27. Magnolia
IDREAMED IT was my first day of school as a teacher. Except I wasn’t prepared for anything, and instead of teaching chemistry, I was teaching English Literature. And all the kids were bored, and they hated me, and we didn’t have any desks. Then we were flying kites, except we didn’t have any string, and the football players were calling plays with the kites and the cheerleaders were zombies.
Basically, the stress dream to end all stress dreams. Zero out of ten, do not recommend.
What I do recommend, however, is waking up in a sexy man’s bed, with said sexy man then immediately dipping his fingers into you, swirling them around and making you come so hard you see stars.
It’s enough to make me think I need to seriously consider waking up with him more often.
But it’s Sunday, and ever since I can remember, Sundays have been reserved for all of us sisters to make our way to the house for a day of magical whatever, followed by dinner. Sometimes it’s as easy as gathering up the gems and crystals and stones and charging them in the sun while we lay in the shade of the willow tree. Other times—okay, most of the time—it’s a bit more intense. Things like pulling together all the Tarot cards that Mom leaves lying around the house and cleansing them with a sage rub ceremony, or pulling out the scrying bowls and washing them with a mix of olive and lavender oil. This time, it’s a whole different ball game.
The veilstone practically hums as I pull onto the driveway, and the velvet carrying pouch is warm to the touch as I gather it up to take it inside. I have no doubt it can sense the magic of the surrounding land, and maybe the various gifts that each of my sisters have. I near the door and it opens without me touching it, and when no one appears on the other side, the expectant smile on my face falls.
What the hell?
My pulse kicks up as worst-case scenarios begin swirling through my head. The Universe is punishing me for being gifted the veilstone. Something’s happened to Clementine and the twins. Hazel’s been hurt and everyone went to Boston. There was a fire at the apothecary when William handed the veilstone over to me. There?—
“Magnolia? What are you doing?”
Aspen’s voice yanks me back to earth, and I exhale as I look at her. “Is everything okay?”
Two thin lines appear between her eyebrows. “Of course. Is everything okay with you?”
I open my mouth to speak, but can’t find the words. Finally, I say, “Um, yes?”
She peers at me as though she’s waiting for a mole to crop up on my nose.
“The door—it opened for me?” I don’t know why everything that’s coming out of my mouth is in the form of a question.
Aspen’s face smooths. “Is that all?”
“It’s never done that for me.”
She gives a noncommittal shrug. “It’s a thing.”
“Since when?”
“Since your magic is getting stronger. The door only opens for Mom, and now you. It opened for me a few times around a full moon in my twenties, but then I accidentally spilled some bleach on the threshold when I was cleaning, and I don’t think the house has forgiven me.”
I nod dumbly. How did I not know that the house did that for Mom?
Aspen tilts her head. “Come on. We’re all here. In the back, under the tree. Mom thought I’d be the best one to wait on you.” She holds her hand out, and I stare at it for a minute before realizing she wants me to take it.
I don’t remember the last time I held one of my sisters’ hands. Emotion clogs my throat as I take her hand and follow her through the hall, into the kitchen, and out of the kitchen door to the deck. A pair of cardinals chirp in the small pear tree that Clementine plans to put into the ground next year, and I whistle at the birds without thinking. They call back to me, and Aspen chuckles.
“Haven’t heard you do that in a long time,” she says, a fond smile on her face. “I’ve missed it. I’ve missed you.”
I squeeze her hand. “I’m back,” I promise her. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
We approach the willow tree, and everyone is there: Mom, Willow, Juniper, Jasmine, and Clementine. We’re a wild bunch to look at, none of us really resembling each other except for the twins.
Mom, looking like a mythical pixie with her four-foot-four self and short, gray hair with ears that I swear seem just the teensiest bit pointed. Willow, the most otherworldly-looking of us all, with her hair more white than blonde, wide-set amber eyes, and Mediterranean skin. Aspen, the tallest and thinnest of us all, with thick blonde hair so dark it’s more brown than anything, and caramel, almond-shaped eyes that tilt up a smidge. The twins, both with dark auburn hair waving down their backs and skin so freckled they look tan, and hazel eyes that shift with their mood. Clementine, who very much looks like a cartoon fairy gone slightly wrong, with moss green eyes and black hair that’s usually knotted with a pencil on top of her head. Even seated, she’s already showing, her tiny belly already rounded and adorable in a way that makes me both fiercely protective and oddly nostalgic.
Now that I’ve gotten all my memories back, I realize that Sundays were really the only quality time I ever spent with my sisters. My heart aches to think of what I’ve missed: secrets and crushes and the everyday highs and lows of their lives. I know my sisters, but I suspect it’s much more surface level thanks to my stupid self asking the Universe to keep them away from me and safe.
Before anyone can speak, I hold up the velvet pouch. “I have news.”
“Holy shit!” Jasmine’s eyes are wide as she covers her mouth with both hands. Green sparkly light shoots out from her aura, a mixture of fear and excitement.
Even Clem is silent, not admonishing Jasmine for the curse, her normally bright orange aura now a deep, burnt umber.
Aspen is deadly still, her pale gray aura hugging her close, and even Mom doesn’t seem to know what to do with herself. They’re all staring at the veilstone as it rests in my palm.
“It looks like moonstone.” Willow leans closer.
“Can’t you feel it?” Juniper asks.
“I feel something,” Willow answers. “How do I know it’s this stone?”
“It’s the stone,” I assure her. “It seems pretty happy to be here, even though none of you seem to know how to react.”
“Wait.” Jasmine finally peels her gaze off the stone and looks at me. “Are you telling me that rock has emotions?”
My hand spasms as the stone releases a spark of annoyance into me, and for some reason I can’t explain, the whole thing makes me laugh. “Yeah, it definitely has emotions, and I don’t think it liked you referring to it as a rock.” A beat passes. “Am I the only one here who knows about veilstones?”
Everyone shakes their head, and Clementine says, “I think we’re all just processing. You’re sure it’s…yours?” she asks. “And I don’t mean that in a mean way. I guess I’m just trying to be certain that you truly were gifted the stone?—”
“Or we’re all up a creek,” Aspen finishes.
“I get it. William’s grandmother Eugenia Aryton was the last witch in her line. She told William he’d meet me. Well, not me specifically, but me nonetheless. Besides,” I give them a wry smile, “it gifted me this new streak.” I point to my hair.
“Told you it wasn’t dye,” Juniper mutters to Jasmine, who pokes her back.
“Ow!”
“Girls!” Mom finally comes to her senses. “Yes, it’s definitely a veilstone and yes, it’s definitely Magnolia’s. See that white vein going through it?” She points to the fissure running through the stone. “That happened when William gave it to you, didn’t it?”
“Yes,” I confirm.
Mom nods decisively. “This changes things. I’d planned on one way to attack Kera’s curse, only now that you have the veilstone…” she trails off. “I think we need to do a little more research.”
“How would the veilstone help?” Jasmine asks.
“It depends,” Mom answers. “Every veilstone is different, because it’s guided not only by the one who possesses it, but by the spirits of those who went before them. I don’t know anything about the Aryton witches, but perhaps that will help us better understand it.” Mom looks at me. “Did William tell you what he did with it all these years? How he stored it?”
I shrug. “I have a feeling it’s been in his sock drawer for decades.” When the stone sends a confirmation pulse into my hand, I squeeze it in return. I feel a little bad that I left it sitting in the dark in my purse overnight, so I look at it and promise to give it a lovely altar soon.
“Okay, but can we talk about our intentions?” Willow asks, waving her yellow journal. “Because let me tell you, I have some doozies.”
We laugh as Mom answers, “Definitely.”