Frankie
I wake to the cooing of mourning doves.
The pair that nests in the same tree in my yard every year appears to be giving me a farewell performance before flying south
for the winter. I lie in bed and listen to them as Ash sleeps on his stomach beside me, naked and dead to the world.
I can tell by the chink of sunlight shining from between my blackout curtains that we’ve slept most of the day away. Judging
by the way shadows are falling, it’s past two o’clock in the afternoon. I’m surprised we haven’t been wakened by concerned
phone calls from my patients, all of whose appointments I’ve missed . . . or, worse, visitors, especially from my own family.
Then again, the last thing Jackie said to me as I was wheeling Ash from the hospital was, “Don’t talk to any reporters—especially
your sister Cat!”
There seemed to be a general feeling amongst law enforcement that what happened last night might end up being even bigger news than the #WestHarborWitchRiot, although they’ve managed to keep our names out of the press .
. . for now. And I’m fairly certain no one caught Hecate on a cell phone camera.
That’s because you can’t film a hallucination. I know Ash says what happened last night was magic, but now, in the light of
day, I know better. It had to have been a hallucination brought on by Datura stramonium. And fortunately, we all survived.
I get out of bed, careful not to wake Ash, and check on Daisy and the kittens. The new mother seems to be doing well. The
DeLong boys took good care of her while I was gone. She proudly shows off her babies to me, then rolls over onto her back
for belly rubs. I give them to her, listening to all the happy purring coming from the bottom of the laundry basket.
This is real. This is no hallucination.
And neither are all the messages I find on my phone when I finally check it.
There’s the usual assortment of texts from my family: Mom asking if I need her to drop by with something to eat; Mark asking
if Ash has said anything yet about him coming by to pick up Ash’s truck, which he’s agreed to sell him; Cat asking when she
can interview me about what I saw last night; Angie asking if I’m being careful and using birth control.
And then there are all the patients whose appointments I slept through today, asking if I’m all right—which is an excellent
question. I’ve just found out my boyfriend is a demigod (or at least thinks he is), and all the evidence I’ve seen in the
past twenty-four hours seems to suggest it might be true.
No, I don’t think I’m all right.
There are messages from various friends as well, including Rochelle:
“Hey, just calling to say thanks again. Not only did Ash refund Mrs. Baumgarten’s rent for the month,” Rochelle says, “but he also gave her deposit back and offered her an entire month of free rent for next summer, as well—in high season. I don’t know what you said to that guy, but the Baumgartens and I both really appreciate it! ”
Before I have a chance to digest this, however, I see a voicemail from Jackie, repeating her request that I not speak to the
press—specifically my sister Cat.
Something in Jackie’s tone causes me to do a quick scan of the headlines. Yeah, I can see why Jackie is concerned. #TeenageWitchDeathCult
is already trending.
That might be why Cat’s left a voicemail in addition to her texts, promising not to identify Ash’s or my role in last night’s
rescue—but only, she says, “Because you’re my sister. Although I don’t know why you don’t want to be identified. You can’t
buy this kind of publicity. You could get so many more patients for your practice if you’d just let me tell people what you did!”
But I already have all the patients I can handle . . . and most of them are worried about me. I’m starting to text them all
back, apologizing for my negligence, when I smell it:
Coffee.
Not only coffee. I smell bacon.
But that’s impossible, because I haven’t made coffee yet, and Ash is still passed out naked in my bed.
Someone is in my kitchen. Someone is cooking breakfast in my kitchen.
After hurrying into a fresh sweatshirt, pair of leggings, and Uggs, I stagger out into the main area of the house and find . . .
A small middle-aged woman in a purple-and-gold abaya, heavy gold and amethyst jewelry, and a stylish black bob leaning over my open oven door, checking on something she has inside it.
Sunlight is streaming through the sliding glass doors behind her, causing the jewels at her wrists and neck to gleam.
She looks up when I walk in and smiles not only as if she’s known me for ages but as if she has every right to be in my house.
“Oh, hello, Francesca, darling,” she says. She has a vaguely European accent. The darling comes out dahling. “Sorry if I woke you, but I wanted to do something to thank you. You went through quite a lot last night. I’m not flattering
myself that I’m as good a cook as your mother or brother, but I’ve been told I do all right. And I truly can’t thank you enough
for what you did for my Ash. Coffee?”
I stare at her. She seems familiar, but I know I’ve never seen her before. Surely I’d remember if I’d ever met such a well-dressed
and cultured—
Then it hits me all at once.
“Guy?” I say the word tentatively. “Are you . . . Guy?”
The woman laughs, delighted. “Why, yes, that’s me! I suppose Ash told you that he couldn’t pronounce the word Gaia when he was a boy, and so I became Guy. I have to say I’ve grown very attached to the name. Ash really is a darling, isn’t
he?”
“Uh . . . yes.”
I pull a chair out from beneath my dining table and sink down into it—not because I’m so eager for a talk with this woman.
No, it’s because my knees have suddenly given out.
A goddess. There is a goddess standing in my kitchen.
Except that . . . goddesses don’t exist. I don’t know what it was I saw last night, but I know none of it was real. So this woman can’t be real, either. Surely she’s simply a manifestation of my own insecurities from the depth of my subconscious. Because how else did she get in here?
It’s stupid to wonder, I suppose. I shouldn’t expect a hallucination to make sense.
And if she is a goddess, she probably has some kind of magical door-unlocking powers. She certainly has magical culinary powers, because
she’s covered my dining table with food, none of which came from my own pantry or fridge. Neither did the dishes it’s being
served in. I don’t own any earthenware, and certainly not any painted in festive blue and white, with what looks like real
gold trim.
But there are blue-and-white serving plates and bowls trimmed in gold all over my dining table, some filled with decidedly
not-local fresh fruit—plums, melons, figs, and dates—and others piled high with hot, crusty flatbread, tabbouleh salad, hummus,
and what looks like a massive pot of eggs poached in tomato sauce, still bubbling from the oven.
I can’t help reaching out to touch this pot, curious to see if it’s as real as it looks—and am surprised to find it hot enough
to burn. I hastily pull my finger back. That’s not a hallucination.
“Oh, look out, darling!” Gaia sees me touch the pot and looks alarmed. “That’s quite warm. Have you not had shakshuka before?”
When I shake my head, unable to speak, she goes on, cheerfully, “Oh, well, you’re in for a treat. It’s always been Ash’s favorite.
The trick is to dip the bread into the eggs to break the yolks, then let the gooey golden goodness go all over—well, you’ll
see. Coffee, darling?”
I nod. I know it’s rude, but I still don’t trust myself to speak.
“You take it with milk and sugar, don’t you? Here you are.” She slides a cup of coffee in front of me. It is not a cup I own, but a blue-and-white container of the thinnest ceramic imaginable, with a thin band of gold around the rim. “Sweets to the sweet.”
This is exactly what Ash said to my mother when he presented her with the jar of honey from the farmers market.
As I stare at the woman, I realize she and Ash not only use similar phrasing but bear a striking physical resemblance to one
another, as well. Besides both having brown skin and very dark hair and eyes, they share the same firm jawline and aquiline
nose.
Well, and why not? She’s supposed to be his grandmother, after all.
His grandmother who, if any of this is true, is over seven thousand years old.
Impossible. Not only impossible but absurd. And yet . . .
“Now.” She’s pulling out the chair beside mine and plopping herself down onto it, her own cup of coffee in her hand. “Let’s
talk quickly, before he wakes. I always find it’s best to talk while the men aren’t around, don’t you agree? They so often
want to monopolize the conversation. So, what do you want to ask me? I’m sure you must have a lot of questions! Ash says that’s
what you do for a living, ask people questions.”
“Uh.” I notice she has gold jeweled sandals on her slim, very pretty little feet. The long toenails are painted purple to
match her gown. She smells of something woodsy and spicy, unlike my own grandmothers, who always smelled of Noxzema. “Sort
of. How—how did you get in here?”
“Oh, I used your key,” she says brightly. “The one you keep at the bottom of the porch light. Is that all right? Don’t worry,
I won’t make a habit of it. I will absolutely respect your privacy in the future.
” She pronounces it prih-va-cy, without the long i.
I don’t think that’s something I’d hallucinate, any more than I’d hallucinate the external stimulus of a hot pot of shakshuka.
“But I do like to check in on my favorite offspring when I know they’ve been struggling.
Ash may not seem like it, but he’s quite sensitive,
you know. And he likes you.” She smiles and wags a heavily ringed finger at me. “He likes you very much!”
“Uh . . . I like him, too. But—”
“Oh, that’s perfect!” She claps her slim brown hands, and the gold bangles around her wrists tinkle musically. “I quite thought
so, but I wasn’t sure. I didn’t think you’d go through everything you did last night if you didn’t like him at least a little.