“That was before I held one of Trevor’s baby cousins the other day. Every time I see a baby, the number grows.”
They laugh.
“Good.” Zelda grabs her contacts case, removes her lenses. “I’ll get to snuggle your babies for a while, then give them back to you when they start crying.”
“The best arrangement,” Luna agrees. After a long look at Aisling, she switches off the TV. “Icannotsleep with the television on. I don’t know where she gets that.”
Mutually validated, we all wind down. Some time later, I break the silence. “Zel?”
A few beats pass. “Hm?”
“Why’re you here?”
She pats my head sleepily. “To help with the night market, silly. And, I’m tired of missing out on everything that happens around here, watching Ash grow up.” I sense an undercurrent to her words—maybe she’s running from something. Zelda’s told us a hundred times that she had no interest in moving back to Moonville.
On the other side of Ash, Luna reaches across to grab my waist, shaking me just a bit in a silent show of excitement.This means she’s here to stay!I feel her thinking.
I’m in a cocoon of safety—my sisters, my niece, Snapdragon. Jingle, too, judging by the set of small, careful paws sinking into the mattress near my feet. The hum of a breeze through the cracked window and corresponding flutter of pale curtains, the smell of wooden bowls with blown-out floating candles, the soft old carpet, the half-paneled walls, and Luna’s house slippers discarded on a rainbow rug. This place is my constant.
I cannot risk it.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
STRIPED CARNATIONS:
I can’t be with you.
I can get you over here.” Trevor herds a gaggle of women, their arms laden with candles and crowns, to a second cash register that’s only necessary on the holidays. The Magick Happens is a friendly clamor of bells chiming every time the door opens, Southwind’s traditional Celtic music, hot paper curling from receipt printers, and exclamations. Every doorway’s vibrant with May flowers—pansies, forsythia, yarrow, lilies. Streamers in white, dark green, and red cascade from witch bells, light fixtures, the stairs, every flower coronet. It is May Day, my favorite twenty-four hours of the year.
“You write a wish on it,” I’m telling a young couple visiting from upstate, pressing a scrap of cloth into their palms. “Then tie it to one of those trees.” I indicate the hawthorn, ash, and sycamore trees growing out of the sidewalk out front, roots unfurling deep below the road. Our town was built to accommodate nature as much as possible, some of our buildings shaped irregularly to fit around the trees that laid claim first. “Those trees right there are the best ones for wish-casting.” They’re each home to a dozen wishes apiece.
“Oooh,” the lady breathes. “How fantastical!”
It’s so crowded in here that it’s getting hot, and multiple people have complained about the lack of space on my porch. Doing the flowers for Kristin’s wedding has opened my mind to the idea of offering baby shower services and birthday parties someday. When I have space.
At lunchtime, we engage in the traditional May Day trading of gifts with neighboring shops, passing out herbal blends and packs of candles in exchange for hot cross buns, lavender and lemon shortbread, and margherita pizza.
I carry a slice with me into the Garden, stopped every so often by patrons with questions or excited remarks, wonderfully dizzy with the aromas of delicious food and spring magic.
“Which ones should I get for my wife and daughter?” a middle-aged man asks me, picking through a crate of premade posies.
“Lavender, alfalfa, and peppermint for the daughter.” I sort them so that he can see. “Primrose, woodruff, and birch for the wife.”
“What’s this one mean?” A lady holds up a corsage.
“Ahh. White violets are for taking a chance on happiness.”
She examines it. “Suppose I should. Why not?”
“That’s the spirit!” I’m a filthy hypocrite for saying so, as my flower crown is made of striped carnations. I’ve got a veritable razor wire fence on my head.
“Romina!” Trevor calls. “This guy wants to know what kind of rocks are in the May Day charm bags?”
“Bloodstone.”
A new, and unexpected, voice responds. “Hey, missed you at breakfast.”
I spin.Alex.
