Chapter 1
Chapter
One
It was a beautiful spring evening in the city of Bellwether, and the windows of Tamsin Donover’s parlor were thrown open.
A late dusk glow poured through stained glass panels that cast dreamy shapes onto the floor: vines, antlers, and old sigils no one had been able to decode yet.
The smell of apple blossoms, wet grass, and candle smoke wafted into the monthly meeting of the The Benevolent Order of the Moonroot Circle, Chapter II.
And Marigold Flynn—Goldie to friends, family, lovers, and everyone else—was trying valiantly to keep her eyes open.
She’d stayed up too late the night before, not for anything wild or scandalous, but because she’d fallen down a particularly satisfying research hole cataloging regional variations of love spells.
The sidebar footnotes alone had kept her up past one o’clock, and her mind still kept drifting to a Bulgarian charm that involved goat’s milk, broken mirrors, and a very aggressive sonnet.
The business portion of the meeting had already concluded, and the guest speaker, a fussy little man with a milky aura and a scarf that screamed tenure-track, was currently forty-seven minutes into a lecture titled A Framework for Responsible Ward Use in Urban Climates.
Only their newest member, Winona Rutheford, sat upright and alert, her eyes wide behind cat-eye glasses. She nodded earnestly every time the speaker paused for emphasis, which was roughly every eight seconds.
The speaker cleared his throat, punctuating his PowerPoint with a joke about binding regulations. It landed with the weight of a wet tissue. Goldie swallowed a yawn.
A sharp nudge met her ribs from the witch on her right.
“Late night?” whispered Clara St. James, coven treasurer, relentless gossip, and undefeated bake sale champion going on eight years.She was also the coven’s self-appointed ambassador to the young ones, a term she applied to anyone under fifty.
Goldie, who was thirty-seven, found the label both flattering and absurd.
“Oh, you know how it is,” Goldie whispered with a shrug. “Ezra came over last night with wine, apologies, and those pecs of his, and, well, one thing led to another.”
Clara cackled softly, her eyes crinkling with delight. “You have it so good with that one. My Peter thinks foreplay is buying the good hummus. It’s nice you’ve got someone with fire.”
Goldie winked and smirked quietly. “It does keep me limber.”
None of it was true, of course. She hadn’t heard from Ezra in two weeks outside of a few vague texts.
And, honestly? That was fine. He was fun, handsome, and almost as theatrical as she was. Their moods swung from smoking-hot to cold-as-ice, and whether things ended in undying devotion or operatic disdain was about as predictable as a coin flip.
At the beginning, the whole thing had felt mysterious and magnificent, but recently, it just felt like… work.
Sure, the occasional flare-up of drama still was attractive at times. But recently, Goldie’s stomach had started to sink, not flutter, when Ezra texted.
She wasn’t sure if that said something about him, or about her.
Across the room, the speaker finally droned to a halt, visibly relieved to reach the last bullet point in his presentation. Winona applauded enthusiastically, while the rest of the coven clapped with the polite enthusiasm of women who had survived far worse in school board hearings.
Someone let out a weak whistle of encouragement. Someone else muttered, “Goddess bless,” which was Bellwether for: please never bring him back.
“Thank you, Mr. Pettigrew,” Tamsin said, sweeping forward in a rust-red caftan printed with a pattern of foxes mid-pounce. “We so appreciate your insight into… all that. Witches, I’ll see our guest out, and we’ll close shortly.”
As she ushered the little man towards the door, murmuring platitudes, the room audibly exhaled.
“Forty-seven minutes,” Clara exclaimed. “That’s a new record. Do we give out badges for surviving magical bureaucracy now?”
“I thought he made some solid points,” huffed Maureen Murphy. “We can’t just go around glamoring people willy-nilly. That’s how you get lawsuits, or cults.”
Goldie leaned back in her chair and let herself bask in the comfortable, slightly catty, completely expected vibe of small jokes, sideways smiles, and the familiarity of a roomful of women who knew how to hold both magic and exhaustion in the same breath.
Tamsin returned, hands clasped and expression composed. “Witches,” she said, voice lilting in a way that immediately hushed every side conversation, “a few last announcements before we close.”
There was the expected collective sigh, accompanied by the stretch and shuffle of limbs preparing for freedom. But Tamsin’s announcements were sacred law: short, sharp, and impossible to escape.
“First,” the coven leader said, holding up a finger. “Beltane is next week, and it’s our year to tend the ceremonial bonfire. Goldie, how are we looking?”
Goldie sat up, blinking her eyes and a charming smile curling her lips.
“Everything’s accounted for,” she chirped.
“The enchanted hawthorn arrives Thursday morning, and I’ve already braided the ribbons into a spark-dampening ward.
The charm committee met last week to put together the spell sachets—thank you, witches! ”
A murmur rose from around the circle, and Goldie waved a hand, letting her carefully picked rings catch and scatter the light becomingly.
“I know you’ve all been wondering, so we’ll give you this little tidbit: our sachets will burn green-gold, and the smoke should form into a semblance of this year’s logo. ”
“That was my idea,” Clara said in a stage-whisper to Rosemary Pike, who gave an appraising nod.
Tamsin clapped her hands. “Excellent. Remember, witches: Let’s make it celebratory, festive, and safe. We are, after all, representing not just ourselves, but the long magical lineage we’re fortunate enough to carry. Now, let us rise.”
The coven stood, raised their hands, and hushed as Tamsin led them in the closing chant: “We close this circle in care, clarity, and community. May what we carry forward be lighter than what we brought in.”
Goldie followed the motion of the group, pressing her fingers to her heart and bowing her head just slightly. As the words faded into the ether, the circle disbanded with the practiced ease of women who’d done this dozens of times before.
Hugs were exchanged, cheeks were kissed in overlapping patterns of affection, and the rustle of shawls and bags hummed through the air as witches reached for cell phones, keys, and any ritual charms they needed for their personal stash.
“Before everyone scatters,” called Lita Baines, “has anyone heard if Parks and Paranatural Resources are doing anything about the disturbances? I heard from a clerk in Zoning that they’ve had more reports out of the Grove Core this spring than in the past two years.
My scrying bowl showed the Beltane flame bending sideways, like something was breathing against it.
Is there anything we need to be doing to help contain it? ”
Marlein Merrywether rolled her eyes. “Your scrying bowl always leans dramatic and doom-and-gloom,” she said, winking at Goldie as if to say, can you believe this old biddy? “Remember last year? And the year before that? No one said boo, and no one went up in flame. Same this year.”
“Except it isn’t,” muttered Ada Hawthorne. “Haven’t you heard? Ashenvale Ventures is circling the Green Holdings. They’re talking about buying up the whole parcel.”
“They can’t!” gasped Lita. “That’s sacred land! Selling it off would be a sacrilege.”
“Oh, please,” Marlein sniffed. “It hasn’t been truly sacred since they built all that mixed-use development around it. Luxury condos cheek-to-jowl with the Grove Core. Everyone’s been cashing in.”
“Yes, around it,” Junee Keseberg pointed out. “And it’s been good for the city. Look at how much tax money poured in.”
“That’s not what I heard,” said Myrtle Dandridge in a conspiratorial tone.
She leaned forward, lowering her voice, although everyone could still hear.
“Word is the Land Trust’s up to their eyeballs in debt trying to patch up all the destabilization.
And the money isn’t flowing like it used to.
Remember that ridiculous crystal-spa complex they opened last year?
Folded in two months. The city’s shifted.
Maybe it’s time someone else stepped in to revitalize it. ”
She pursed her lips. “Better Ashenvale than letting it rot on the vine. At least they’ve got deep pockets. Festivals don’t exactly pay the bills.”
“Money isn’t the point,” Ada shot back. “You don’t just hand over sacred land to some faceless venture firm with a glossy brochure and a soulless balance sheet.”
“There’ve been protests out in front of City Hall all week,” Junee said. “Big one planned the day before Beltane. I’ll be there. Maybe it won’t stop the sale, but I’d rather wave a sign than sit here while they pave over our traditions.”
“And what about the destabilization?” Lita pressed, her voice rising. “If the land’s already buckling, who in their right mind thinks it’s wise to sell?”
A murmur of reluctant agreement circled the room. Chairs scraped, knitting was stuffed into bags, and Lita’s crow gave a querulous croak as its witch finally stood. One by one, the coven filtered out, grumbling under their breath but subdued.
Goldie exhaled, sagging slightly as the noise ebbed. She reached for her purse, only to feel a presence at her side.
Tamsin bent down and pressed a cool kiss to both of Goldie’s cheeks, her perfume a whisper of citrus and clove, then held her lightly by the elbows.
“Blessings be,” Tamsin said warmly, a smile creasing her perfect face. “You look luminous, darling. How are things?”