I scooted onto my belly and extracted the album from the pile, along with a few well-thumbed books. Piling the stack beside the bed, I imagined the bodies congregating under my roof would be better served if I familiarized myself with my new skills. Speaking Tanner’s middle name without knowing it beforehand then causing my ex to fly out the door simply because I raised my voice—and my arm—were two things that would not have happened prior to the ritual.
But I wanted a mug of tea first.
In the living room, Kazimir slept on his side on the couch, a pillow over his head. The coffee carafe was cleaned and upside down on the dish drainer. I lit the flame on the stove and filled the kettle from the tap, careful to flip the cap up so its whistle wouldn’t wake the house. Mornings had a sacred quality to them, and I wanted to sip my tea in silence.
And solitude.
I let a pot of Assam steep four minutes and tiptoed a mug of sweet, creamy tea to my office. Settling in cross-legged, the warmth from the mug spreading into my lap, I leaned against the tongue-and-groove paneling and breathed into a scan of my house. Watchful stillness flowed along the floorboards and up, down and across the supporting beams. When I floated my inquiry beyond the shingled roof, there was a lack of anxiety in the air and the surrounding woods.
The wards were holding. They were strong, complex, and palpable without making me feel claustrophobic or imprisoned.
Soothed by the pervading sense of calm, I drew my awareness into the room and under the lightweight cotton of my nightgown, to my skin. I paused. Breathed. Sipped at my tea, placed the mug on the windowsill, and resumed my earlier position on my back.
Limbs akimbo, I returned to those hours I’d spent encircled by ancient, sacred Sitka Spruce. I replayed the walk to the grove, the way the deliberate placing of my feet had expanded my awareness and opened my eyes, ears, and nose. I replayed the gifts the witches offered—the symbolic gestures, the spoken words, the very act of their participation. I wanted to know more about the meaning of each headpiece, and as I dove deeper into my memories, they were overlaid with someone else’s.
For one, elongated moment, love flowed toward me, and I knew it was my mother’s love, stored away in a place beyond the present, gifted so I would never again need to wonder.
I snapped into the present and stifled a sob. Reaching for one of my mother’s spell books, I opened the cover to read the familiar dedication written in her delicate hand.
For my Calliope.
Chapter 16
Pressing the aged paper to my lips, I kissed the ink. The tears rolling down my cheeks dampened the page, and where they landed, more words appeared in faint brownish ink.
My heart thudded against my ribcage, grabbed onto curved bones, and threatened to hammer its way out. I moved the book away from my face, afraid I would smudge or forever lose one of the few examples of my mother’s handwriting I possessed. I caught a teardrop on my fingertip and trailed it through the spaces between the words.
The salty wetness illuminated more missing letters.
Nurture your Garden
Know your Roots
Watch for the White-Winged Man
Beware the …
… Water’s Edge
I wet my tongue and pressed the tip against the missing words. The page remained blank, the paper thicker than the surrounding area, as though a section had been replaced with a patch. I scraped the edge of my fingernail after the word beware until a scrap smaller than the nail on my pinkie peeled away.
My instincts were right; whatever word or words had come after had been cut away.
“Mom,” I whispered. “I miss you.” My mouth and chin wobbled when I tried to blow on the damp paper. I used the bedsheet to wipe my face and left the book open to dry, weighted on either side with other books.
I forced myself to finish my room-temperature drink. And for a moment, I was back in the bare-bones kitchen of my mother’s grandparents’ cottage on the coast of Maine, drinking a lukewarm tisane from blue-speckled enamel mugs. Outside the window, a field of pale pink and lavender lupins swayed in the breeze coming off the ocean.
At the sound of a soft knock at my door, the memory was gone as quickly as it came, sucked back to wherever it was stored.
“Come in,” I said, my voice cracking.
“Calli?” Leilani’s hand gripped the edge of the door. She opened it enough to stick her head into the room. “Can I talk to you?”
I waved her in. “There’s a pot of tea in the kitchen,” I whispered. “It’s not hot anymore, but if you want, you could warm it on the stove.”
“I’d like that. I’ll be right back.” Leilani glanced at my empty mug. “Would you like some too?”
“With cream and sugar, please.”
I’m not sure where I went while I waited for Leilani. “Garden” and “Roots” made sense—I was an earth witch and all I had to do was look out the window at the back yard, garden, and the old crabapple tree to know I had an affinity for plants. But the White-Winged Man, the water’s edge, and the warning…my mind blanked.
I was just pulling my nightgown over my knees when Leilani returned with two mugs in her hands.
“Come. Sit down,” I said,
