Chapter 14
Aspen
Isat at the dining table in Papa’s house, well…
my house now, which I still could not believe.
My hands were settled on either side of the ancient book, not quite ready to touch its cover.
The grimoire still thrummed with its own little heartbeat, and the echo of this morning’s attack in the bakery made me flinch at every vibration.
The dining room was all polished wood and sunlight, a world apart from the wreckage inside my chest. But the scent of bacon, coffee, and sweet cream made me feel somehow safe.
“Don’t be afraid of it, Miss,” Oscar said, perched on a folded tea towel on the table.
“It cannot harm you unless you wish it. Or unless you drop it on your foot. Which, given the size, would be most unpleasant.” He flicked an imaginary speck of dust from his vest and adjusted his little wire-framed glasses, because apparently this was his serious familiar outfit.
I tried to laugh, but the sound stuck in my throat. “What if it doesn’t open for me? What if I’m a big ol’ failure just like all the other times?”
Oscar leveled his shiny black eyes at me. “Miss, if you can bake a perfect lemon scone while fending off the harpies of your past, you can open a family grimoire. It is far less hazardous to your self-esteem, I assure you.” He flicked his tail with a flourish. “Now. Focus.”
I pressed both palms to the book, letting its low thrum center me.
The grimoire was heavy and old—bound in leather; the edges sealed with wax and some kind of silvery twine that reminded me of spiderwebs in moonlight.
Whenever I tried to open it before, the clasp refused to budge, as if it had to be convinced of my worthiness.
I’d pulled it from the safe when we’d gotten home from the bakery after the “grabby, creepy hag of rudeness” incident this morning.
I thought it so thoughtful of Papa to insist on having the book stowed in the safe anytime we were out of the house.
The grimoire was too large and heavy to haul around with us; that was for sure.
Papa was a man who knew how to prepare for the worst.
The man himself bustled behind me in the kitchen, slicing tomatoes with the care of a bomb technician.
He’d laid out everything for BLTs—bacon crisp and stacked, tomatoes salted and drained, lettuce so cold it snapped when you tore it.
He was humming a country song, one I knew from childhood, and his voice was so low and even it vibrated through the chair into my bones.
I found myself matching my breaths to his rhythm, like if I kept the same beat, I’d be invincible too.
He slid a mug of coffee toward me and topped it off, the dark liquid steaming, then added just enough cream to turn it the color of river mud. “You need to eat something,” he said, giving my shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Can’t open ancient tomes on an empty stomach.”
His hand lingered a second longer than necessary.
I looked up at him, saw the worry in his eyes, the same look he’d worn all morning.
I wondered if he’d ever not be worried about me, if he’d ever be able to relax knowing I was safe.
That a look of love mingled in that look gave my tummy a little tumble.
He set down the sandwiches—mine cut into neat triangles, his in two enormous halves—and set down a small bowl of fresh spinach and some small chopped carrots for Oscar even though as a familiar he didn’t actually need to eat unless he just wanted to.
Turned out, he did. He took his place at the head of the table, but didn’t touch his food.
Instead, he propped his elbows and watched, as if I was about to perform a magic trick that might blow up the house.
“I can leave if you want,” he said softly. “If you need it to be just you and Oscar.”
I shook my head. “No. I want you here.” Then, because I felt like I owed him something after the morning he’d had, I added, “If you see sparks, please don’t put me out with the fire extinguisher.”
He smiled, that slow, crooked grin that always made my pulse skip. “Only if you turn green. I like you the way you are.”
We ate in companionable silence, Oscar crunching away at his carrots and spinach deep in thought.
Every few bites, I caught Papa staring at the book, like it might leap off the table and bite him.
I almost told him he was being silly, but considering everything that’d happened lately, I kept my mouth shut.
Halfway through his second sandwich, his phone buzzed. He looked at the screen, frowned, then pushed away from the table. “It’s Menace,” he said, nodding toward the porch. “I need to take this.”
I watched him retreat to the porch; the door closing behind him with a solid, comforting thunk.
The windows let in strips of sun, making the dust motes sparkle.
For a minute, I just listened to the quiet: the tick of the fridge, Oscar’s little sighs, the far-off rumble of Papa’s voice through the porch wall.
Oscar waited until he was sure Papa was out of earshot, then turned back to me, all business. “Right, Miss. We must be quick. That phone call won’t last forever, and time is of the essence.”
I glanced at the book, heart pounding. “What now?”
“Now, you center yourself. Recall your mother’s voice.
Let her be your guide.” Oscar scooted closer, his claws trailing across the tea towel.
“Place your hands upon the cover. Yes, both of them. Good. Now close your eyes. You, most importantly need to relax and remember this book contains the magic of your ancestors. Your family. This magic belongs to you. It’s yours. ”
I did as I was told, swallowing hard.
Oscar’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Remember her. Think of the days you baked together. Think of the first time you made her proud.”
I thought back—past the anger, past the years of not fitting in, to the handful of moments when I’d belonged.
Mama’s hands on mine, showing me how to knead dough without breaking it.
Her laugh, a wild guffaw when I turned on the mixer and sent flour everywhere, the way she brushed it off like nothing in the world mattered but me.
I remembered the feel of her arms, strong and soft, holding me when I cried after the other girls mocked my magic.
She never called me a dud. She just said I was different, and someday that would save me.
I recalled her beauty, her long dark hair she’d braid and twist on top of her head, and her beautiful flawless skin and bright eyes.
Oscar must have sensed something in me shift. “Good, good. Hold that feeling.”
I squeezed my eyes tighter, feeling the book grow hotter under my palms.
The world rippled and dissolved, and suddenly I was nowhere near the kitchen table or the comfort of Oscar’s soft little voice.
I was back inside the dream, the one I’d had a couple of weeks ago and woke up not being able to remember any details.
It was the night the grimoire awoke. The details of the dream now came into focus.
The first thing I noticed was the cold. Not Texas cold, not that brittle morning air that made you hunch your shoulders and hurry to the truck, but something older, a wet-chill that got inside your bones and shivered up your spine.
I looked down. I wasn’t wearing cute leggings and a college sweatshirt—I was barefoot in a white dress, the hem already damp and dirty from dew and mud.
The land stretched away in every direction: wild grass, rolling hills, sky so wide it made your heart ache.
But the thing that drew my eyes—and kept them there—was the ring of stones ahead of me, each one as tall as a man and black as sin.
They were arranged in a perfect circle, the ground inside scraped flat and bare except for a spiral of salt, laid so carefully it must have been poured by hand.
Every stone was carved with marks I didn’t recognize, but some part of me understood them, anyway.
They were the bones of my bloodline, and they hummed with a promise that felt half welcome, half terrifying.
I stepped forward, the grass icy against my skin, and the stones seemed to lean in, like curious elders sizing up the family disappointment. I half-expected to see Oscar at my feet, but I was alone, the only sound the wind and my own heartbeat.
I reached the edge of the spiral and stopped, not daring to break the salt. For a minute, nothing happened. The silence pressed in, so heavy I thought it would split me open.
Then, from the far side of the circle, a figure stepped out of the mist.
She moved slow, as if the air was thicker for her, but every step was certain.
I recognized her right away—not because of her face, which was as blurred and shifting as a photograph left out in the rain, but because of the way she walked.
Like the world owed her an explanation, and she’d wait forever to get it.
Mama.
Her dress was blue, the exact shade she used to wear on the days we baked together, and her hair was pinned up with the bone comb she’d inherited from her mother. She looked both younger and older than I remembered—her skin smooth, but her eyes carrying the weight of a thousand secrets.
She stopped at the spiral and waited, hands folded over her stomach. “Aspen,” she said, her voice like home and heartache all at once. “You made it.”
I tried to speak, but the words caught. I felt five years old again, hiding behind her legs while the world burned around us.
“You always were the stubborn one,” Mama said, her mouth curling into a smile. “That’s why you’re here and not with them.”
I stared at the spiral, not sure if I was supposed to cross it. “Am I dead?” I asked, and my own voice sounded small.
She laughed, a wild chuckle that rang off the stones. “If you were dead, you’d know. No, child, you’re just dreaming. Dreaming true for the first time in your life.”