I glanced at the book, heart pounding. “What now?”
“Now, you center yourself. Recall your mother’s voice. Let her be your guide.” Oscar scooted closer, his claws trailing across the tea towel. “Place your hands upon the cover. Yes, both of them. Good. Now close your eyes. You, most importantly need to relax and remember this book contains the magic of your ancestors. Your family. This magic belongs to you. It’s yours.”
I did as I was told, swallowing hard.
Oscar’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Remember her. Think of the days you baked together. Think of the first time you made her proud.”
I thought back—past the anger, past the years of not fitting in, to the handful of moments when I’d belonged. Mama’s hands on mine, showing me how to knead dough without breaking it. Her laugh, a wild guffaw when I turned on the mixer and sent flour everywhere, the way she brushed it off like nothing in the world mattered but me. I remembered the feel of her arms, strong and soft, holding me when I cried after the other girls mocked my magic. She never called me a dud. She just said I was different, and someday that would save me. I recalled herbeauty, her long dark hair she’d braid and twist on top of her head, and her beautiful flawless skin and bright eyes.
Oscar must have sensed something in me shift. “Good, good. Hold that feeling.”
I squeezed my eyes tighter, feeling the book grow hotter under my palms.
The world rippled and dissolved, and suddenly I was nowhere near the kitchen table or the comfort of Oscar’s soft little voice. I was back inside the dream, the one I’d had a couple of weeks ago and woke up not being able to remember any details. It was the night the grimoire awoke. The details of the dream now came into focus.
The first thing I noticed was the cold. Not Texas cold, not that brittle morning air that made you hunch your shoulders and hurry to the truck, but something older, a wet-chill that got inside your bones and shivered up your spine. I looked down. I wasn’t wearing cute leggings and a college sweatshirt—I was barefoot in a white dress, the hem already damp and dirty from dew and mud.
The land stretched away in every direction: wild grass, rolling hills, sky so wide it made your heart ache. But the thing that drew my eyes—and kept them there—was the ring of stones ahead of me, each one as tall as a man and black as sin. They were arranged in a perfect circle, the ground inside scraped flat and bare except for a spiral of salt, laid so carefully it must have been poured by hand. Every stone was carved with marks I didn’t recognize, but some part of me understood them, anyway. They were the bones of my bloodline, and they hummed with a promise that felt half welcome, half terrifying.
I stepped forward, the grass icy against my skin, and the stones seemed to lean in, like curious elders sizing up the family disappointment. I half-expected to see Oscar at my feet, but I was alone, the only sound the wind and my own heartbeat.
I reached the edge of the spiral and stopped, not daring to break the salt. For a minute, nothing happened. The silence pressed in, so heavy I thought it would split me open.
Then, from the far side of the circle, a figure stepped out of the mist.
She moved slow, as if the air was thicker for her, but every step was certain. I recognized her right away—not because of her face, which was as blurred and shifting as a photograph left out in the rain, but because of the way she walked. Like the world owed her an explanation, and she’d wait forever to get it.
Mama.
Her dress was blue, the exact shade she used to wear on the days we baked together, and her hair was pinned up with the bone comb she’d inherited from her mother. She looked both younger and older than I remembered—her skin smooth, but her eyes carrying the weight of a thousand secrets.
She stopped at the spiral and waited, hands folded over her stomach. “Aspen,” she said, her voice like home and heartache all at once. “You made it.”
I tried to speak, but the words caught. I felt five years old again, hiding behind her legs while the world burned around us.
“You always were the stubborn one,” Mama said, her mouth curling into a smile. “That’s why you’re here and not with them.”
I stared at the spiral, not sure if I was supposed to cross it. “Am I dead?” I asked, and my own voice sounded small.
She laughed, a wild chuckle that rang off the stones. “If you were dead, you’d know. No, child, you’re just dreaming. Dreaming true for the first time in your life.”
The wind picked up, swirling the salt. I tasted it on my lips, sharp and old. “Why here?” I asked. “Why now?”
Mama looked at me, the smile fading. “Because it’s time. They’re coming, Aspen. And you need to be ready.”
I swallowed, the chill in my feet climbing up my legs. “The wolves?”
She shook her head, sad. “The wolf is your salvation, your completion. I’m so proud that you found your wolf. But you know that already.”
I still needed answers, so I asked, “Why did you make me leave?”
Her gaze softened. “Because if you’d stayed, you’d be dead already. Or worse.” She touched her collarbone, where the grimoire pendant used to rest, and I saw a flash of firelight, a memory that wasn’t mine. “I did everything I could to keep you safe, but it was never enough. You were meant for more than that little coven. Meant for more than being a dud.”
The word stung, even from her. “Then what am I meant for?”
Mama’s face grew distant, like she was watching something play out in the sky behind me. “Your strength is in the making, Aspen. In what you create, not what you destroy. The world needs more of that. More of you.”
The stones began to pulse, faint at first, then stronger, until I could feel it in my teeth. The spiral at my feet glowed, each grain of salt a tiny sun. My heart beat faster. I thought of Papa, of Oscar, of the way I felt baking in the early hours—how sometimes, just sometimes, I felt like I was bending the world into sweetness.
