“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 GIAC—Gulf 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 former sheep path, and berry canes, heavy with blue-black fruit, grew more dense and entwined the closer I got to the main gate. I’d been working for the GIAC long enough to be wary but not overly alarmed at the lack of activity. Farmers were busy people and far more likely to be out in their fields and greenhouses, monitoring their crops.
“Clifford! Abigail! It’s Calliope,” I hollered, banging on the combination split wood and wire enclosure. Trinkets hanging from bits of string and knotted straw rattled every time the side of my fist hit the frame of the homemade gate. One last forceful smack of the heel of my palm and the rusted latch acquiesced to the pull of entropy and dropped from loosened screws. As the gate creaked open, its bottom edge scuffed a break in the curving line of salt placed across the surface of the dull brown dirt.
“Cliff! Abi…?”
A filmy silence settled over my shoulders, flowed down my body, and pooled over the ground. No insects, bird calls, or rustling leaves interrupted the leaden quiet. I sucked in a breath and peered into the shadows between the trees to my right and to my left. Nothing moved, even the breeze held its breath.
Anchoring my boot-clad feet, I raised my hands, fingers spread and palms facing out, and tested the strength of the salt circle’s magical charge. If it was active—like an electrical wire—I’d feel a resounding zap if I got too close.
Nothing.
No vibration, no sensation of skin meeting invisible membrane, no static, no…nothing. Stepping further onto the Pearmain’s property, I crouched, brushing my fingertips over the salt’s pearly-white crystals before bringing a few to the tip of my tongue.
A pungent darkness rolled over my taste buds and coated my nostrils, a sensation akin to swallowing a surprise mouthful of seawater. For a moment, my shoulder-length hair flowed away from my body like kelp
