“I’ll see you tonight,” said Zaide.
Rowan froze. Was Zaide assuming she’d take part in the spell? Had her mother assumed she’d just say yes? Was the entire coven expecting it?
Something must have shown on her face, because Zaide clarified, “For dinner.”
“Right,” said Rowan, exhaling. The coven would gather for Solstice eve dinner at the Midwinter house, the way they always had, and only afterward would they go into the wood to perform the magical rites.
Her father would enjoy the feast with them, marking the occasion in a completely secular way, and stay back when the night took a turn for the mystical. That was an option for Rowan as well. If she took it, leaving the coven’s circle broken.
Was that something she could live with?
“Rowan.” Zaide’s voice interrupted her thoughts. Her old friend inclined her head toward Rowan’s half-drunk cup of coffee with a wry smile. “Don’t forget.”
She flushed as she grabbed it, because she had absolutely been about to forget. “Thanks.”
“ ’Course,” said Zaide with a wink. “I’m not cleaning up after you.”
For the first time since she’d walked into the shop, it felt like old times.
8
The day had been crisp, but when the sun set, the temperature plummeted. Every bit of heat escaped into the clear sky as exhaled breaths clouded and tinkled with ice. Rowan had long since lost her resilience to the cold, and though she’d layered a jacket over a sweater and put on a hat, gloves, and scarf, it was proving woefully inadequate.
Elk Ridge Winter Fest stood at the north end of town, surrounded by a low fence on which hung the names of local sponsors. The grounds hosted permanent structures that provided space for food, drink, and entertainment, all styled to the winter wonderland theme with dramatic filigree swoops and rough jutting icy spears that would have made Rankin-Bass proud. A chorus of cheers erupted from the Ferris wheel that stood high above the rest, its seats meticulously hand-carved to resemble snowflakes.
Rowan lingered at the base of the massive Yule tree planted at the entrance. It had been strung with lights and colorful balls and topped with a brilliant orange metal sun. As a liminal space ofgiving and receiving, all Yule trees were magically potent sites, and the coven had bound this one in a spell of joy that affected every visitor to the festival.
“How do they get the decorations all the way up there?” asked a bespectacled little boy, who peered at the top of the tree through Coke-bottle lenses.
“A very, very tall ladder,” answered his mother.
Rowan smiled secretly, knowing that wasn’t the answer.
Just inside the gates, children spilled out of the craft area, hoisting tissue-paper Solstice lanterns. Lights were everywhere for the Solstice. While most of them clearly dangled from something, some appeared to hang entirely in midair. Most visitors presumed there was a complex system of tiny wires holding them in place, but those who saw the world with eyes attuned to unreasonable possibilities recognized it for what it truly was—magic.
A massive straw Yule goat held court just beyond. He was sporting a blue-and-white scarf today, matching the menorahs that could be found around the festival grounds to mark the seventh day of Hanukkah. While the goat was fated to burn in the final days of Yule, for now, children swarmed up and down his back, and people wrote out their regrets on pieces of paper to slip into his mouth.
She paused, picking up a small piece of paper from a basket at the goat’s feet.
“What’s that for?” asked the same curious little boy from before.
“You write down what you want to leave behind,” answered Rowan, not giving time for his mom to guess again. “Regrets, bad behaviors…So you can start fresh next year.”
“I’d need a whole lot more paper than that,” murmured his mom.
“Honestly, same,” said Rowan.
The paper hummed with the promise of a spell, and Rowan’s fingers leaped apart, letting the slip flutter back to the basket.
She pressed on to Merchant Alley, where German-style holiday stalls had been arranged in narrow alleys. While there were some unfamiliar faces, she recognized most of the stalls. There was the Lonely Goatherd with its delicious farm cheeses and foraged berry jams, and Queeriosity, an outpost of an Elk Ridge boutique that specialized in gender-affirming clothing.
She passed the vibrant red and brass of Turkish Delights, where the Adivar family sold the so-named candy under a sign proclaimingTherealAplets & Cotlets.They had put out a platter of watermelon and pomegranates and nuts to mark Yalda, the Persian celebration of the Solstice, as well as papers with poems by the poet Hafiz.
Rowan picked one up, scanning the familiar poem before finding her favorite line. “ ‘Let’s plot to make the moon jealous,’ ” she murmured, and tucked the paper into her pocket with a smile.
Her brother’s booth, Guardians of the Wood, came into view at the far end of the marketplace. It was bigger and more open than the other stalls, which allowed it to hold a workspace where its chain saw artists showed off their craft for curious onlookers. Assorted wooden statues—the so-called guardians—had been arranged around its exterior.
She found Stephan Midwinter kneeling in a pile of wood shavings behind a fat wooden bear, carving a symbol into its rump with a fine metal tool.
