“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,” he said, scooping a handful of oats and nuts and doling a bit into his mouth. “They’re curious. And I think they’ll benefit from being around peers, as well as the adult mentors.”
“Did you eat?”
He nodded. “I checked in with River, and we had a quick dinner with Kaz and Wessel. And I filled your tank.”
My gaze shot to his. I wished I could accept everything helpful and attentive about him at face value. But that kiss earlier in the day, at the orchard? “Could you help me with one more thing tonight? I need to get into the attic, and the pull-down ladder is stuck.”
“Sure. Let’s do that now.” Tanner needed ten minutes of muted swearing to figure out the problem was rusted hinges. “When you get back from the ritual, you might want to have someone take a look at your roof before the rains get here. Could be a leak.” He held the sides of the lowered ladder and jammed the resistant hinges into place. The lone attic lightbulb, covered in grime, gave off a faint yellow glow. “Got a flashlight?” he asked.
“Right here. And thanks.” I started up the rickety steps and paused, sweeping the flashlight across the beams and floorboards until I spied what I was looking for.
When I first left this house for married life with Doug, my aunt had given me the child-sized steamer trunk packed with mementos: a few of my mother’s books, pieces of costume jewelry and glass vials of crystal beads, bundles of velvet and silk satin ribbons. A shoe box tucked into a bottom corner held squares of fabric, pinned together and ready for quilting. Tiny blood-colored spots dotted the bits of cotton where the pins had rusted.
I went through the trunk’s contents with reverent hands.
One
