Chapter Three
“ F orsythia my sweet, it’s time to wake up.”
I hear my mother’s beautiful sing-song voice reaching me all the way up to my room, from the kitchen where I can smell her delicious magick at work. Peeking out from under the covers, I take a deeper inhale.
“Yummm... Lemon and lavender pancakes. My favorite,” I mutter with a sleepy smile.
“Well, if you decide to completely tank your magickal studies, you may be able to get a job as a bloodhound with that nose of yours,” Ori calls snarkingly from his perch on my windowsill. “I am quite surprised you missed the cranberry glazed fried potatoes, though.”
I roll over and grumble at my familiar as I lob one of my pillows at him.
“Hey!” he huffs out indignantly. “Now, I will let that go since it’s your birthday, but you had better get your grumpy butt out of bed before I tell Ellie how you’re treating your poor, defenseless familiar.”
“There is nothing defenseless about you, oh, Ori the Wise,” I retort.
I hear him shuffle and see the look in his eyes that shows just how uncomfortable he is feeling right now. Seriously, it was just a pillow. He had better not be getting all dramatic on me.
Sighing with an extra dose of enthusiasm at the obvious battle he is waging within himself, I sit up and watch him visibly sag a little.
Man, he is laying it on thick. That could only mean one thing…
“Alright, Ori. Cut the shit. Out with it, Mister. What is the bad news you’re trying so horribly to hide?” I say as I comb my fingers through my hair, then begin to plate and braid it in place for the day.
My eyes search his, and I notice that he begins to subtly fidget.
It may be my birthday today but turning twenty-seven is not the same thing as turning seventeen. I am officially considered an adult by magickal standards, and I’m so completely over his protective bullshit.
He is my familiar.
My partner, teacher, and friend.
He is not my babysitter.
Now if only he would remember that bit of information and stop treating me like a tiny child in need of keeping.
I finish with my hair and swing my legs off the side of the bed, facing Ori. Then I cross my arms over my chest and pin him down with a stare that clearly indicates that he is to stop hiding whatever it is from me.
He finally looks back at me and sighs heavily. “Sythia, I have reason to believe that your father may visit today.”
It feels like I got punched in the gut. The air leaves my lungs with a whoosh, and I think for sure I’m going to pass out. Of all the things I could have possibly guessed was troubling Ori, that was not even remotely on my mind.
I try to slow my breathing and remain calm, but I can feel the panic—and let’s be honest here—anger rising to the surface.
This can’t be happening. It must be some cruel prank.
“How can you be so sure?” I ask. “No one will even talk to me about my father, and I have never even met the guy. From the little bit of an impression I have gotten from you, I’m not exactly missing out on much. So, what in the whole of the fucking universe makes you think that guy is showing up today?!” The last statement comes out as more of a screech, and I know that my usual hand gestures are a bit more wild, but I’m seriously struggling to keep my calm here.
What in the absolute fuck could my father want with me? How many holidays and birthdays has he missed out on now? Why the hell would today be any different?
Ori peps up a little, and instead of the dejected tone he was giving me only minutes ago, he sounds almost defensive of the guy he has never had a kind word about all of these years. “Sythia, your father is a wonderful man. He just got a bit lost. I hope that you do meet him one day, and then–”
From a small sound at the door, I turn to see my mother standing there with flour on her cheek, her hands on her hips, and eyeing the both of us intently. She turns to Ori and though she is wearing her characteristically sunny smile, the tone of her voice sounds off.
Actually, it almost doesn’t sound like my mother at all.
What a strange thought...
“I will have you set the table for us while I finish up the pear tarts and Sythia gets cleaned up and changed.” Leaving no room for argument, but adopting her usual sunny demeanor she quickly adds, “Thank you so much for your help this morning, Ori.”
Turning to me, her arms relax, and her smile takes on more of that glow she radiates so easily.
It always feels like that smile is made just for me. Even when I’m getting into trouble, she seems to find joy in my mischievousness.
“Happy birthday, my little flower. I have a surprise for you when you come down for breakfast.” She moves closer to give me a peck on the cheek that leaves a sharp twinge of cold on my skin. “You are so much more than you give yourself credit for, Forsythia. Go ahead and get cleaned up and changed. We will get out of your way and meet you downstairs.” With one last pointed look at Ori, my mother walks out of the room and closes my door with a soft click.
Ori ruffles his feathers and turns to leap out of the window. Before spreading his wings, he looks at me over his shoulder and whispers “I am sorry about all of this confusion, Sythia.”
Then he’s gone, leaving me scowling at the open window.
Well, today is surely going… weird .
Mother never said a word about the weirdness Ori was babbling on about, and I know she had to have heard us with her sensitive hearing.
But a part of me feels cold and scared. Ori has had premonitions before. Nothing of a large magnitude, and not always incredibly accurate.
He once prophesized that I would ‘suffer a grave injury involving life and limb that very day.’ That evening, I broke my pinky finger when I tripped over Ori, just trying to make my way to the bathroom. Yeah, not exactly a ’grave injury.’ And he had gotten himself so freaked out by the vision, that he had been tripping me all day. Not that I needed any help being clumsy. I had that all under control on my own.
I sigh heavily and try to push thoughts about Ori’s crap premonition and mother’s out-of-character behavior out of my mind.
Making my way over to the bathroom, I find a sundress mother must have hung on my door. I smile as I run my fingers across the soft cotton fabric.
Now, my mother has many beautiful hearth talents but sewing is not one of them.
What makes me smile is that I recognize the elvish embroidery on this dress as a work of my grandmother’s. She very seldom travels to our realm, as with most of her elvish kind. I had managed to meet her a few brief times. She was other-worldly beautiful, and rightly so as a pure-blood elf. My fascination with her beauty and ethereal presence outweighs the hurt and bitterness I feel deep inside at the fact that she has never directly spoken to me. While I would have loved for her to give it to me in person, knowing that it was her work makes me feel oddly closer to her.
The dress is a beautiful eggplant purple, with white and cream embroidered roses that stretch across the waist and trail down the left side. With the fluttery short sleeves, plunging princess neckline, and above the knee length, this dress is ready for some serious celebrating.
And today is most definitely that day.
Barely managing to refrain from a giddy squeal, I quickly take care of my matters in the bathroom, wash my face, and slip into the dress.
It fits my body like pure perfection. Running my hands down the soft cotton fabric, I head out my bedroom door and down the stairs with a bounce in my step, and my stresses left behind.
Now, if the smells wafting upstairs weren’t enough to make you hungry, the smells from inside the kitchen would have you begging for scraps in mere seconds. My mother’s gifts with food were undeniable.
I walk in just as she pulls the pear tarts from the oven. Oh Gods yes!
Don’t get me wrong, I love my mother’s cooking, but I adore my birthday breakfast most because she always makes my favorites.
I watch, taking in all of her movements, almost as if in a trance as my mother hums while setting down the platter of tarts and hanging her apron, before taking her spot at the table with Ori. “Go ahead and take a seat. I don’t know about you two but I have certainly worked up an appetite. I already have your tea and coffee ready for you, Sythia.”
Her voice pulls me out of my daze and I move to sit with them, but her words have me making a face. I try so very hard not to whine. “Tea? But Momma, it is my birthday.”
“And that’s why I also made you coffee. But the teas keep us healthy. When was the last time you had a cold? Never. That’s because of my wonderful teas. Now please just humor me.” While her tone remains sweet, I know the words are firm. She won’t budge on this. Oh well, might as well drink that first and be done with it.
Gulping down the hot liquid, and nearly burning my entire esophagus in the process, I set the empty cup down with a slight clink and smile at my mother. “There. All done. Now that has to mean that I earn an extra pancake for being such a good daughter.“ I even try batting my eyelashes, but probably look like I’m suffering from a human stroke.
If the snorts from both Ori and mother were anything to judge by, I look ridiculous.
While I’m not a cold person by any means, I have always had a harder time showing any of the sweetness my mother seems to have leaking from her pores naturally. Actually, I have issues forcing any emotional reactions to show on my face. It always seems to do its own thing and never hides my thoughts very well.
Abandoning the obviously failing eye flutter, I stare at my mother and patiently wait for her to control her giggles and answer me.
“Well since it’s your birthday, I already made you three pancakes, but I do so appreciate your enthusiasm for listening to your dear old mother.“ I smile from ear to ear as she hands me a plate with three of the most perfect pancakes you could ever imagine. However, I can’t help the snort that escapes at the thought of her being labeled as “old”.
You see, humans live relatively short lives. I think I read somewhere that humans are lucky if they reach a single century. Which is absolutely bonkers! No wonder they always seem a bit manic. They have so much to do in such a short amount of time.
Fae, like the elves, could easily live to see their five-hundredth birthdays or much more, and yet never look even one-third of their age. The fae are a little weird about discussing their ages or life spans. They seem to guard it like a weird little secret. As a matter of fact, I have not the slightest clue how old my grandmother is.
That thought has been niggling at the back of my mind through most of my childhood. So far, no one has given me a straight answer though. My current guess was in the four-hundred-year-old range, but it was truly impossible to tell.
Then there are the witches, and all the other non-fae magickals, who were somewhere in the middle on life spans.
You know, like that child’s story about the girl that finds cereal at just the right temperature. Or maybe that was soup? Clearly, I’m mostly thinking with my stomach today.
Anyways, that means my mother is still incredibly young at only forty-eight years. Since she is half-elf, there is a very good chance that she will outlive most of the witches in our village.
However, since we age slower, we also appear younger. Not that I’m complaining mind you. While I look as though I’m only turning eighteen, my mother could easily pass for my sister of a similar age. My mother loves the flattery that comes from appearing so young and fresh, but it does make some social situations very awkward for me.
It is important to note though, that our closely appearing ages is not completely due to the fact that mother is half-elf. She is also the youngest witch of our time to give birth.
And cue more of the weirdness that seems to accompany my very existence. Sigh.
So, while humans are capable of procreating at very young ages, female witches become fertile on our twenty-seventh birthdays. Hence the reason that today is supposed to be such a celebration for me.
Although I am pretty sure that procreation requires a mate, and I have yet to find someone to make me interested in anything like that. I’m down for the occasional tryst, but a relationship? Kids?
Yikes. I shudder at the thought.
Don’t get me wrong here. It’s not that I don’t like babies or anything.
Ok... maybe it is that I don’t like babies.
I mean, I might like my own. One day. Very, very far away.
There are some witches that have already confirmed their bonds with their mate (or mates) at twenty-seven and are ready to begin their families right away. Although the Gods only know why you would be in such a hurry for something like that.
Hmm... maybe I should give some serious thought about this sudden discovery that I have such an aversion to children.
Later though. Like I said, no mate, no worries.
There are others who take longer to find their mate and are not blessed with children until they are well into their forties. Which is actually the more common situation.
However, if a female ever doesn’t have any children, it is always by choice, as the Goddesses bless all female magickals with fertility.
There are instances where a fated mate bond is ignited after your eighteenth birthday. It’s not incredibly rare, but usually only works when the two mates are in close proximity to each other. Usually when they are in the same village. Sometimes, these bonds can also trigger later when one or the other happens to travel to their village or at least be within a certain distance of each other. Which is a little strange, like how does their body or whatever know that their mate just hit the 20 mile radius point and suddenly they need to find them?
I guess it’s probably something you have to experience to understand. I have witnessed a bond like this ignite in a boy from my old village when I was younger. That thought makes me a little sad, but I don’t dwell on the past.
In even rarer situations, a soulbond can be ignited on your twenty-seventh birthday as well. In those cases, the souls will be compelled by a primal urge, unable to fight against it, to find one another and– ahem –immediately confirm their bond.
Unfortunately, these Gods blessed bonds are so rare, that we have not even had one in our village in my lifetime. Since I don’t feel an insane urge to go running off toward some stranger for some crazy soulbonding sex, I think it is safe to say that I wasn’t blessed with one either.
Which is fine with me. Even if it would have made this whole finding a mate thing super easy. I see how happy my mother is. Maybe I would just be happiest on my own like her?
Although, I have long suspected that her lack of a mate was caused by a broken heart. She won’t talk about it, but I think she truly loved my father. Whatever happened between them broke her.
There is a weird saying about it being better to have loved and lost it, but knowing the secret heartbreak my mother holds inside, I would rather not be in that position ever .
Lust? Been there.
Strong like? Ditto.
Love? Nah. I’m good.
My mother’s fertility was a very unique situation, and that’s probably why my mere presence makes so many in our village feel uncomfortable. Unless their mate was lost and returned to the Ether, no one raises their babes as a single parent. However, my mother did not have a bonded mate, soul or otherwise. And since my grandfather returned to the Ether many years before I came along, and her own mother didn’t spend much time in our realm, she was forced to do just that.
If that wasn’t odd enough for our situation… she gave birth to me when she was only twenty-one. Yes, before most witches get their fertility spark.
No one would give me any details about my magickal father, but the deflected reason everyone always gave regarding her early conception ability was that it was due to her elvish bloodline. Even though those facts didn’t quite make sense for her early gift. And she always made a point to remind me that I was just that.
A gift.
As I come out of my thoughts, I notice that the conversation flows gently between Ori and my mother. I smile and return my focus to my delicious food. It is all so wonderful. The simplicity in the moment. It almost feels like ages since I have gotten a chance to eat my mother’s cooking. Although, it has been three years since…
I drop my fork with a clank and feel abruptly ill. The easy smile falls from my face as my heart shatters and breathing becomes increasingly difficult.
Mother looks at me, startled. “Are you ok my little flower?” she asks while reaching for my hand.
Before she can touch me, I jump back and fall out of my chair. I don’t take a moment to reflect on my lack of gracefulness, because I’m pushing up off the floor and running for the door before anyone can reach me. The voices following behind me are filled with concern.
This isn’t right. Nothing here is right at all.
While my heart had been lulled by this beautiful memory, my mind just made one thing very clear.
None of this is real.
It’s not my birthday.
I am not twenty-seven anymore.
And…
My mother is dead .