33. Planning Session
Planning Session
“I’m not going in there.”
The Cat’s Cradle looms before me, a giant, glaring reminder of all the memories of Dad I don’t have. Memories I didn’t get a chance to make because he’s gone. It’s one of the last places Mom was alive.
“We need to plan,” Grandma replies, putting her hand on my shoulder. “And in there is the best place to do it.”
I stare at the brick facade, the slightly bronze-y green sign above the wide street-facing window. I don’t want to go in there.
Hazel takes my hand, giving me a soft squeeze. “Why don’t you want to go in?”
The temptation to snap that it’s none of her fucking business is strong, but I learned something during Christmas. She’s not perfect, but I’m not either. I can’t keep getting hurt that she doesn’t know me, and then turn around and keep her at arm’s length.
If I want the opportunity to make this relationship better—and I do—I have to take a step forward. I have to show her who I am and what I feel.
What she does with that is up to her.
“The last time I was here . . .” I take a deep breath, trying to settle the shaking in my voice. “Was the last time Mom was here.”
Grandma rests her head on my shoulder just as Hazel squeezes my hand again.
“Together,” Grandma says, voice soft and wavering. “Together we are strongest. Together we can face anything. Even this.”
I nod. “I’m scared.”
A small tear escapes my eyes, trailing down my cheek. Being vulnerable like this with my family isn’t something I’m used to, but maybe it can be okay. Even if it’s just as terrifying as walking through the front door.
“You won’t be alone.” Hazel brushes my hair back with her free hand, curling it behind my ear just like she used to when I’d had a nightmare when I was a kid. I lean into the touch. “Let’s go figure this shit out.”
With one last deep breath, I allow them to pull me inside The Cat’s Cradle.
It’s the same as the last time I was here. Rows of bookshelves covered in all manner of books, crystals, herbs, and other witchy nonsense. A glass counter on one side with the more valuable items inside.
And memories. They’re not a flood escaping from a blocked door this time, more of a kind nudge.
Dad watching Hazel and I run around as kids. Mom showing us different books. Grandma sneaking crystals into the pockets of our jeans.
I grew up here, and I never remembered it.
“I still don’t know too much about Hell, girls,” Grandma says, snapping me back to the present.
“I don’t know of anyone except daemons going to Hell on purpose, so this is a tad unprecedented.
That being said, I do have a meeting with the Fire witch, Georgette, set up for after New Year’s, and I believe she can help fill in some of the gaps in my knowledge. ”
“No one owns a time-share there? Surprising.” Nervous energy makes me snarky, but the small smile Hazel shoots me shows that maybe she gets that I’m not being mean.
“Can you tell me what it felt like when you were there, Laura? When you were speaking with your mother?” Grandma’s voice hitches at the end, but she hides it by flicking through book spines. I don’t know if she’s looking for something, or just needs something to do with her hands.
“Hot. It felt hot.” I wrap my arms around myself despite my words. “It didn’t feel like I was actually there, if that makes sense. It almost felt like I was part of the fire, like I was watching what was happening behind a plume of smoke. Mom wasn’t corporeal, really. I could just . . . feel her?”
“That’s fucking terrifying,” Hazel huffs.
“And maybe a good thing,” Grandma says, pulling a book off the shelf. “It may be easier for you if you’re not really there. I don’t love the idea of sending you into Hell after all.”
She waves us to the counter where she opens the book. The Women of the Pruitt Line. She flips through the pages, obviously searching for something specific.
“Aha!” she says, flipping the book around to show me and Hazel. “There!”
“. . . The Pruitt women are most connected to their ancestors—and their magic—on the day of Elizabeth Pruitt’s death. That is the day Elizabeth wove her magic and cast the spell that has strengthened the line for the past four hundred years.”
“Okay?” Hazel meets Grandma’s exasperated gaze.
“We have to rescue Mom on this day?” I guess. “On the day when we’re most connected to our magic?”
Grandma’s eyes light up, her grin large. “Exactly, my dear. That is the day we should have most success with any endeavor—but especially one as dangerous as this. And thankfully for us, it’s in January.”
A little bit of pride grows in my chest. I feel the most confident I ever have in my magic, and it’s starting to show in the way Grandma is looking at me.
I don’t feel like I’m on an island by myself anymore.
I’m holding my own, standing on my own two feet, with the witches of my family. Finally part of the planning.
“And what will we be doing while Laura’s rescuing Mom? Just . . . waiting?” Hazel paces, frustration bleeding off her. “There has to be a way we’re involved, or we can help.”
“Do you remember how your mother touched each of us before she banished herself and Draven?” Grandma closes the book. “She did so to connect our magic and use it for herself. If we remain in physical contact with Laura for the entirety of the ritual, she can utilize our magic and be stronger.”
Hazel nods but doesn’t stop pacing. It’s not a good enough answer for her, but considering we’re flying mostly blind—it’s what we have.
“Maybe this Fire witch lady—” I start.
“Georgette.” Grandma’s voice is stern.
“Georgette will have some more ideas about how you can help.”
Hazel stops, turning to both of us. “Are we even sure this is a good idea? This seems . . . risky, to put it lightly. I’m not saying Mom deserves to rot in Hell, but, I mean, she kind of does. Are we sure putting you, Laura, in this situation is a good idea?”
The room goes deadly silent.
The seconds stretch on as we all stare at each other, willing someone to say something. Willing someone to say that me risking my safety is worth it because Mom deserves it.
I pull Mom’s letter out of my jeans. Belle nudged me until I grabbed it and put it in my pocket this morning, almost as if she knew I would need it. Knew I’d need to explain why I can’t just let Mom rot.
I need to figure out just how sentient Belle is.
“Here.” I hand it to Hazel. “Read it. Now, or later, whatever you feel comfortable with. But, despite the mother she was to us . . . she deserves a chance.”
Hazel holds the letter to her chest before nodding and putting it in her bag.
“So, we’re doing this?” I ask.
Grandma nods, and Hazel follows.
Looks like we’re rescuing Mom in January.