“They’re out back,” said Belle, lifting the lid off a wide-bottomed pot hunkered on a burner of the old propane stove. An intensely herbal smell permeated the small room. Rose gave me a curt nod and disappeared behind the refrigerator door.
Folding chaise lounges, stacked with extra pillows, had been set up for Peasgood and Hyslop.
“They intercepted us at the ferry,” Hyslop was saying. He rubbed at his forehead then glanced at his brother. “We were expecting Gramps, but Pea got a text saying one of their workers would pick us up. The guy had one of those hand-lettered signs and everything.”
Hyslop wore his hair close-shaved at the sides and back and let the top section flop over his eyes. Peasgood’s hair was twisted into a man bun I knew Harper would envy.
“He frikkin’ wore overalls,” Peasgood said. Anger rose in both their faces. “But the second we got to their car, we knew something was up.”
His brother picked up the story. “They had it planned out,” he said, his arm movements growing more animated. “They parked on one of those little side streets up the road from where the ferry docks, wedged their SUV right into the bushes, so when we got close, the driver—the woman—popped out. They had us by the neck one moment, bagged and face down the next.” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Ten years of druidic training and we were completely overpowered.”
“And it wasn’t so much a physical overpowering as a…a…” Peasgood looked to his brother for help. “Hy, how would you explain it?”
“One, we didn’t think to put up our defenses when we got off the boat. Never even occurred to us we could be walking into a trap. And two, the second the guy’s hand was on my neck, I felt collared. My free will was gone.” He lifted his chin and leaned forward. “Can you see if anything’s there, any marks?”
“Puppeteer,” said Wes. “It’s the Puppeteer Lock. Calliope, come here. You should see this. I didn’t think of it when Sallie collapsed. I’ll call Rowan and have her look at the girl’s neck.” He kneeled next to the chaise and swiped the flashlight on his cellphone. “See these residual pinpricks? That’s how the collar attaches. Goes right into the skin, releases a spell-laced liquid, and you do what you’re told.”
A grid of minuscule red dots circled Hyslop’s throat. My heart went out to Sallie. I stepped away from the group and dug my phone out of my bag. Pulling up my messaging app, I texted Harper to remove the bracelet Sallie made for him if he was still wearing it, bag it, and give the bag to James for safekeeping.
I added the emoji for poison, hoping it would convey a sufficient sense of urgency, and looked up from my phone’s screen. A wavering shape emerged from the worn and weathered path leading to the older parts of the orchard. What I first read as heat rising from the dry ground and distorting the figure’s clothing was, as they shuffled closer, not the effect of heat at all.
A middle-aged, average-sized female was accompanied by a cloud of shimmering particles, browns and greens from across the natural spectrum intermingled with flickers of purple and yellow.
The woman stopped walking and squatted. The confetti-like bits dropped with her. She raised her arm away from her shins, described a generous circle around herself, and made sweeping motions with both hands until the particles collected themselves into a conical pile.
“Maritza,” said Rose, stepping from the back door to the wide stairs. She stepped down, taking the rest of the steps with slow deliberation. “Maritza,” she repeated, her gaze on the woman, “who did you see?”
“If you could bring me a glass of fresh lemonade with mint leaves, two teaspoons of Abigail’s honey, and chopped ice, I will tell you what I saw and who I met.” She looked from the dirt to Rose, who retraced her steps back into the house. Then to me, Maritza said, “Calliope, daughter of Genevieve, mother to sons. I am Maritza Brodeur, daughter of Margarita, mother to none.”
While she spoke, she stood, her shape morphing as she straightened her legs. The druids and hidden folk ringed behind me went silent. Even garrulous Belle was wordless. Wafting from the kitchen was the rapid tink-tink-tink of metal against glass as Rose filled the beverage request.
“I can see the cat has taken your collective tongues.” Maritza went to bat away a piece of thread floating up and away from the front of one shoulder and instead grabbed the end and pulled. She continued to pull, hand over hand, until all the pieces of cloth stitched together to create her shapeless, ankle-length garment had fallen free. Underneath was a gaunt assembly of bones, clothed in fuschia leggings and a lavender halter top, perched on a pair of yellow platform sandals.
Maritza withdrew black-framed sunglasses stationed in the center of her top and put them on, sliding baby blue-tipped fingernails through hair the color and texture of raven feathers. The woman knew how to make an entrance. I envied she could traverse the orchard’s terrain in such impractical footwear. She pressed her knees together, shifted her hips to one side, and bent to reach for the bamboo handle of an oval, flat-lidded purse decorated with a clump of fake kumquats and green leaves.
“Come,” she said, sliding the handle onto her forearm before waving us back from the edge of the porch and toward the chairs. “Let us sit and talk.”
The peak of the pile curled in her direction but did not move from the circle, while the pieces of fabric settled themselves into a pile beside the stack of colorful particles.
Tanner brought out more chairs, and with the sun past its apex, the back of the house and yard would grow more shaded as the
