Chapter Thirteen
T he number of witches walking the path into the village square increased as we got closer.
The sun had already fallen below the horizon, and the sky was a dim shade of indigo with little remaining light.
But as I walked next to Rowena, with our cloak-covered shoulders brushing and our hands nearly touching, I could tell the witches of Wisteria Grove were dressed differently than usual.
In the time I’d spent in the town, I’d noticed every witch had a different taste in clothing.
Some of them, like Rowena, embraced their spooky nature all the time, with long black dresses, corsets, and dark makeup.
Others, like Juniper, chose to adorn themselves in earthy, Bohemian tones, complete with lots of crystal jewelry.
But many of the witches chose not to dress up at all.
Other than a moon-shaped pendant or dangling earrings with little broomsticks, their outfits were no different than the humans that occupied Bar Harbor.
But tonight was a celebration, which meant the villagers’ witchy natures were on full display.
The women wore beautiful, flowing dresses in shades of black, purple, or earthy browns.
Their figures were heavily shrouded in cloaks of the same color, and their faces were decorated with dark makeup that accentuated their eyes and lips.
Their arms and necks were heavy with jewelry, ranging from gold and silver to various rough and polished crystals.
And of course, to top it all off, every single witch wore a wide-brimmed, pointy-tipped hat.
Including me . I fussed with the lopsided hat atop my head, stretching out the inner band so it wasn’t so tight against my scalp. Rowena handed it to me once she finished locking up the shop, saying that for festivals, they were a required item for witches to wear.
Rowena explained the dark and muddled history of the pointed hats as we wove through the neighboring cottages. About how what was once a symbol of ridicule and shame had become a source of pride amongst witches.
“My mother never took hers off,” Rowena commented, rubbing the brim of her own hat. “So I do the same.”
I smiled, readjusting my hat for the dozenth time. It was slightly too small for me, but somehow, it still felt comfortable. Like I was meant to wear it.
According to Rowena, I was. I had witch blood in me. But I still didn’t know why.
Once we were on the outskirts of the village square, the hum of music and the chatter of partying witches grew louder. Something thumped in a rhythmic pattern — likely a drum — and its pulsing sound vibrated through my whole body.
It also heightened my anxiety, and I pulled the witch hat down tighter on my head. I prayed it would be enough to cover my furry red ears if they popped out.
My eyes widened in awe as we rounded a corner, and the path turned to cobblestone. I could now see into the village square, and was amazed by how well-decorated it was compared to the night before.
A folksy-sounding band, led by Adrian on an acoustic guitar, was set up in the park area’s gazebo – strumming and beating and whistling out melodies that carried through the festival.
Makeshift food stalls lined the sidewalk outside the town hall, and I saw several witches happily snacking on fall-themed treats as we walked.
There were candied apples covered in almonds, skull-shaped breads, and giant cookies shaped like pumpkins and ghosts.
One of the stalls had savory food – a sweet-and-salty smelling stir fry that made the wolf within me ravenous with hunger.
My stomach grumbled, and Rowena chuckled.
“Want some food?” she asked, nudging me toward the vendor stalls.
I nodded eagerly.
While many of the sweet treats were enjoyed by guests as they walked around, there were also rows of long picnic tables for those who wanted to sit down and eat. It was crowded, so Rowena asked me to grab two seats while she stood in line for stir fry.
I squeezed into the picnic table closest to the food stalls, unbuttoning my cloak and placing it on the seat next to me.
Thankfully, this picnic table was mostly empty, with several seats across from me and the seat next to me unoccupied.
But the actual carving contest didn’t start until six thirty, meaning now was the best opportunity for the witches to get food.
Rowena had been in line less than five minutes – I could see her dark-cloaked figure amidst the crowd – and there were already a dozen people behind her.
Before long, the tables would be very crowded.
I crossed my arms, huddling into my long-sleeve shirt since I was no longer wearing my cloak, and studied the partygoers around me.
There were several witches sprawled out in the grass near the pavilion, using their cloaks as blankets as they watched Adrian and his band play.
In the distance, beyond the town square, was a large field littered with plump orange pumpkins.
Adults and children alike wandered through the pumpkin patch, occasionally stopping to pick up and inspect one of the giant gourds.
I knew the tradition from my life on Hollenboro – pumpkins that were blemish-free and slightly flat on one side were best for carving jack-o’-lanterns.
I couldn’t wait to go out and pick one. My usual simplistic designs wouldn’t win me any prizes, but pumpkin carving was still fun.
“Hey, Nettie!”
I froze, my limbs tensing. That wasn’t Rowena’s voice.
I spun around, peeling my gaze away from the pumpkin patch. Mabel, Juniper, and Willow stood a few feet away, near the caramel apple vendor. Mabel gave a big, enthusiastic wave, and I noticed all three witches were holding containers of stir-fry and glasses of pumpkin juice.
And they were headed right toward my table.
Uh oh.
I felt like I was being pulled in two different directions. On one hand, I needed to get to know the other witches in town. The more I fit in, the less people would become suspicious about my true identity.
But I also wanted to spend time with Rowena. Which meant as soon as the trio plopped down at the table, with Juniper and Willow across from me and Mabel squeezed in against my cloak, dread engulfed my stomach like a swirling storm.
My gaze shot back over to the stir-fry line. Rowena had barely moved, but there were only a few people in line in front of her. She had her black cloak wrapped around herself like bat wings, and she was looking straight ahead at the food stall.
She hadn’t noticed what was happening.
“How’re you enjoying the festival?” Mabel asked as she pulled out a plastic fork and poked at her food.
As usual, she wore a floral dress, but this one was black and covered in delicate, puffy hydrangeas.
A lavender-colored cloak was slung over her shoulders, with a similarly colored witch hat on her head.
“Oh, it’s good so far,” I replied nonchalantly.
“Did you get food yet?” Willow asked. She was a young witch, maybe eighteen years old, with loose, frizzy, sandy-brown hair that nearly reached her hips. “The stir-fry line is pretty long, but the caramel apple stand doesn’t have many people right now…”
“Uh, it’s alright,” I hurriedly insisted. “I’m not that hungry.”
“I wish we’d known you were here,” Mabel sighed. “We would’ve gotten you some food while we were in line.”
“I appreciate it. But…”
“Are you here by yourself, Nettie?”
“Uh, I…”
“Well, it’s a good thing we found you,” Mabel smiled. “No one should be alone during the pumpkin carving festival.”
But I’m not…
Mabel continued smiling as she took a few bites of her food, and my heart sank. These witches had been nothing but kind to me. Sure, they were secretive about certain parts of their pasts, but they’d welcomed me into the village as one of their own, despite knowing almost nothing about me.
I wanted to be friends with them.
But I also wanted Rowena.
And it was becoming increasingly difficult to have both.
There was a dark cloaked figure walking our way, and I realized it was Rowena carrying two platters of stir-fry. Once she got close enough to see me and the other three witches, she froze. Her facial expression was neutral, but I could see the glimmer of hurt in those deep brown eyes.
Panic bubbled in my stomach. My unexpected companions were deep in conversation, happily joking and laughing while they ate.
I suddenly felt like I was drowning in a sea of witches, all wandering and chatting and cramming themselves into picnic tables, sitting so close together that their cloak-covered shoulders brushed.
But just as I began to fear that inviting Rowena was a bad idea, the witch on my left gathered up their plate and utensils and vacated the seat next to me.
Rowena quickly swooped in and squeezed herself into the picnic table, and I tried to relay with my eyes how sorry I was and how I didn’t mean for this to happen.
Then I felt it. A dark, dampening silence fell over Willow, Mabel, and Juniper as soon as Rowena sat down. They ceased their conversation, alternating between being engrossed in their food and shooting quick, cautious glances in Rowena’s direction.
I could feel it – fear, emanating from all three of them like a noxious cloud. And as usual, I had no idea why.
My stomach felt like it was about to boil over. I was amazed my ears and tail hadn’t popped out.
But there was nothing I could do. Speaking up or leaving the table would only make the situation more awkward. Despite the witches’ callous attitude toward Rowena, I still needed to make them like me. I needed to belong in this town so I wasn’t caught faking my identity.
So, I took a deep breath, lowered my head, and focused on my food.
It was delicious – a mixture of chicken, vegetables, and rice all coated in a sticky, savory sauce. It had a unique flavor I’d never experienced on Hollenboro, and once my plate was empty, I found myself wishing I had more food.