Pulling my hand away from between my legs, I noticed no blood. And after I toweled my hair and went to detangle sections with my wood-toothed brush, the stroke kept going, two or more inches longer than usual. I separated out a hank of hair and pulled it away to examine the color under the light above the mirror.
Chestnut brown. Thick. Luxurious.
I tugged. Not a wig.
My hair.
I looked down the front of my body. My hands travelled over my skin, found my waist, rounded my hips and my breasts. Maybe no one else would notice, but I did. My skin was smoother, more taut. My waist nipped in, not to its pre-babies circumference, but missing a little of the layer of fat that had arrived on the heels of my fortieth birthday.
I patted my cheeks and breasts again. Still full and maybe sitting a tad higher. I walked naked from one side of the bathroom to the other, chin lifted, hips swaying, feet confident as I landed, heel to toe, heel to toe, on the firm tile surface. Assaying the front of my body again, wanting to make sure this was really me, even my pubic hair was more lush.
I hadn’t thought to check my appearance in the mirror. The reflection would confirm one of two things: either I was crazy or the ritual in the apple tree had laid some serious consequences on my biological processes. My bathrobe hung from its hook on the back of the door. I slipped my arms through the sleeves, folded the halves across my chest, and tied the belt snugly at the waist.
Curious, I spread the robe open to look at my belly one more time. The remains of the tattoo were completely gone.
Tanner said it was time for dinner. I had the sense I was forgetting something. Something more important than clothes. Patting the thick fabric so it would soak up the last bit of water from my body, I opened the bathroom door and paused.
Rose said I had to put the dirt back, that I was to blend it with the soil in the most sacred spot of my property. I couldn’t very well sprinkle it over the floorboards of the house that provided a safe haven for me and my sons. While my head deliberated where the soil should go, I followed my feet down the hall toward the busy part of the house and out the door, passing Tanner, Harper, and Thatch without them stopping their debate.
The basket with the pots and trowel was parked at the bottom of the porch steps. My clean, pink toes took me there, waited while I picked up the basket, and walked me around the house to the crabapple tree. I crouched. Loosened the soil. Tugged at clumps of dried grass and needled them into giving up their hold. They did, eventually, leaving patches where I could mix in my blood-nourished contribution to the health of the old tree.
Satisfied I’d done a decent job, I whacked the back of the trowel against the trunk. The metal rang out a high, clanging note.
“Mom? What are you doing?” Harper said, Leilani by his side, elbows on the railing of the porch. Lei-li waved to me when I glanced up.
“I had to put the dirt back.” Wasn’t that obvious?
Harper quirked his head to the side. “Oh. Well, you know there’s a party in your honor tonight, right?”
Huh. I snugged the belt tighter, leaving a few muddy smudges on the white cloth. “Guess I better change.”
Chapter 21
Hallway, bathroom, bedroom. The bureau had been my aunt’s, and the mirror had known generations of faces. These everyday objects were familiar—and foreign, like someone had cleaned my house in my absence and replaced everything slightly askew from where it usually resided. I faced the chest of drawers, pressed my belly against the edge, and searched for myself in the mirror.
Calliope Jones. Earth witch. Daughter, mother…I couldn’t hold my own gaze.
My gauntlets had been polished and were draped over the corner of the cluttered bureau. I patted the leather, smoothed my fingers over the roughed up spots. The skin on my arms was unblemished, but the gauntlets told a story. I could hope to recall it later, when I was out of this off-kilter, in-between state.
The red dress Rowan gave me was clean and folded and placed on the spindle chair sitting beside the bureau. I wasn’t sure I should wear the same dress for the evening’s festivities. The red had served its purpose.
“Calli?” Tanner’s low voice came to my ears from the end of a long tunnel. His body arrived at my door, followed by an animal-like presence that positioned itself protectively against the solid panels of wood.
“Come in.” I could enlist his help picking out something to wear for the party. I wasn’t making sense of anything on my own, and I was far more drawn to calling on the beast in my hallway to curl up with me on my bed than making small talk with guests.
Tanner opened the door and paused at the threshold. He wore snug white jeans and a silk shirt the color of antique turquoise. His feet were bared. I slid my gaze between each and every one of his toes, followed the upward arch at the bottoms of his feet to the inward curve of his ankles. The pant fabric cupped his calves and gathered a little around his knees before stretching taut over the sculpted muscles of his thighs and the tumescent bulge of his cock.
My druid was aroused. I lifted the damp hair off the nape of my neck, noted its luxurious weight, and turned, every cell of my skin aware of Tanner’s gaze clocking my movements.
He undid the belt to my bathrobe and separated the front halves of the garment. I hissed when the rough terrycloth grazed my nipples.
“You really should be getting dressed,”
