Chapter 7 #2
One night, instead of a movie, Luke brought out a deck of cards. They’d started off easy on me since I’d never played before. But as soon as I caught on to the game, they were ruthless and treated me like any other player. I found myself laughing out loud, wanting the night to never end.
I’d never been a part of anything like this—part of a family that worked together and relaxed together, who genuinely enjoyed one another.
What would it have been like to grow up like this?
Having fun with my family? Maybe then I wouldn’t have grown up so sheltered and naive.
I would’ve known what it was like to joke and let loose without the constant cloud of pressure my grandmother and mother had put on me to be perfect.
December
Winter arrived sooner than usual, and Annabel taught me how to make the purple concoction I’d seen her drinking every day.
She used the trimmings Emily gathered from the lobelia bush outside, mashing the purple flowers in a bowl before adding them to the brew.
It smelled terrible, and I wrinkled my nose as she directed me to stir the pot on the stove.
As the brew cooked, the smell became almost familiar, reminding of the long days spent in the cottage with my grandmother.
“Good, Dafni, nice and slow—just like that.” Annabel pulled two jars down from the cabinet above the stove, holding them with their labels facing me. “Remember what we add next?”
I glanced between the two jars. “Red rosinweed.”
“Very good,” she said, opening the jar and shaking in the dried flowers. “Potions control emotions, and emotions control your power as a woman.”
“Is that why you drink this?” I asked as I stirred in the red rosinweed, watching the dried petals disappear in the liquid. “To control your emotions?”
“In a way.” Annabel leaned over, sprinkling in a few more petals. “It’s part of the agreement I made with your mother to live here.”
I stopped stirring, the liquid swirling around my wooden spoon. To make an agreement with my mother was akin to life in prison. She must’ve really wanted something from my mother to agree to anything with her.
“So long as I suppress my emotions with this drink, we can live here and Luke can work at the Coven.”
“Why would you agree to anything with my mother?” I asked. My mother was a raging lunatic with an affinity for cruelty. Even since birth, I’d never agreed with my mother.
“I think you’ve already realized that I’m a witch.” Annabel looked down at the concoction. “She deems me as a threat, and my children—”
“But Luke and Emily aren’t witches,” I interrupted, the statement also a question.
“No, no,” Annabel said. “They aren’t, but your mother protects all of us…so long as I drink this.”
I took a moment to look at Annabel’s face. Her skin was youthful and supple, her lips full. But her eyes—they looked as though they’d seen a hundred years.
“Luke and Emily’s father is not a nice man,” Annabel said. “I will gladly suppress my magic to protect my children.”
I nodded, riding a small wave of jealousy. What I wouldn’t do for a mother who’d protect me.
Annabel leaned over the pot, wafting the steam toward her face. She nodded once, turning off the stove. “This is done.” She took the pot and poured the purple liquid into a line of mason jars next to the stove on the counter. I went to work sealing the top of the jars with silver lids.
After Annabel put away the jars and washed the pot in the sink, she surprised me by setting the empty pot back on the stove. “Let me teach you another one.”
I watched as she began pulling jars from the back of the cabinet, the lids covered with dust.
“This one you might appreciate.” Annabel turned to face me, reaching out and cupping both of my cheeks in her hands. “This one creates unbridled rage.”
“Rage?” I questioned.
Annabel arranged the jars in a line on the counter, turning the labels to face outward. “Rage is one of the most powerful emotions. I felt it coming from you when Luke brought you here.” She motioned to the empty pot.
I picked it up and brought it over to the sink, filling it about halfway full.
“We’ll make a diluted version today. I think in this moment you feel enough rage as it is.”
“I don’t feel rage,” I said with my jaw clenched.
“If you’re honest with yourself, I think you’ll find that there’s rage deep down inside of you…
it’s within all of us women. It tells you to do things and to say things that others might find unpleasant—but you know are right.
” Annabel grabbed onto a jar and pulled at the cork.
Red flakes fell to the ground as the cork came free.
“We’ll start with a splash of honey-badger blood.
” She poured some of the blood into the pot, and we both watched as the red liquid clouded the water.
“Should we add some asafoetida?” I asked.
Annabel glanced up at me, a wrinkle forming between her brows. “How did you know to add that?”
I smiled. I looked over the ingredients she’d pulled and began plucking the jars I’d need.
She grabbed hold of the jar of crocodile teeth I had in my palm, her hand wrapping around mine. “Only a few of those. I don’t have many left.”
I nodded as I looked through the glass at the few pointed teeth inside.
With my ingredients lined up, I began adding them to the brew, following Annabel’s direction. She communicated with me through clicks of her tongue when I’d added too much and a firm hand around my wrist when I needed to add a few more shakes.
“You’re a natural,” Annabel said as I stirred. “Who taught you?”
I remembered back to the cottage days. Grandmother next to the cauldron, talking about this and that, thinking I wasn’t listening—but I always was. Her adages about different herbs and plants had stuck in my brain, and I remembered most of what she’d said.
“My grandmother,” I said. “She was a talented potion maker.”
Annabel stared at me for a moment, then nodded softly in agreement. “She must’ve been a talented woman, a strong woman to raise a witch like you.”
The brew bubbled on the stove while Annabel and I watched in silence, letting the scent from the steam wash over our faces.
I rarely thought of my grandmother. It was too painful.
The way we’d parted—I didn’t like to think about it.
She’d raised me the best she could, alone in that cottage, without a partner or any help.
It’d been just me and her as long as I could remember.
The last time I’d brewed a potion was when I’d assisted my grandmother.
All this brewing reminded me of her. She’d always known the right things to do, to say. She’d been the only one to stand up for me—when I’d been too small and my voice too quiet.
Annabel put her hand on my arm. Only then did I realize I was shaking.
“It’s important to feel everything,” she whispered. “Trust what your body is trying to tell you.”
I let the rage potion simmer along with my insides.