Screw You, Caster’s Insurance #2
With the pentacle complete, I pour the salt onto the side plate and set it in the bottom quadrant.
I add the candles next, one on each point of the star, then stall again.
I need something of Ethel’s to connect the spell to her.
My gaze lands on my leather jacket that used to be hers—strewn over the back of the dining chair in front of my kitchenette.
The problem is, she hasn’t worn it in years…
I have. So it carries my energy now, and not hers.
Then my eyes drift to the paper bag on the countertop that contains the remaining pastry. She did touch that, though. Less than twenty-four hours ago. And she touched it with purposeful intent when she stole it from the basket.
Smiling, I snatch it up and set it on top of the Cairngorm Quartz.
That’s one problem fixed, but what to do about the herbs?
It’s late now, so it’s not like I can just make a quick trip out to the store.
In the spells I read, the combination of rosemary and thyme came up most often, and any other herbs mentioned worked to increase mental fortitude and clarity.
But where could I get something that would do that as well as protect me from possible casting backlash?
My jaw falls open when I remember.
Racing out of my room, narrowly avoiding another run-in with the table in the hallway, I rush down the stairs and tug open the front door that’s swollen into its frame by the chill night air.
Because there, growing between the pavers of the short path to the sidewalk, is mugwort.
Likely, most everyone here thinks it’s a weed, but I recognised it immediately the day I moved in.
I drop to my knees, and rake about in the deep gaps with my fingers. Mugwort will do everything that rosemary and thyme will do—and more!
When the plant finally pulls free by the root, I hurry back in.
Out of breath, I drop the mugwort on top of the salt. That should be everything.
I give a little excited clap and bounce on my toes. It’s been literal years since I cast any spell, and it’s hard to contain all the feelings I have about it. I miss magic.
Fumbling with the lighter, I pause. The Academy always said that the more powerful casts should be completed when the liminal space is more accessible, but I never really understood that because we all have different time zones, so how does liminal space know to be in the right place at the right time?
Besides, my phone reads 02:15 and that’s close enough.
With a better grip on the warming lighter, I give flame to the first candle and then remember I was supposed to turn them upside down to carve the wick out of the bottom.
Frowning, I decide against it. My candles are tapered, and I don’t have candlesticks to hold them, so I can’t keep them upright if I do that anyway.
Decision made, I hurry to light the other four, because that little wheel on the lighter is now really hot, but when I come to light the mugwort on top of the lumpy salt, the moisture in it means that the flame won’t take.
Impatient, I try again and hold the lighter closer still, the stem of the plant almost directly on it.
I didn’t come this far with my intuition and spellcraft to be thwarted by damp.
“Ow, fuck!” I suck my burned thumb into my mouth.
Abandoning the lighter, I switch to using a candle, and while I stubbornly wait for the plant to catch, I watch white wax drip over the floorboards. Eventually, the mugwort smoulders, producing a thick plume of sweet-scented smoke that fills the air—and my lungs.
I turn my head to cover a cough, reposition the candle, and settle myself cross-legged in the centre of the pentacle.
The mirror that leans against the wall in front of me shows the chalk stains on the toes of my boots and knees of my jeans, so I take a second to dust them off.
That’s when I notice the dirt and plant stains on my hands.
I scrub as much of that off on my thighs as I can too, making another mental note to add these to my laundry pile.
With one last perusal of my reflection, I make a token effort to finger-comb my shaggy platinum-blond hair, so that it gives less “crazed witch at two in the morning” and more “artful night owl,” and reposition the ring of my septum piercing that somehow always rotates to the left.
Then, with a conspiratorial wink to myself, I say, “Screw you,” to caster’s insurance, and close my eyes.
Before I repeat the words I remember from the various spells, I focus my thoughts on Ethel.
I remember how small she’d seemed in that chair, yet how vibrant she was when she brazenly stole the pastries.
I remember how still and quiet she’d grown when she was faking a turn, yet how wily she was when she’d told me to wish her luck at poker.
I remember why I’m doing this. So that Ethel can live, protected in a bubble and safe from the effects of time.
“Vita, mortis, careo.” I begin, probably butchering the pronunciation as I cobble together the words. “Tempus, noli, ferire.”
A sudden gust of wind blows out my candles, despite the window being closed, and my eyes snap open. I hold my breath, and for a moment, nothing further happens.
Then there’s an intense itching on my left hip. Instead of holding the intention in the aftermath of the spell—like I’m supposed to—all my focus is directed to the overwhelming urge to scratch at my skin.
Uncrossing my legs, I wrestle with the button of my jeans until I can peel the thick fabric down, but I freeze when my mind processes the blemishing underneath. My birthmark, that has always been a shade of pale pink, like a scar, is now a much darker and deeper shade of pinkish red.
Blinking, I stare in disbelief. Why would it change colour?
The itching is maddening, but the moment I bring my blunt and muddied nails to scratch the sensitised skin, I’m transported out of my body.