She took a shallow breath. “I have been proud of you every day of your life. Go and find your destiny. I love you my darling.”
“I love you, Mama.” I told her as I went to my room to pack.
I grabbed the battered duffel from beneath the bed, and stuffed it with the basics: underwear, jeans, a couple of hoodies, a couple of my favorite dresses, the old quilt for good measure. In the bathroom, I scooped up Mama’s brush, her favorite lotion, the little tin of beeswax lip balm we’d made together last spring. I hesitated over the photos pinned to my wall—me as a baby, the two of us at the county fair, Mama caught mid-laugh at my thirteenth birthday. I tore down the smallest one, tucked it in my back pocket, and left the rest.
Then I knelt by the bed, pried up the loose floorboard beneath the rocking chair, and reached into the darkness. Myfingers closed on rough, oiled leather—the grimoire. It was heavier than I remembered. I pulled it out, turned it over in my hands. The cover was stamped with our sigil: a circle of willow branches, three dots at the center. I’d never been able to open it; the magic was locked tight, waiting for a true witch.
Maybe now it would answer to me.
Underneath the grimoire was the large brown envelope.Aspen, it said in Mama’s script. My throat knotted up, but I shoved it into my bag, too.
From the pantry, I gathered a couple jars of honey, a loaf of sourdough, and the last two apples. I wanted to linger, to take in every line and corner of our life together, but I needed to leave before the world outside started waking up. I thought I heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel path, and the shrill voices echoing across the commons.
I laced up my boots, slung the duffel over my shoulder, and tiptoed back to Mama’s side. I pressed a kiss to her forehead, just above the place where the skin was warmest, and lingered for three heartbeats.
I made my way to the back door and then turned one last time to see her sleeping form. “May the earth remember your kindness,” I said, voice barely above a whisper. “May the wind sing your memory, and the waters carry you safe.”
It was the old way, the words she’d taught me when I was little and didn’t understand what death meant. Now, saying them, I felt a slice of comfort, so small I almost missed it.
“Love you, Mama,” I said, voice thick and rough. “Don’t forget me.”
There was a rap at the front door—three hard knocks. I froze.
A second, then a third. More urgent now.
I crept to the back of the house, unlatched the screen door, and slipped into the darkness. The air was sharp with frost,and the grass crunched beneath my boots. I ducked behind the woodpile and circled wide through the little kitchen garden. When I looked back, I saw shadows moving through the cottage window. The front door crashed open, and a voice—a man’s—shouted my name.
I ran then, straight into the trees, the bag thumping against my back, the grimoire like a stone in my chest. I didn’t dare look back.
If Mama had taught me anything, it was that running wasn’t weakness. Sometimes, it was the only way to survive.
I made it to the edge of the forest the moon lighting my way. There was a battered Subaru waiting on the dirt road, exactly where Mama and I always left it after foraging trips. I’d patched it up so many times I knew its engine better than my own heartbeat. The backseat was loaded down with laundry, textbooks, and at least three jars of pickles that’d rolled loose from last summer’s canning. I threw my duffel onto the passenger seat, slammed the door, and cranked the ignition. The engine purred to life—stubborn as a stray dog.
“Come on, now. Don’t you give up on me,” I muttered, patting the dash. It felt silly to talk to a car, but it was better than talking to the woods behind me. I didn’t want to imagine what or who was waiting in those shadows.
I bounced down the rutted road toward the highway, breath shallow and jittery. My hands shook on the steering wheel, but my mind was clear. Clearer than it had been in days. Maybe knowing what I was running from made it easier.
The further I got from Verdant Hollow, the less real it seemed. Maybe the coven was already searching for me, calling in their familiars, setting hexes on the crossroads. Or maybe they’d just be glad I was gone—a blemish erased from the bloodline. My skin prickled with every passing mile.
The first gas station was a graveyard of fluorescent lights and stale coffee. I filled the tank, hands shaking, eyes scanning every stranger for a sign they’d recognize me. But no one did. I looked like any other runaway—short, thick, too pale, hair wild and tangled. I bought a bag of jerky and two bottles of water, paid cash, and got back on the road.
I drove straight through the night, past fields gone gold with winter rye, past strip malls and empty drive-ins and motels whose vacancy signs never seemed to turn off. Sometimes, I’d check the rearview, expecting to see a shadow or a pair of headlights holding steady behind me. But it was just me, and the endless blacktop.
Somewhere near the Alabama line, I pulled off onto a dirt road and killed the engine. The air was thick with pine and river mud. I spread the grimoire on the hood of the car and ran my fingers over the cover, wondering if it would open for me now.
It didn’t. The clasp held tight. But I felt a hum just under my skin, like it was waking up, or maybe just waiting. I unscrewed a jar of salt from Mama’s bag and poured a circle around the car, then mashed up some rosemary with the butt of my water bottle and smeared it on the door handles. I couldn’t cast, but I knew how to hide. If the coven sent anything after me, I’d make myself as invisible as a snake in grass.
The map Mama left was hand drawn, with little stars marking safe towns, potential enemies, and, circled three times in blue, Dairyville. That was my target. That, and the bakery she’d left in my name. The idea of running a bakery made me laugh and cry at the same time. My mama knew the one thing I was good at. Baking any and everything. I’d pulled the phone out of the envelope. A shiny new iPhone. Even though Mama had drawn a pretty map, I’d plugged the address of the bakery into the GPS figuring that between Mama’s map and Google, I’d find the place without too much of a problem.
“Just keep movin’, Aspen. Don’t look back,” I said, the accent thicker now, like it needed to anchor me. “That’s what she’d want.”
I drove on, using the back roads, stopping only when I was too tired to keep my eyes open. I slept in the car, hoodie pulled over my face, every sound in the darkness a possible threat. Sometimes I dreamed of Mama, her arms warm and alive, braiding my hair and humming to herself as she always did. Waking up hurt, but I kept going.
Near the state line, the roads grew wide and lonely. Truck stops gave way to nothing but open prairie and the scent of distant rain. I ate cold jerky, drank water, and counted the days since Mama died: one, two, three. Grief felt different in the car—less sharp, more like a bruise that flared whenever I stopped to think.
The sky was purple when I hit the Texas border, clouds lit from beneath by the promise of sunrise. I pulled over, just to see it, and let the engine idle while the world went from night to blue.
For a second, I thought about turning around. Going back to what little I had left. But there was nothing for me in Verdant Hollow, nothing at all.
