Thanks. It’s my culinary contribution to my upcoming journey deep into the realms of witch magic. Which, according to this book,” I lifted the paperback and waved it in the air, “I lack. I’m going to need months to catch up, if not years. It’s a wonder my magic even works anymore.”
I tried a dramatic sigh.
Tanner responded with a short laugh and a more serious assessment. “Perhaps your ability to sense through your hands and feet as well as you do speaks to the power you’ve managed to keep alive.”
“Perhaps. I rarely wield my wand, but I am making a new one.” I pulled myself off the couch and joined him in the kitchen. The granola was cool enough to pour into glass containers and add to my growing pile of supplies. “Thanks again for driving the boys.”
“I enjoyed talking with them,”
