Rowan
“Brought you some water,” Laurel says, setting the glass down on my desk. “Don’t forget to take your pain meds.”
I barely look at her. The blinking cursor on my laptop is taunting me instead. “I don’t need them anymore. The pain is practically gone.”
“Practically gone is not the same as gone.” She boops me on the nose. “I’ll come check on you in an hour. If your glass isn’t half-full—or half-empty, if you’re feeling pessimistic—you’re going to be in trouble.”
“Oh, I’m so sure,” I grumble.
Laurel has been babying me for a week—strange for the youngest of the family—and I know it’s on orders.
Seth’s orders. She brings me soup she absolutely didn’t make, ensures my ankle is always propped up on at least one pillow, and offers bits of medical advice she supposedly learned from college—as if she ever picked a major.
No, her attempt at being my physical therapist has Seth written all over it, and there’s nothing I can do but accept his help by proxy. Within a week, I’m feeling better. Doctors confirmed it was a mild sprain, and the pain subsided.
I work almost entirely from home anyway. This injury shouldn’t affect my productivity, but getting back into the swing of things is hard… and it has nothing to do with my ankle.
Going a week without Seth in my life is strange. Even before, when we weren’t all that close, he was around. He gave me my coffee. He smiled at me, and it made my day—every day.
The sun is finally shining outside—though with unpredictable Maine weather, the snow could return any day—but I feel like I lost the light because he’s gone.
I can’t focus. The spreadsheet in front of me is blank. I’m slipping behind, setting reports out nearly a week later than I usually do. Testy emails from clients hit my inbox daily, and it’s my fault. I sowed it, now it’s time to reap for all the slacking off I’ve been doing.
Night falls, and I’ve still only finished half of what I’m supposed to do, but I can’t continue like this. I need a boost. Coffee. Or maybe something else.
I shut my laptop with a firm thud and drag myself to the window. Despite Laurel’s pestering, the pain in my ankle is gone. All is well.
Whatever is wrong with me is mental. I peer up at the sky through the living room window—at Mercury shining bright enough for me to see.
The perfect planet for matters of the mind. This is exactly what I need.
A focus spell will help; it always helped in college, and though this breakup is worse than my worst days in college, it should do the trick right about now as well.
It’s simple, one I’ve done countless times before. I flip open my usual spell book—not the grimoire of family spells, but a book of astrological magic. This spell can only be done when Mercury is visible. It uses blue crystals—apatite, sodalite, and fluorite—and a tall, thick blue candle.
Simple enough.
With delicate movements, I carve Mercury’s symbol into the candle and roll it in herbs, lighting the end until it sticks on my spell plate—carved and painted with tiny stars and moons.
The candle burns brightly—a good sign.
I pin my hair back and kneel by the coffee table, rubbing my hands together. My body grows light, floaty, and I inhale.
Focus, Rowan. It’s a simple spell. You can do this.
“Mercury, wandering star of communication and intellect, will you—”
But I never get the words out.
Stars fill my eyes, and before I can suck in a grounding breath, I topple over.
The candle, so bright moments before, goes out.
The room fades.
So do I.
I wake up with my sisters surrounding me: Juniper and Laurel.
As comforting as Maple’s presence would be, I’m grateful that two are missing. It’s embarrassing to be here, worn out and unable to do the simplest of spells. Juniper’s expression is calm, with only the slight pinch of her brows giving away her concern, and Laurel is…
She’s freaking out, naturally.
“Oh, my gods!” Laurel presses a hand to my forehead. Her cheeks are red, and tears cling to her eyelashes. I should have known she would be this dramatic. “You’re all clammy. Are you sick? Again?”
I sit up and press my lips together, but my sisters urge me back onto the floor. At least they were kind enough to prop a pillow under my head.
“I was trying to cast a spell,” I mutter. “And it… didn’t go right.”
I know what happened. One of the first warnings our mother gave when teaching us spellcraft was to ensure you had the energy to cast. And I, for whatever reason, do not. Maybe the others are right—that I’ve been burning myself out. That’s all I know how to do.
“You could have asked for help,” Juniper says. “I know I’m useless at spell work, but Ozan would have been happy to—”
“I don’t need him,” I snap.
Juniper flinches, and I instantly feel terrible. They’re trying to help. I’m pushing everyone away, even though a part of me knows I need them. I don’t want to need them. Or anyone.
Why does that no longer feel okay?
“It kind of seems like you do.” Laurel stands up, crossing her arms and popping her hip. “Or at least that you need someone. Some kind of help. You know better than this.”
I duck my head and close my eyes as guilt rushes to me in the form of a stomachache. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Juniper.”
“It’s fine,” Juniper says. “Don’t worry about my feelings. I know burnout when I see it, all right?”
“I’m not—”
“Don’t. Stop trying to convince me and start figuring out what you’re going to do to change this because this… It’s unacceptable. It’s unsafe. I may not have the power to ban you from doing magic, but I sure as hell wish I did.”
No one has that power, but when I was small and overusing magic, my mother would convince me to cut back. I can tell Juniper wants to do the same, that she’s fighting not to treat me like a child.
“I know,” I whisper.
Lying down while they’re crowded around me is humiliating. Enough so that I’d love to perish.
“It seems like you were doing a spell for… intellect?” Laurel squints at the items. Blue is typically used for such spells; it’s not a bad guess. “You don’t need that.”
“It was for focus.” I clear my throat. “I’ve had trouble finishing all of my work tasks lately, and I thought this would help.”
“The gods are telling you to adjust your focus rather than trying to boost it,” Juniper says. “What was it you said when I opened the tavern? That you would take on fewer clients.”
“Yes. I said that.” Years ago. I squeeze my eyes hard enough that I hope I can disappear. “That isn’t what happened?”
They won’t understand. Juniper was once hardworking, but something changed after our mother died. She adjusted her priorities, learned to focus on what mattered. Now, she’s successful even though she has a life outside of work—a balance I’ve failed at, considering that I’m single. Again.
Laurel has always been the type to chase her dreams, and me…
I want to take care of everything else. To do what the rest can’t.
“Come on.” Juniper stands up and offers her hand, which I finally take, opening my eyes. “We’re going to come up with a plan. Together.”
There are some ways I know Juniper can understand me, and this is one of them. She looks at me with a softness reserved for moments like these before turning and leading us to the kitchen. She says nothing as she makes tea—chamomile—and Laurel and I sit around the table.
I remain silent until she slides the cups in front of us.
“I already know what I have to do,” I say at last. “What I wanted to do all along—cut my client list in half and focus on the family business.”
Juniper watches me with sharp eyes. “And what needs to change for you to do that?”
I smile wryly. She likely knows the answer, and I do, too. I’ve known it all along.
“I need to change my fees,” I say evenly.
“Which means…?”
“Oh my gods,” Laurel whispers. “You’re asking for a raise.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s hardly a raise. I’m freelancing. As I said, I’m changing my fees, which will impact all of my clients.”
Including those I’m related to.
But I sound more confident about it than I feel. In all my years of business, I’ve never upped my fees—not for family and friends. But it needs to be done.
“The answer is yes,” Juniper says, shaking her head. “If I knew you were struggling, I would have made this change much sooner. I’m sorry. I haven’t been paying attention.”
She was distracted, and I can’t blame her for it. I should have said something. This, too, is something I know Juniper understands. It makes the whole thing less embarrassing.
I’ve been charging the family businesses less than the others, and that—that’s where the burnout is coming from. I won’t put it into words, won’t make them feel guilty. It was my decision.
And this is my new decision, too. To better manage my time. To be mindful.
I sip on my still-hot tea. “Then it’s settled.”
Juniper smiles kindly. “I’m proud of you.”
I smile back.
But it all feels so empty. This isn’t enough. There’s something more I’m still missing, and I don’t know when I’ll get it back… or if I’ll ever get over it.
How can I get over him?