Rowan stopped her tea preparations and ran over to the couch, embracing me in the sisterly hug I’d been craving since I first blurted out my sexual escapades from the safety of her office chair. “What’s wrong, Calli?”
I lifted up the ruined packaging. “It’s the pink. And the honey. And I kissed Tanner, and his old girlfriend’s not happy about that, and I cut off Doug’s hand…” I burrowed my face into her shoulder and let the tears go where they wanted, which was mostly out.
“Calliope? Who’s Doug?”
I started giggling. “My ex-husband.”
Rowan patted my back. “He must have really pissed you off.”
I giggled more and released Rowan from our very soggy embrace.
“Let me go clean my face,” I said, “and I’ll tell you all about it.”
When I emerged from the bathroom the second time, Rowan had finished setting up the tea tray and brought it into the living room. She waited for me to sit down, and handed me a cup and saucer. “I was going to ask if you were a tear-it-open or a recycle kind of gal when it comes to wrapping paper, but I think I have my answer.”
I giggled and tried to not slosh the tea and ruin the paper even more.
“Under normal circumstances, I’m a recycler,” I admitted, wiggling my toes and feet.
“Shall we try this again?”
“Yes.”
Rowan handed the mangled package to me.
I cooed and oohed and aahed and attacked what was left of the pretty wrapping until my fingertips caressed silk and beading. I drew my brows together and whispered, “This feels expensive.”
“Oh, it was!” Rowan laughed and squeezed my calf. “But we all chipped in.”
“Who is ‘we all’?”
“Me and Rose and the other women who were at your first circle.”
I held Rowan’s gaze and clutched the silk to my cracking chest. “Thank you.”
“Don’t stop there. See what it is.”
Swinging my legs off the couch, I stood and let the cloth unfold until a dress unlike anything I had ever worn or even let myself covet hung from my upraised hands. Tears threatened to spill over again, more out of joy than hormonal frustration. “This is so beautiful. Where did you ever find it?”
Rowan clapped her hands and danced in place. “I have connections,” she trilled. “Come on, come on, put it on!”
The garment was simple in design. Narrow straps led into a bias-cut, ankle-length dress of layered, gauzy silk and cotton. A smattering of glass beads decorated the entire outer layer, like tiny stars in a blood-red sky.
“And don’t forget these.” She handed me something that had dropped to the floor in my emotional melee.
“Oh my Goddess, Rowan, underwear too?”
She nodded. “I was working with a theme.”
Grateful the bit of satin wasn’t one of those skimpy thongs, I hooked it over one finger,
“What time do you have to leave?” she asked. “I so wish I could go with you. I haven’t been to a Blood Ceremony in a long time.”
“Belle’s picking me up at nine. And I wish you could be there too.” It had occurred to me that somewhere along the way I’d neglected my friendship-building skills. Another thing I could change, beginning right now. “It’s probably too late, but I could ask Rose.”
Rowan’s eyes went wide. “Rose terrifies me.”
“Me too! Is she the head witch?” I asked. “The leader of the pack?”
“Mm, I think ‘leader of the pack’ would refer more to shifters. Rose is the head of all the covens in the Pacific Northwest, which means she’s also in charge of organizing and leading the big rituals.”
I relaxed back into the support of the lumpy pillows. “I wish I knew what exactly was happening tonight. Do you know?”
“One of the purposes of the blood ritual is to tie you to this place, symbolically and magically. Using your menstrual blood adds more layers of meaning and connection.” She shrugged. “One of these days, I’m going to talk to Rose about guiding my initiation. I haven’t had one, but I would like one. My life since I was sixteen, seventeen has revolved around caring for women at the physical level. I became a gynecologist so I could practice in the human realm as well as the magical one. But I don’t want to do my Blood Ceremony here until I know this is a place I want to stay.”
My phone buzzed with a text from Belle, reminding me she’d be at the house at nine. “I’m sweaty again,” I admitted. “I’m going to take another shower and then I’ll put on the dress.”
“Would you mind if I took your picture once you’re dressed?”
“I would love that.”
In the privacy of the bathroom, I dropped whatever pretense remained and let the weight of what was coming sink further into my body. I was nervous. My hands trembled as I put my new dress and underwear on a hanger. Pulling my hair up and away from my face, I formed a small topknot to keep it out of the shower’s stream and pinned the loose tendrils at the sides.
When I’d prepared for the ritual beneath the sacred Sitka trees, I’d been coated with dust and feeling a bit tossed around from the long drive over the logging roads. This evening, I had time to think. Which also meant I had time to stress about all the unknowns. As I stood under the stream of water and soaped up my washcloth, I pictured washing away things I wanted to be rid of and notions of myself that no longer felt right.
Such lofty thoughts for a shower.
Clean water sluiced over and down my limbs and torso. I turned off the faucets and paused to take a deep breath; I couldn’t hide in here all night. A thin stream of bright red blood trickled down my inner left thigh. Another wave, sent from the Sea of Transitions, gathered. I tensed my thighs and let the wave curl itself like a cat’s tail around my legs and eddy down the drain.
A text from Rose
