“Maritza,” said Rose, stepping from the back door to the wide stairs. She stepped down, taking the rest of the steps with slow deliberation. “Maritza,” she repeated, her gaze on the woman, “who did you see?”
“If you could bring me a glass of fresh lemonade with mint leaves, two teaspoons of Abigail’s honey, and chopped ice, I will tell you what I saw and who I met.” She looked from the dirt to Rose, who retraced her steps back into the house. Then to me, Maritza said, “Calliope, daughter of Genevieve, mother to sons. I am Maritza Brodeur, daughter of Margarita, mother to none.”
While she spoke, she stood, her shape morphing as she straightened her legs. The druids and hidden folk ringed behind me went silent. Even garrulous Belle was wordless. Wafting from the kitchen was the rapid tink-tink-tink of metal against glass as Rose filled the beverage request.
“I can see the cat has taken your collective tongues.” Maritza went to bat away a piece of thread floating up and away from the front of one shoulder and instead grabbed the end and pulled. She continued to pull, hand over hand, until all the pieces of cloth stitched together to create her shapeless ankle-length garment had fallen free. Underneath was a gaunt assembly of bones, clothed in fuschia leggings and a lavender halter top, perched on a pair of yellow platform sandals.
Maritza withdrew black-framed sunglasses stationed in the center of her top and put them on, sliding baby blue-tipped fingernails through hair the color and texture of raven feathers. The woman knew how to make an entrance. I envied she could traverse the orchard’s terrain in such impractical footwear. She pressed her knees together, shifted her hips to one side, and bent to reach for the bamboo handle of an oval, flat-lidded purse decorated with a clump of fake kumquats and green leaves.
“Come,” she said, sliding the handle onto her forearm before waving us back from the edge of the porch and toward the chairs. “Let us sit and talk.”
The peak of the pile curled in her direction but did not move from the circle, while the pieces of fabric settled themselves into a pile beside the stack of colorful particles.
Tanner brought out more chairs, and with the sun past its apex, the back of the house and yard would grow more shaded as the afternoon progressed. Rose and Belle brought Maritza her drink, paper-thin slices of lemon layered with crushed ice, mint leaves, and honey-scented lemonade. My mouth watered. The tall glass offered to Maritza sparkled with more resonance than the pedestrian mixture of lemons and fizzy water, while another tray offered a pitcher of the same concoction.
Maritza lowered herself onto the red rocking chair, crossed her legs, and pulled an Hermès scarf from her bag. The square of silk was printed with a lavish image of a phoenix. She folded the scarf into a triangle, covered her hair, and knotted two corners underneath her chin.
Belle handed Maritza a petite linen lunch napkin, which she pressed against the bottom of the glass.
Even with my feet encased in unfashionable work boots, I could feel the ground’s tremor of anticipation.
With one last long draught of lemonade, Maritza’s muscle tissues plumped enough she went from scrawny to, simply, a bit on the skinny side. “Have the heads thawed?”
I swallowed hard, connecting the dots. Maritza was the necromancer. And if family genetics were as generous to her as to Malvyn, there was a storehouse of power sitting next to me.
Together, Rose and Belle answered, “Yes,” with Rose adding, “We followed your instructions to the letter, although I must say your suggestion to—”
“Rose, there are those here who would not react well to the nuances of reanimation.”
Rose nodded, curt and precise. “Have you decided where you would like to do this, Maritza? Shall we bring the heads to the bodies or the bodies to the heads?”
The necromancer held her glass out to be refilled, leaned into the back of the rocker, and eyed Tanner.
“You are Jessamyne’s druid?” A statement more than a question and not the response Rose was waiting for.
Tanner stood rock-still before bending from the waist and extending his hand. “Tanner Marechal, provincial agent for Ministry of Forests, Lands, and Natural Resources. And druid from the lineage of Ni’eve du Blanc.”
Maritza curled her middle three fingers over his, gave him the subtlest nod, and turned her attention to Belle. “Were you able to locate enough yellow marigolds?”
“I was, and I think you will be pleased with the quality of the petals.”
“And do we have any clothing from the deceased?” Maritza directed that question to the group at large.
“The heads were bare when I found them in the freezer,” I said, finding my way into the conversation while continuing to stand.
“Then let us hope the bodies are clothed.” Maritza placed her napkin and glass on the tray. “Here is what I propose. We bring the heads to the burial mounds. The druids will lift the veil shielding the sacred resting ground and move the soil covering the bodies. I would find it problematic but not impossible to perform this with the bodies and heads such a distance from one another, but I think it would please the group to witness as much as possible. That way, there will be no discrepancy about what I would otherwise simply report to you.”
“Did you decide how you would like us to transport the heads?” Belle asked.
Rose stepped in. “Abigail would harangue us no end if we used her bread bowls, but they’re the right size. Has anyone seen something similar, perhaps in one of the barns?”
Tanner, Wes, and Kaz peeled away from our grouping, as though they’d been waiting for the excuse to put some distance between themselves and the necromancer, and strode toward the nearest outbuilding.
Maritza pointed to one of the empty rocking chairs. “Sit with me,
