Thatch paused at the bottom of the stairs. “Sallie’s having a rough time, Mom.”
“Did she say anything specific to you?”
“Yes. And no. She really wants to move out of her house.”
I felt the request coming and shook my head. “No. There’s too much going on to invite her to live with us, Thatch. I hope you didn’t—”
“I didn’t, Mom, but I wanted to.” He lifted his arm in my direction. A new bracelet looped his wrist. “See what she made for us? She’s trying to see if she can afford to live on her own so she’s experimenting with making stuff to sell. Harper has one too.”
Crouching down, I held his wrist and thumbed the braid until I’d seen the entire circle once, then twice.
“Did she make this on you, or did you pick it out randomly?” I asked, curious as to how Sallie had hidden the ends of the cording.
“She made one for each of us and tied them on while we waited.” He pulled his wrist away and flicked at the braid. “Hm. She really hid the ends, didn’t she?”
“Did you and Harper talk to her at all about what’s been happening?”
“Nope. Sallie’s cool, Mom, but she’s not in our circle of trust.” He shrugged. “Got a towel for these veggies?”
I ducked into the closet and handed out a stack of worn dishtowels. “Did she talk at all about why she wants to move out?”
Thatch shook his head and twisted the new bracelet around and around his wrist. “Not everybody gets a mom like you. Or a brother like Harp.”
Tuesday night was blessedly calm, and Wednesday was almost boring. After a full six hours, I left the GIAC’s office early to give myself time to prep for the great unknown of the coming ritual. I ended up in my garden, watering, weeding, and enjoying the calm before whatever was coming next.
Rounding the side of my house, I hung up the garden hose and took off my gardening gloves. An unfamiliar car slowed at the end of the driveway. When the driver rolled down the passenger side window and tooted the horn, there was no mistaking the beaming face behind the oversized sunglasses.
“Rowan!” I yelled, waving my gloves and picking up my pace.
Rowan pulled over and turned on her blinker. “Can I come in for a visit? I’m kind of curious to see the before-ceremony Calliope so I can compare her with the after-ceremony Calliope.”
I laughed. “Park your car and come inside. I have to dash, or I’m going to flood right here.”
The first floor of the house was empty, but deep voices rumbled from one of the boys’ rooms as I passed by the stairs on my way to the bathroom. Given that tonight was such a big night for me, I kind of expected the guys to be making dinner, if not seeing to my every need.
I ducked into my room, hoping to find the cluster of necklaces the witches had given me at my first ritual on my bureau. Or maybe my underwear drawer. I wanted to show them to Rowan and get her opinion on whether to wear them to my Blood Ceremony. And maybe even get her opinion on Tanner.
Ugh. I hated forgetting where I put things. And this kissing business between me and Tanner wasn’t cutting it. We were unattached adults. We also carried so much relationship baggage we could have used one of those wheeled luggage racks to help haul it all around.
I needed to stop thinking about Tanner and sex in the same breath. Maybe that werecougar was still available.
No. No, no, no.
My stomach rumbled. The fruit I had at breakfast was not getting me through this day, which only added to my woes. I found a clean pad, soaped up a washcloth, and forgave myself for being out of sorts.
Rowan must have read my body language as I dragged myself down the hall. She patted my cheeks and pulled a wrapped package out of her bag.
“This is for you,” she said, taking me into a quick, hard hug that crushed the paper package between our chests. “It’s for your special night.” She pulled another package out of the bag and undid its twisty tie. “This is also for you. Hibiscus flowers. For tea.”
“You read my mind,” I said, grateful one of us was thinking ahead.
“How’s your belly?”
“Ugh. Feels like my organs are battling. Remind me why I missed this?”
She shooed me toward the living room. “Go. Take a load off. I’ll bring this over when it’s ready.”
I rearranged the pillows on the couch and plopped myself down. The pink tissue paper wrapping called to be crinkled and pinched. I answered the call and stared at Rowan as she poured water over the hibiscus flowers and stepped back to admire the color of the steeping petals. I toyed with the pink-and-silver bow, considered repurposing it for my hair. One of my fingers poked through the paper, and as sure as night follows day, a torrent of feelings made random stabbing motions at my heart.
I wanted to cry. My love of the color pink had been leeched out of me when I was a little girl. Pink—and orange and turquoise and anything flowery or bright in my clothes and accessories—had slipped away after I lost my mother. My aunt’s drab outlook on life extended to the clothes she wore, as well as the ones she bought for me. I never had the drive to challenge her, and I never felt like I had permission to play with the baubles my mother left behind.
“Honey?”
It took me a moment to connect the voice to the request. Neither had anything to do with the color pink or my mother, except that honey and sweetie-pie were endearments I stopped missing a long time ago.
“I’m a mess.” I couldn’t stop the tears rolling over my cheeks or my sweaty palms from
