Chapter 10
PRUDENCE, CRUSHES & MAGIC LESSONS
“Are you sure about this?”
Ceridwen’s voice, now returned to its serene quality, jolted Pru out of her daydream.
It wasn’t entirely a dream, however. She did get a lungful of Rhiannon’s perfume yesterday, all wild winds and stormy rains, with faint notes of the lily of the valley, so unexpected there, so sweet.
And above all, petrichor. It seemed to fill every room, every space, and linger long after Rhiannon was gone.
Pru scrunched her nose impatiently, silently chastising herself. Whatever was happening between her and Rhiannon—and something was clearly happening—it wasn’t why she was here.
Ceridwen’s kind gaze did not waver, though Pru had the distinct sensation her face was beginning to telegraph exactly where her thoughts had gone. And her blush probably did the rest of said telegraphing.
“I’m grateful you’re taking the time to speak to me. Especially on a Sunday morning.”
Ceridwen’s smile was a touch mischievous.
“Despite my undying affection for Reverend Lavalle, who graciously serves at Dragons Chapel, I am not much of a follower. And you won’t catch me ever at the Nest’s church, no offense to your father.
But even with him serving as deacon there, I can’t bring myself to go.
For so many reasons. Moreover, it would be self-defeating of me to attend any congregation, after all. ”
Pru bit her lip, staving off her words, before her bravery took over and she blurted her question.
“Is it because the Puritans almost hanged Gwendolyn Abigail Crowhart?”
Ceridwen’s smile didn’t falter and Pru’s shoulders relaxed. She had not caused offense.
“In part. Also, they eventually did hang her, right here on the island, after stalking and harassing her family.”
Pru bit her lip as the searing pain of the dream intruded.
A dark cell and screaming, so much screaming.
And the fear and silence behind green Crowhart eyes.
Eyes that looked at her even as the executioner was readying the noose.
She was powerless to help Gwendolyn, as she was dragged to the gallows.
She stood and she watched and she held her secret deep in her ribcage.
And in the evening she brough food and water and succor to the one still languishing in the darkness of the cell behind the rust of the bars.
A crow’s call above her made Pru flinch and blink. Ceridwen was still speaking, half turned away from her now.
“The other part of it is because I believe in a different deity. And lastly, it’s because I am a witch, Prudence Ophelia. Just like you.”
Before Pru could respond, Ceridwen extended her hand and her palm connected with Pru’s sternum.
The shock of the impact was instantaneous.
She heard the birds, the grass around her moving with the morning air, reaching for the sunbeams. The greens became much brighter, the warmth of the rays enveloping her despite standing in the shade.
Ceridwen smiled and slowly removed her hand. Pru’s lips parted. She wanted to sing. To dance. To stretch in the sunny spot on the moss and bask like her possum.
“You’re not questioning it?”
Pru tried to rein in her runaway thoughts and focus on the conversation, but it was getting more and more difficult.
Rhiannon had unlocked something in her, first when their gazes met and then when their hands touched.
Ceridwen seemed to break down the door that Rhiannon found a key for and cracked open.
Except that wasn’t quite true.
“I am questioning everything. I am twenty-eight years old, Ceri. I’ve never once felt this. Not before Thursday. Not before…”
“Not before Rhiannon.” Ceridwen finished her sentence, but there was no judgment nor ridicule in her voice. “I can’t answer that, Pru.”
“You and I have touched before, hugged, exchanged handshakes and greeting kisses. Heck, my crush on you was a mile wide back in the days before Lisa.”
She smacked herself in the mouth, and Ceridwen laughed out loud.
“Is this how it’s going to be? Me just blurting things? Because I think I would be better off without this…whatever you call it?”
“We call it the craft. Some call it power. Others—gift. Magic. You can call it whatever you want or nothing at all. It’s magical like that.
” The merriment in Ceridwen’s words was keeping the blush on Pru’s cheeks.
She could feel it rise all the way from her chest, creep up her neck, and take over her entire face.
“This is so embarrassing, I want to die.”
“You don’t. Not really. You wanted to dance not a moment ago.” Ceridwen’s chuckle was teasing.
“How did you know?” Pru was happy to move the conversation to other topics and away from how ridiculous her existence was. What must this woman think of her? “And how did you know anything about Rhiannon and me? I mean, you were there, but is it a sense? A feeling?”
Ceridwen sighed and tapped a red tipped finger to her lips.
“It’s a knowing, I guess. Yes, we touched afterward, and I felt the residual energy from your…
I think we can call it an awakening, since whatever happened between you and Rhiannon was exactly that.
She awakened the power in you, craft recognizing its equal.
Its mate…” Ceridwen trailed off, the last word clearly not something she was ready to divulge.
She frowned, her lips twisting, and then she waved her hand over a green branch, and it wilted in front of Pru’s eyes.
“Oh no!”
Another wave and the leaves unfurled, all lush, and blossoms bloomed among them, fragrant and cheerful.
“Are you trying to distract me? So that I don’t ask questions about the things you don’t want to talk about?”
Ceridwen’s delighted giggle drew a smile out of Pru.
“I like you very much, Prudence, you know that?”
“I had hoped, what with the crush and all.” She almost bit her tongue for bringing up the darn long-gone infatuation again, but Ceridwen extended her hand once more and laid it slightly to the side of her sternum, right over her heart.
The warmth was slow and steady, making Pru relax, her mind drifting to the woods behind them, the trails that seemed to beckon.
“I’m flattered, Pru. But you’re not for me. My heart is spoken for. As is yours…”
Pru frowned. Spoken for? Surely not Lisa. When her eyes met Ceridwen’s patient ones, the answer was clear as day. As rain. The rain that was suddenly upon them, warm and slow and steady, and somehow not drenching either of them.
Ceridwen’s voice was soft when she spoke again.
“Magic is not something to be treated carelessly. It’s a gift.
And it’s a responsibility. It gives us so much, and it asks for a lot in return.
Some people never take on either the blessings or the hardships of the craft.
And some are gifted less.” Ceridwen shrugged.
“My mother was a very powerful witch, but she took everything and gave back even more. Victoria is amazing at some things and not at others, because that is what she has been given. She doesn’t stand in the circle nor can she cause a monsoon, but she is the family rock. It’s what is meant. No more, no less.”
Ceridwen blew on her fingertips and peony petals drifted in the air, slowly falling around Pru, who listened avidly, hanging on every word.
It felt like a fairy tale, like a life-altering prophesy.
She was captivated. Ceridwen caught a petal and placed it gently in Pru’s palm, where it lay warm and heavy until Pru blinked, and she was holding the flower in full bloom.
“Pru, power has a way of deciding events. Of dictating choices. For better or for worse. Sure, not everything is destined and not every thread is meant to be a thread cut by the Fates. We do keep our free will, of course, but some things power predetermines. And Rhiannon… She was too free, too stubborn to accept that what’s inside her will command her life.
She never was a follower. And so, she never accepted the gift fully. ”
“She doesn’t want the craft?” Pru dared to ask, her chest rising and falling faster now under the comforting hand.
“You have to understand, while you can run away from many things, including fate, since it’s not something that is outside of you and not something that lives within, nobody can run away from the craft.
She tried. All the way across the country.
Halfway across the world. But you can’t escape it.
You carry it with you after all. Like blood, like ichor.
” Ceridwen moved farther into her garden and to a hidden bench. “Am I confusing you?”
Pru wanted to shake her head, but the past three days were all a mass of confusion, and so she just nodded.
“I think I should start where it all began for us, Crowharts. Maybe more will make sense then.”
She sat down, the seat dry and clean despite the rain falling down in rivulets now. Pru gingerly perched next to her.
“The Salem trials, Pru, is where the story of my family begins in earnest. I don’t have much documentation on how Gwendolyn Crowhart came to be in that town.
There is no record of her passage across the Atlantic, no Crowhart of relevance in England or Scotland or Ireland.
And believe me, the first place we looked—well, my mother first and then I did much later—was Wales.
We were doomed to be disappointed there too. And that was our biggest hope.”
“Because of the names?”
“Yes, and because of some things still remembered, some letters still in the family records from Gwendolyn and her daughter. Wales seemed the most logical place to start our search.” The rain around them formed an alcove of sorts, and looking at the garden blooming so much brighter for the water falling gently on it, the entire experience felt surreal.