Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Grandmother was loath to release the fiáin, but she did do it.
Not because of Flora’s threats—Fair Folk magic was nothing to be trifled with, and Flora was a garden gnome through and through.
Not because of Arthur’s silent and intimidating presence—her sparing his life in the moonflower grove proved she had respect for the Coalition, even if she thought all shifters were untrustworthy heathens.
Not even because of Daphne and Shari’s united front—sparing the innocent and mundane creatures of the world was at the heart of every green witch’s creed.
Iris Hawthorne released the feral fairy because of me.
No doubt she hoped this perceived victory on my part would soften my newfound rebellious nature—no, it wouldn’t—but I’d still take the win. It spared the pitiful creature, who was overjoyed to lead the way back through the eastern wood so it could once again be reunited with Flora’s giant Flemish rabbit Poppy and devour June bugs to its heart’s content. It was easy to keep track of at night, the silver yarn Shari had sewn into the hem and collar of the crocheted sweater twinkling with its lumbering gait. She’d even made holes for Flint’s pointed ears to stick through the hood.
“We’re just a phone call away,” Daphne assured me, tucking her floral shawl up by her neck where her buckskin collar didn’t quite reach. She settled her broad-brimmed hat on her beautiful white hair and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Thursday Crafting night at our house, as usual, if you can sneak away. We’ll make the Midori cocktails extra strong.”
“I’ll…” My voice trailed off as I sensed I was being watched.
Glancing over my shoulder, I found Grandmother, Mom, and Aunt Hyacinth all with pursed lips and their arms crossed over their chests. Mom’s fingers drummed along the crook of her elbow. She might’ve let me in on some information Grandmother wouldn’t have shared, but she still wasn’t pleased about my bond with the shifter.
“I’ll keep that in mind, Daphne. Thank you.” Then I leaned in and whispered, “Give my best to you know who.” I’d seen Lewellyn in wolf form at the edge of the woods, a luminous glow to his golden-white fur.
“Shouldn’t you be saving your best for the bear?” she replied slyly, wiggling her fingers at me in a mischievous farewell. The thumps of her blackthorn shillelagh on the porch faded away as she hurried to catch up with the other ladies.
Arthur was gone shortly after, testing my family’s patience by kissing the back of my hand before trotting down the porch steps to his motorcycle, the empty cobbler dish tucked under his other arm. The invisible chain that bound us tugged hard on my heart as his motorcycle rumbled down the driveway. Pressing a hand to my chest and willing the pain away, I shut the door and returned to my awaiting family.
Eight pairs of eyes threatened to tack me to the wall. No, five pairs. Uncle Badger, Otter, and Aunt Peony’s gazes held no heat.
Dad cleared his throat and pulled out a pewter pocket watch, clicking it open with his thumb. “It’s almost the witching hour,” he announced to the room in general.
The witching hour—midnight—was an auspicious time for spellcasting no matter what kind of magic a witch practiced. As innately powerful green and hearth witches, the Hawthornes never really paid this hour of the day any special attention, but this time, with them away from their ancestral home and the full power of their hearth, they were seizing every advantage.
“Badger,” Grandmother said before she signaled Mom to join her upstairs, no doubt in the attic where the full-length mirror was. Aunt Peony and Aunt Hyacinth disappeared into the hearth room to check on the potions Aunt Peony had started while we’d been away that afternoon.
My kind uncle stepped forward and, with a wave of his hand, deposited all the wood Grandmother had purchased at Cedar Haven onto the empty dining room table. After it landed, brown-green threads of Uncle Badger’s magic outlined specific areas on each piece, almost like the perforated line on notebook paper that made it easier to tear out.
“Otter and I will cut along these lines,” he instructed, “and the rest of you will coat the fresh edges in the rooting lacquer.”
Aunt Hyacinth dropped a cloth trivet near the end of the table, as well as all the olivewood cutlery Grandmother had purchased at Cedar Haven, then got out of the way.
“Coming through,” Aunt Peony said, bustling forward with a Dutch oven. “Hot potion here!”
It looked like maple syrup and smelled like burnt fruit, but it painted on smooth enough.
There wasn’t much chatter as we all went about our jobs, Otter and Uncle Badger expertly cutting and carving out the wood, Dad, my three aunts, and me applying the potion to each piece with the olivewood spatulas like we were frosting cupcakes for someone’s birthday. These pieces would then be fused into a new frame around the mirror, the combination of wood and spells creating a magical doorway of sorts.
“You’ve outdone yourself with the rooting lacquer this time, Peony,” Aunt Eranthis mused, dabbing the potion into the nooks and crannies of a fresh-cut piece of cherrywood.
“It’s the jelly fungus out here. Marvelous stuff. Oh, and the honey,” my other aunt replied. “A fine quality, that. Too bad we had to use it all for this instead of on toast. Nice of the b—Arthur—to bring it over, yes?”
“It’s from his own bees,” I told her, a touch of pride in my voice.
“So that bear keeps bees, does he?” Aunt Hyacinth asked. “How obvious. It’s a wonder he has any honey left to share. Thought he would’ve eaten it all in preparation for hibernation.”
Only Aunts Hyacinth and Eranthis tittered. Aunt Peony actually winced at the joke. That bear had thoroughly enjoyed her cooking, devouring everything with gusto, and there was no faster way to a woman’s heart than appreciating her cooking.
Across the table, the knuckles on my hand blanched as I gripped the olivewood spatula. My aunts weren’t being malicious, at least, not on purpose. They’d been subjected to the same prejudices growing up as I had been. But they could learn. I certainly had.
“Surprising that a bear would have better manners than two witches,” I commented lightly. “You didn’t hear him quipping about black hats and pointy shoes and riding broomsticks at dinner, did you?”
“That’s because he was too busy eating all the food,” Aunt Hyacinth said flatly.
“I always make plenty,” Aunt Peony retorted. “And at least he doesn’t call it a ‘bowl of scrap’ behind my back!”
Aunt Hyacinth threw up her hands. “But that’s literally what it is! Just a bunch of this and that and gussied up with seasoning.”
“You make it sound like it’s garbage!”
“And all I’m saying is bears love garbage—”
“I don’t mind a leftover or two,” Aunt Eranthis interrupted, “but if you’ve been feeding us Garbage Stew all these years, Peony, instead of actual food, I’m going to—”
“Having a hard time concentrating on these cuts,” Otter ground out, sweat dappling his forehead.
“Meadow,” Dad said, his voice slicing through the conversation with the same efficiency as one of his blades, “take these dried pieces up to your mother.”
Lurching upright, I gladly did what I was told. Ever since coming to Redbud, all my family did was bicker. It was exhausting, and I was glad to be free of it for a moment.
My knock was soft on the attic’s trap door so as not to startle the women there, but they didn’t acknowledge my presence. They’d wedged open the door, however, which meant they weren’t opposed to interruptions or visitors. Cradling half a dozen large wood carvings to my chest, I eased open the door and finished the climb up the ladder.
Grandmother seemed to be in a trance, hands outstretched, palms out like she was telling someone to stop, green magic glowing from her eyes and wreathing around her hands. She was muttering something low and inaudible, and she didn’t blink when I stepped carefully around her towards my mother.
Mom was inside the protection barrier I’d layered, painting the surface of the full-length mirror with one of Aunt Peony’s potions. It had the opals from the Barn Market crushed up and mixed in, and it added the most wonderous glow to the mirror’s surface.
“Dad told me to bring you these,” I whispered to her, setting the wood carvings down carefully off to the side. When she nodded in acknowledgement, continuing to paint as Grandmother chanted, I asked softly, “What are you doing?”
“Mirrors can be gateways to the In-Between,” Mom replied just as softly. “Portals, just like the one Arc—the demon—conjured. This is creating a barrier so nothing can come through it when we make contact.”
“Like Arcadis himself?” Normally I would’ve used the term demon or Big Nasty to avoid attracting the attention of the one I was naming, except I wanted him to hear me if he could. That I knew of him. That I was coming for him. For my brother.
Mom gave me a warning sideways look at the sound of the demon’s name. “Or anything else. The In-Between is interconnected like one large void. Anyone might see the connection we make and try to use it as an escape.”
“Hence the pretty-shimmery-waterfall-wall-barrier-thing.”
For that’s what it indeed looked like, a waterfall of white and opalescent light trapped within the confines of the mirror’s frame. It was so bright there was no need for artificial light for Mom to see by as she continued to layer the potion onto the mirror.
“Yes,” Mom said succinctly, flicking me a look for my flippancy.
“You said there are ‘elses’ in the void,” I said. “How can that be? When I was in that portal, I felt something crushing me, suppressing my magic. How can anything live in there?”
“Simply, our magic is different from theirs. Ours is Life, and theirs?” She shrugged. Guess we didn’t have a book in any one of our dozen libraries back home that covered the subject of In-Between creatures and their magic. “The In-Between is more of a sphincter anyway. It enables a quick passing through; we were never meant to linger in it like we did. Your friend, the quiet one, she’s got a little arcane magic, doesn’t she? She was the reason why the portal didn’t close.”
Because of whatever the demon cult did to her. Maybe Shari Cable had started out one-hundred-percent human, but it didn’t seem like she was that now. “I’ve never asked her about it. Maybe she’s a hedge witch.”
When I didn’t elaborate, even after Mom had fixed me with a look that back at Hawthorne Manor would have had me spilling the beans, she finished applying the potion to the mirror and stepped back.
When she was clear of the protection barrier, Grandmother closed her hands into fists and blinked, snuffing out her power.
Her silent, assessing stare had me reporting, “We’re about halfway done. I brought the dry pieces up.”
“Forsythia, I’m quite parched after all that chanting,” Grandmother said, watching me. “Would you go make me some tea, please? I’ll be down in a moment.”
As I moved to follow my mother down the ladder, my grandmother said, “Stay, Meadow.”
I paused at the trap door.
She clasped her hands in front of her, an imperious lift to her eyebrows. “Is there something you wish to say to me?”
With those words, an opportunity presented itself that I might never get again. With a flick of my glowing fingertips, the trap door fell, shutting us away in the attic. Magic glowed in my eyes. “Yes.”