Wes joined us, sitting on the arm of Rowan’s chair. Back and forth, he and I gave the bare details of the day.
“I’ll be leaving around five, five-thirty in the morning,” Rowan said, leaning against Wes’s side. “I’m on call this weekend and back to my clinic on Monday. I’ve left my answering service instructions to prioritize calls from you, and I have my phone on me always.” She added, “Shamaha’s on the island for a witch’s gathering. She said you can call her anytime you have questions related to Sallie.”
Saturday morning I awoke to sticky bits of jam and toast crumbs stuck in the corners of my mouth. I had forgotten to brush my teeth before I finally typed The End on yesterday. Curled in the shadowed corner of my bed, I wasn’t going to rush the next few minutes. Sun streamed in my bedroom window, bright and clear, warning the day intended to go from warm to hot.
I hadn’t checked phone messages or my email before I passed out. Guilt wagged an accusatory finger, but I swatted the digit away. If something major had happened here, at the Brodeur house or with Malvyn in Vancouver while we were at the orchard, Rowan or Christoph would have let us know.
There were other responsible adults around, and I didn’t have to do it all or keep track of it all.
With that comforting affirmation lifting a bit of weight off my chest, I shuffled to the bathroom then to the kitchen, where I gathered the makings for a pot of tea.
Rowan had scribbled, “Call me any time” on a Post-it note and left it on the refrigerator. The saying on the magnet she chose—My other car is a broom—made me giggle. Waiting for the water to come to a boil, I listened for movement from upstairs. All was quiet. I poured water over the basket of Assam, set a timer for it to steep, and tiptoed through the living room to the open glass slider.
Wes and Christoph were in the backyard, putting themselves through a series of elegant movements that could have been t’ai chi or chi gong, or the Magicals’ equivalent. I watched until the kitchen timer dinged.
I wanted to see Sallie and Thatcher with my own eyes. I knocked at his door and waited. Bodies stirred on the other side. Something brushed against the wood, and a faint scratching sounded close to the floor. When fur brushed my bared toes, I stifled a squeal, jerking my foot away from the paw sticking out from underneath the door.
I pressed an ear to the wood, knocked again, and hissed, “Thatcher. Sallie. It’s me.”
Turning the handle, I pressed the door open and was met by the feline version of Who, me? A fluffed-out Maine Coon cat with gorgeous dark silver fur stared, both its ears flicking back like it was more than annoyed with my presence.
“Hey, Mom. That’s Jasper. Jasper, c’mon over here. Mom’s one of the good guys—girls.”
Jasper gave me the up-and-down, stretched, and walked to the edge of Thatcher’s bed. He sniffed at Sallie, scent-marked her chin with his, and crossed the braided rug to where Thatcher was curled on his cheery beanbag chair, sketchbook in hand.
“Shamaha brought Jasper over yesterday, Mom,” Thatcher said. “Said he’s the best magic-detecting cat she’s ever had and that we can keep him as long as we need to, even after Sallie’s better.”
“He’s amazing.” I was waiting for a signal from the massive feline that I was welcome in the room. “Do you know what he eats?”
“Magic.” Thatch shrugged. “Mice. But not magical mice because those make him sick. Shamaha left instructions for his care. I’ll share the doc with you.”
While my son talked, the cat positioned himself on Thatch’s lap and was giving his wrist a thorough sniffing and licking.
“Is that where you wore the bracelet Sallie gave to you?”
He nodded and rotated his wrist at a nudge from the cat. “Sallie said she didn’t weave any magic into the strands, but Shamaha thinks Sallie’s just not aware of what she’s doing when she makes things.” He looked up. “Not food, Mom. Her pies are safe. Lei-li’s the one we have to watch in the kitchen.”
Seeing Thatch grin like he was sharing insider information warmed my heart. “I made tea. Would you like some?”
“Sure.” He scratched Jasper behind the ears. The cat jumped off the squishy seat and followed me into the hall, down the stairs, and sat by the front door.
“I take it this means you’d like to go outside?” I didn’t wait for his response, just opened the door.
He flicked his tail as he passed.
I stuck my tongue out at his departing backside and propped the screen open for his return.
Thatcher liked his black tea sweet, at least, he did when he was younger and I brewed him and brother pots of the decaffeinated version. I added a third mug to the tray for Sallie, along with the pot of honey and a small pitcher of cream.
Jasper thundered up the stairs and pushed his way between my legs as I entered the bedroom. Sallie was awake, with color in her cheeks and brighter eyes. Thatch had shifted to a perch next to her on the bed.
“I brought black tea, Sallie. Would you like some, or can I make you herbal tea or coffee?”
“Cream and sugar please.” Disentangling her limbs from the bedcovers, Sallie pressed her elbow into the mattress, and Thatch helped her to sit upright. “Oh my god, I feel so much better.”
“Here’s to good health and healing.” I handed the mugs over, and we toasted.
Jasper went from where he had parked himself at Thatch’s feet to the bed to rubbing against Sallie’s back and starting up a loud, throaty purr. His priority was the kids.
“Mom, Ro and Shamaha talked to me and Sallie a lot yesterday.” Thatcher sipped his tea and looked
