Chapter 29
More ice luminaries led the way to the ritual site—a line of incandescent dimples in the snow.
The waning gibbous moon hung unobscured overhead, leaving the forest awash in pale light.
Shaggy trees ran in all directions, snow clumping along their branches.
The witches had all donned robes of crimson or green and, to her alarm, were going shoeless.
She let out a strangled noise as Stephan put a bare foot onto the frigid earth.
“It connects us to the earth,” he said, in an attempt to reassure her.
“It connects you to frostbite.”
He tickled her on the side. “The magic will keep that from happening.”
Hayleigh wondered if the meal was part of that magic.
Where the soup and sun-shaped bread had settled in her stomach, warmth radiated to travel all the way from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes and fingers.
Unlike the witches, she was bundled up, but under normal circumstances, she would expect some nip of frost to make it through the winter layers.
Not tonight, though. Tonight, she was comfortable despite the freeze in the air that made crystalline clouds of every exhaled breath.
As they walked, Stephan gestured at the surrounding woods. “We’ve been coming here since the late 1800s. Back then, Elk Ridge was a lumber town—you can probably guess who owned the operation.”
“I don’t even have to guess,” said Hayleigh. “I did my homework.”
Thibault McCreery, founder of Elk Ridge. It had been an important point in discussions with Dennis McCreery: honoring his family’s legacy in the town while making a compelling pitch for moving it into the next era.
“Yeah, well, he might have financed it,” said Stephan, “but there were Midwinters here the whole time too. LeGrands as well. Brought together by the pull of a coven. Most of the lumber camps were really just that—camps—and they came and went in a couple of decades. But the people here wanted to build something to last, and they did. The first coven was a big part of that, and they’d meet in the very spot we’re headed to, casting spells to help the community grow… ”
The forest opened up to a clearing. At its heart was a circle of boulders surrounding an altar covered in boughs of evergreens and clumps of ivy and mistletoe.
The stones were covered in layers of hardened wax in many colors, over which fresh candles burned.
They had been etched with symbols like those Stephan had used in his spellwork.
When the coven approached, those symbols flared red-gold before winking back out.
“You stay out here,” said Stephan, touching a finger to her arm to stop her from entering the stone circle. “We’ll call you in to help interpret what Birdie sees when it’s time.”
The elder witch walked past them, a wide silver bowl in her hands, toward a stream at the edge of the clearing where water flowed in rounded cornices of snow.
The old woman knelt and reached over the snowy lip to fill the bowl with water before settling it on the altar within a ring of tourmaline stones banded with vivid purples, blues, and greens.
Hayleigh’s stomach fluttered. That must have been the scrying bowl they mentioned.
All the possibilities of what they might see reflected in the surface flew through her mind.
Would they get lucky enough to see a face?
And if they did, would she recognize the person?
If it was someone inside Goshen, then probably, but if it was someone she’d never met, like a site worker or the environmental assessor, a face probably wouldn’t help.
She had no idea what to expect, and that sent worry skittering below her skin.
Still, she kept her composure, watching as the witches gathered at what looked to be fixed points around the altar and linked hands.
They would have made a compass rose if there were not a missing person to Birdie’s right and Zaide’s left.
Birdie’s missing granddaughter, Zaide’s estranged girlfriend, must have normally occupied that spot.
It stood empty. She let herself wonder, only for a moment, if some guiding force was expecting her to assume it.
Her mind butted against the idea. Even here, even now, even accepting as much as she had, there was no part of her that desired to step forward and join them.
“Ground,” commanded Liliana Midwinter from her place at the head of the circle.
Voices entwined in a haunting melody that vibrated down to her bones.
The air rustled with birds swooping to land on branches overhead, and there was a shimmying of low bodies slinking through the brush.
Trees bent and bowed in their direction, and the earth stirred below their feet.
The pull of the coven, it seemed, drew everything living to the spot.
Magic wafted by in both familiar and new smells—cedar shavings and petrichor and brine and woodsmoke and more. Even from a distance, she could feel raw heat building around them. The snow at the edge of their circle dripped.
“With that done,” said Liliana, moving them to the next step, “let’s form a protective circle.”
Their humming grew louder, and there was a flash that arrived with the smell of iron and ozone. For a moment, it looked as though they were surrounded by a shimmering netting, but then it dissipated back into the night.
“Birdie, the circle is yours.”
The old witch came forward to stand directly in front of the bowl. She lit the candles at its side—blue and yellow—and then filled a smaller bowl with various herbs and feathers. Finally, she held up an antique key and plopped it directly into the water before returning to her place in the circle.
“Show us what they wish to hide,
Reveal who holds truth in lies,
By the power of three by three,
As I do will it, so mote it be.”
Even from a distance, Hayleigh could see the surface of the bowl react to the spell. It rippled and shimmied and lit up with threads the same color as the tourmaline at its side.
“Come,” said Birdie, gesturing for Hayleigh to join them. “The images may not hold long.”
She took a tentative step forward with a hitch of breath, then glanced at Stephan, who gave her a firm nod of support. Reassurance passed through her from the ground up, and she walked the rest of the way without hesitation.
The rippling surface settled into an image. Around her, everyone murmured.
“A purse?” squawked Drew.
“Not just any purse,” said Zaide, “a fancy-ass purse.”
“Maybe it’s saying whoever owned this purse is the whistleblower,” offered Rowan, and then she looked at Hayleigh. “Did you know anyone who had something like this when you were there?”
Hayleigh’s throat was sticky as she stared at the distinctive blue handbag in folio style. Her eyes fixed on Birdie. “Is there any chance you messed up the spell?”
The old woman’s lashes fluttered in confusion. “Well, we can never be sure, but it’s a spell I have done many times. And with a coven’s support…it’s unlikely.”
“It’s just that there’s no way.” And then her voice rose as she barked, “This can’t be right.”
Everyone exchanged glances, and Birdie said gently, “Sometimes the images are difficult to interpret, but I would be very surprised if they were ‘wrong’ in some absolute sense.”
“Hayleigh, what is it?” said Stephan, reaching out to brush his fingers across her shoulder. “What’s got you so rattled?”
She took a deep breath as everyone looked at her, waiting and expectant.
“It was mine,” she said finally. “That was my bag.”