I snort. “You’d never hurt me if I were a ghost. You’d probably send brownies to the underworld for me.”
“Probably. I’m such a sucker for you, girlie.” She rubs behind her glasses. The tip of her nose is pink. “You know, I’d totally go with you to Night Haven if I wouldn’t get us both killed on sight for being a Gowdie witch.”
“I know.”
“I had an idea though. Maybe I could send you with some Hitch and Cast potion and you can enter my dreams if you needed advice.”
I frown. “That would be a great idea if I knew for sure I’d have a stove and the tools to complete the potion, let alone a way to anchor in Night Haven.”
She finishes her wine and pours herself another. “Right. Probably not feasible. This anchor thing is the most problematic. Why aren’t your ancestors helping you with this?”
We hear the clock strike eleven p.m. in the other room, and the lights flicker. “Cassius is here.”
The shade appears in the doorway to the kitchen.
Maeve hands him a glass and fills it with wine. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
I look up at him from a face that’s grown a bit warm. “I hope you’re game for a night off because I’m not sure I wouldn’t stab myself after the amount of wine I’ve drunk tonight.”
In a blur of black, he’s across the kitchen and heaping his plate with food. “It’s been years since I’ve had a proper turkey dinner. You wouldn’t believe how hard it is to have regular meals when you live and work with vampires.”
Maeve flips her black manicured nails through the air. “I thought you shades could subsist on blood.”
He gives her a flat look. “And you humans could survive on protein shakes, but it makes for a boring Thanksgiving.”
The chorus of their warm laughter fills the space around me.
So much to be thankful for. My gaze catches on the picture of my Grandpa Harcourt on the wall and Grams in her wedding dress, then skates to the pantry. If I open the door, I’ll see height markings for my grandfather, my father, and for me, dates and ages in Sharpie on the wood. So many generations, so much time at this table, in this kitchen, inside these walls. If I can take any comfort in it, it’s that this too will pass. I will either survive this challenge or I won’t. Only time will tell.
Time. “Oh my God. Time!” I say, my eyes growing wider.
Maeve and Cassius stop what appears to be a vibrant discussion on the effectiveness of sage in deterring demons and give me their attention.
“What’s that?” Maeve asks.
I stand from the table. “Moving the anchor. Maybe it’s not about finding the right spell but about performing the intention at the right time.”
They both stare at me blankly.
“The night I called Damien using the candle, you told me to perform the ritual exactly at midnight when the veil between the living and the dead was thinnest and my ancestors could help fuel the magic.”
“That is the general advice for humans,” she says. “I had no idea at the time you could actually communicate with your ancestors.”
“I couldn’t then. But the spell worked. And then, the night I asked for the Hitch and Cast spell and the book flew down from the attic, that happened right after the clock chimed midnight. And last night, at exactly midnight, I felt anchored as I was sparring with Cassius.”
Maeve adjusts her glasses. “But we performed the Hitch and Cast spell during the day.”
“And I never chose my anchor. It just was the clock. It was already the clock from when I did the spell in the parlor to call Damien at midnight. It’s always been the clock.”
“So… you think in order to move it, you have to perform a spell at midnight… and then redirect it? But wouldn’t you have to know what spell to use first?”
I look back at the black-and-white photo of my grandfather. “I think at midnight, I need to call my ancestors and ask them for help moving it. They trained me to master the elements. There was no specific spell for lighting the candle or making the seed grow. Maybe this is like that when it comes to spirit magic. There is no spell, I just have to feel it.”
Cassius nods approvingly and looks at his watch. “We can find out for sure in thirty-seven minutes.”
I put down my wine and reach for my water. I have thirty-seven minutes to sober up.
At 11:59 p.m., all three of us stand in the parlor, staring at the grandfather clock. I am not sober. My head is buzzing and I have a case of the giggles. On a positive note, I have no anxiety about trying this.
