Rose took her time responding. “I understand there are times when family comes first, Calliope. And another twenty-four hours does give me more time to extend an invitation to witches who live farther away.” Her voice trailed off before she came back and took charge of my calendar with renewed vigor. “Tomorrow night, then. August first. Which is also Lughnasadh…”
Rose disappeared again; all I heard was distant breathing and the shuffle of papers.
“Lugh what?” I asked, hoping to call her back and settle on a plan so I could get myself to the bathroom before I bled through to the futon covering.
“I keep forgetting how much you don’t know,” Rose harrumphed. “Lughnasadh is one of our eight sabbats. We bring together covens and other practitioners of magic who have a kinship to the festival. We’ll just be a little more seat-of-the-pants and prepare for holding your Blood Ceremony first, and once you’re in the Mother Tree, we’ll continue with the scheduled celebration.” She sucked in a sharp breath. “Unless you hear otherwise, Belle will escort you to the ritual ground.”
“Is there anything I should do to prepare?” How was I supposed to prepare to be “in a tree”?
“No baths while you’re bleeding, only showers. And do not use tampons, only pads.” She continued as though reading from a printed list of instructions. “Tomorrow morning, do not eat after breakfast. You may have water and herbal teas only, nothing with stimulants. Wash your hair and oil your skin. Prepare yourself as though you were going on an important date. Try not to get angry or upset, and most of all, rest. It’s going to be another long night, and you’ll manage better with the after effects if you’re rested when we begin.”
That didn’t sound scary.
“Thank you, Rose,” I said, knowing the witch on the other end had hung up. Rose was beginning to remind me of my aunt. I’d make it through today and tomorrow and let Belle nurture me on the drive to wherever the ceremony would take place. I texted Rowan to give her the good news, had more of the tea, and strategized how I was going to get to my bathroom without leaving a bloody trail.
Cleaned up and flushed out, with a pad tucked into my underwear and garbed in a flowy, ankle-length cotton dress, I made my grand appearance in the kitchen.
No one was there. I served myself a bowl of sliced pineapple, bananas, and grapefruit, sprinkled shredded coconut on top, and headed to my garden.
If it weren’t for the solace offered by an old chair under my butt, warmed soil underfoot, and strong sun already warming my scalp, I wasn’t sure I could settle myself enough to be ready for whatever lay ahead, let alone be an open and willing participant.
Waving a persistent honey bee away from the fruit, I spooned another bite into my mouth, delighting in the contrast between cool and juicy on my tongue and the dry breeze feathering over my bared arms. I found it strange to be bleeding again. I’d only skipped two, maybe three cycles, and I had to admit I missed the familiar weightiness in my body and the physical and mental clarity that would come a few days after.
The vines I had called on to trap Doug and Roger broke through my musing, reaching out for affirmation and guidance. I offered the mental image of a flexible fence marking off a space around their invasive stalks, and asked that they confine their activity to a few small spots on the property. Their natural propensity for rapid propagation made it a hard vow to keep, but I gave them tacit permission to assist with future trespassers and thanked the vines again for answering my call. That seemed to cool their roots.
And it was time to go to work.
Kerry was probably wondering what all had gotten into me. I hadn’t left her much to do, and she was prone to adding her opinions to any gossip passing through the office. All the men traipsing through the office were giving her plenty of fodder, and I couldn’t fault her wanting to self-entertain. Certifying farmers wasn’t the most exciting work on the island. For now, ongoing projects and rounds of reviewing applications would have to keep her busy.
I was so tempted to stay home and putter in my garden. My plants and I, and the surrounding trees and undergrowth, were deepening a relationship initiated over thirty years ago. This feeling—that we had just started to settle into reminiscing about the past and making plans for the future—was a hard pleasure to set to the side.
The darkly patterned fabric of my dress absorbed and held the summer sun; the heat soothed my crampy belly and warmed my inner thighs. I dropped the empty bowl onto the bed of chamomile for the bees to explore and gave my mind over to a short replay of the times Tanner and I had kissed.
I could do that again.
And again. I scrubbed the heels of both palms down the sides of my belly and pressed into my thighs. The action plumped my breasts, and through half-closed eyes I could imagine my hands were Tanner’s.
Only, his would be broader. And warmer. And he would take his time sliding my dress up my legs.
Arousal kept me hanging on the rise of an inhale and a shudder and a crack from the ground underneath the chair dropped me into fear on the exhale. I looked straight up to see the branches of the crabapple trembling. Tiny, early fruits swayed like baubles on a jeweler’s display, and a voice rose from somewhere beyond the edge of the woods.
Mine.
She was
