Somehow, one of the most painful parts for me is that my parents never got to experience those places they had been so excited to visit. It was going to be so special for them. My dad hadn’t accepted work like that in a while. This was a rare opportunity. They were supposed to be gone a month. Now they’re gone forever.
I trip over a tree root, and Norrell’s hand steadies me as my legs move of their own accord. I can’t see where I’m going. Tears blind my vision like a mask. He’ll guide me if I walk the wrong way. There’s a path in the woods, but it was too crowded. I need space. Voices in the distance let me know we’re close to the graveyard, hidden in an enchanted copse of pine trees where the coven buries our dead. A new tree is planted above the remains of each witch, and a plaque is attached to its trunk so that the tree grows around it like its frame. There are many generations of witches buried here. Now it’s my parents’ turn.
Norrell’s arm slings around my shoulders as we get close, holding me into his side. He slows our pace as we approach the large crowd already gathered. There must be a thousand people here, not all of them witches. So many friends and acquaintances from town are paying their respects. Norrell guides us to Waltand Acton, who sweep me into an endless embrace. Walt’s shirt is wet under my face. I don’t know if I’ll ever stop crying.
One of the elder witches begins the funeral rites. I stare at the big hole already dug into the ground with two wooden boxes in it. It’s hard to pay attention to the rites when this is the last time I’ll be this close to my parents. Norrell squeezes my hand, letting me know he’s here. It pulls me out of my spiral in time to hear the most important part of the ceremony.
“May the ancestors claim Estelle Mayweather and Whitt Mayweather. And lead them on from step to step through the veil into the quiet and deep everlasting peace of the next realm where they will spend eternity. May we carry their love and wisdom with us until we are reunited again,” the witch recites.
A sob wrenches from me as the readings end. Norrell hauls me into his chest, running a hand soothingly over my back. I stay there inconsolable for a time. Eventually, he tries to get my attention.
“Ada, my ember, it is time for the gifts,” he murmurs. He gently pulls the items we’ve brought with us from a bag over his shoulder. We will place them in the grave to bring with them through the veil. That’s the sentiment anyway.
“Family is invited to bring their gifts first,” the witch requests. Walt, Acton, Norrell, and I step forward first. Each of us lightly toss our gifts into the grave. I brought a bag of my mom’s favorite tea and a small bottle of my dad’s favorite scotch. Norrell adds cuttings from the garden for my mom and a book on ancient languages for my dad. Extended family members follow behind us, coming from out of town. We greet each other as we pass. It’s clear we’re all in a daze, still shocked by their untimely deaths.
The witch continues, “Everyone else is now welcome to gift Estelle and Whitt with beloved objects to bring with them into the next realm.” Slowly, over the course of the next hour, friendsand acquaintances who have joined us to mourn my parents place their offerings inside. A few gifts are elaborate, but most are something simple like a freshly picked flower or a trinket. We then watch as the graves are filled over with dirt, leaving space for planting the tree they’ll share. Walt, Acton, and I decided they would like that. The sapling is held steady until its roots are covered and packed down with the remaining dirt. It’s elevated by all the gifts left beneath.
After the grave markers are magickally bound to the sapling, the presiding witch hands the four of us watering cans to be the first to offer it nourishment. It’s said the tree will grow taller the more deeply the loved one is held in our hearts. Theirs will be as tall as a redwood.
Countless people approach us to give their condolences when the ceremony ends, but I can’t manage much more than “thank you” in return. It’s hard to talk through tears. I can’t even see their faces sometimes. My ability to respond renders to nothing more than silent nods after a while. Finally, Acton uses his serene tone and poetic words to soothe any hurt feelings as we cut off the line forming around us. No one can stay upset at him for long.
The four of us start the long walk back into town from the woods. We remain quiet, each of us lost in our own thoughts. Their deaths are undeniable now. It’s not a mix up. They’re not still on their far-flung vacation having the time of their lives. Later today, there will be a celebration of life at the beach. Walt and Acton planned most of it for me. They’ve been so helpful, even though they are deep in their own grief of losing their best friends. Still, I almost dread going to it, even though I wouldn’t miss it for the world. There will be nowhere to hide there. I’ll have to greet family and friends, acquaintances and strangers. Somehow keep it together while I uphold my role as the last Mayweather in Monstera Bluff, something I never evenfathomed. I’m only able to do it with Norrell at my side, as we’ve waded through this nightmare together.
When we reach my parents’ house… my house now… All of us embrace one last time before Norrell and I head inside and Walt and Acton continue walking home.
When the door closes behind us, I collapse into Norrell’s arms. He picks me up and I wrap my legs around his waist and bury my face in his neck. He takes us upstairs to my old bedroom and sets me gently on my feet. Crouching, he unties my boots, tapping my foot to get me to lift one and then the other as he carefully pulls them off. He raises the robe over my head and lays it across the back of a chair. He removes his formal dress shirt and jacket as I mutely watch. When he’s bare-chested and magnificent, he tugs me close again and just holds me, like his brawny arms can shield me from everything that hurts. We stand there, wordless, until guests start streaming into the house. The din of it stings my ears. Hasn’t the world stopped for them too? What is there to say when nothing will ever be the same again?
Voices pass along the other side of the door, with more joining in the chorus as the house fills up. The inn is full and I offered up the extra beds and sofas in this big, now vacant house. Some even brought their own mattresses to sleep on the floor, using their magick to shrink them small enough to fit in their suitcase. I hadn’t realized how noise would fill the house even more quickly than the people themselves.
“Can you soundproof the room?” Norrell whispers into my hair. I nod into his chest.
“A quiet room permits no sound so inside tranquil peace is found,” I rasp, my throat sore from crying.
He moves us toward the bed, where we lay down together, my head on his shoulder, curled into his side. Unmoving and trying to blank my mind, I stare at him, his face, his neck, hisbroad chest, as he lightly grazes his hand along my neck and back. Occasionally he lightly runs his blunted claws across my scalp. I don’t know how much time passes as we lay there, but it feels like hours.
The spell is only broken when he murmurs, “We should start walking to the beach, my ember.”
I want to tell him no, I’m not going. They’re not at the beach; they’re here in this house where they belong. But instead, I let him help me put the robe back on and guide me there, holding my hand tightly the entire time while I speak with everyone who approaches with their condolences and memories. It feels like a haze I can’t shake out of. He takes over when words fail me. He insists we take a break and eat some food and have a drink. I’m fully untethered. I’d float away without him steering me. Without my parents, I’ve forgotten how to live. How can you relearn when nothing makes sense anymore?
Fifteen years on I could still feel them here, especially in those places they loved most. Their magick lingers almost viscerally. In frustration, I try to summon my magick to touch the ward. I do this every day to the same effect. It’s fleeting, like turning a radio dial past a station, only to not be able to find it again. And then that tiniest vestige of magick left in me blinks out. Being separated from it feels like my parents’ second death. The cold hard truth of it rings through me. Maybe one day, when even that little spark is gone, I’ll be anchorless. I could end up anywhere.
When the sky darkens, I go inside my still empty house. I’m not even hungry for dinner, so sleep will win out over food this time. In the foyer, there’s a basket sitting just inside the frontdoor. Confused, I take a closer look. Is it for one of my guests? I’ll put it in their room.
Oh, it’s a gift basket. A small card attached reads “For Ada” in handwriting I don’t recognize. No indication of who sent it. I pick it up and take it upstairs to my bedroom. It can wait until I get ready for bed. As I wash my face and brush my teeth, I mull over who could have sent it. Walt has been buying me gadgets, but he’s always brought them over himself to show me how they work. Plus, he’d want to see me open it. He lives for that. Acton would have consulted Walt about gifts, so the same would apply. It could be from Clancy and Madge, but they would at least call me to tell me to expect something. Especially Clancy, since he can’t contain his enthusiasm for gift giving. I have several close friends in the coven, especially Thea. But it doesn’t seem like it’s from any of them. I’m certain I warned off Norrell strongly enough he wouldn’t risk it.
Stumped, I leave the en-suite bathroom and stand by my bed to stare at the basket some more. Lifting the products out, I examine each one. There’s a silk sleep mask. A pair of plush socks. A high-tech white noise machine. A lavender scented body scrub and lotion. And lastly a heated neck wrap. I look at the card again and notice a discreetly embossed logo on the cardstock of a gift shop in town. I’m acquainted with the owner. She may have sent it. But if so, she’d likely have written more on the card.
This is quite a mystery. I received a lot of gifts of food in the past week, which is always appreciated. A few bouquets of flowers too. But no gift baskets like this. I wish I knew who was responsible, so I could express my gratitude. I don’t want them to think I’m being ungrateful. But I suppose it doesn’t matter right now. This is exactly what I need tonight.
Plugging in the white noise machine, I click through settings until I find a calming tone. While wearing the neck wrap, Imeticulously rub lotion on my arms and legs and then pull on the socks. Once I’m in bed, I turn off my bedside lamp and place the sleep mask over my eyes. The constant ambient sound lulls me into sleepiness. I could have used this last week. Better late than never.
Chapter 8
Ada
Aray of sunlight slashes across my face, radiating through a tiny gap in my curtains. I must have pulled the sleep mask off at some point in the night. I turn over in bed, shielding my face, the blinding light too shocking to my slowly awakening senses. Combing away long strands of hair stuck to my cheeks, my fingers locate the mask tangled up in my hair. I slide it the rest of the way off and set it on the nightstand, stretching a little further to turn off the white noise machine. Scrubbing my eyes, orange bursts appear behind my eyelids from my sunshine wake up call. They’re dry and scratchy, like grit settled in them overnight. Losing my magick must have given me hay fever. One more reminder of magick’s considerable impact on my life and well-being. Sunny restocked seasonal eye drops in the shop last week. I’ll have to snag a bottle for myself.
Pans clang in the kitchen loud enough for the sound to reach the bedroom. Someone must be busy down there. That would have woken me up if the sun hadn’t done so first. Forcing myself out of bed, I groan as I stretch my stiff limbs, trying to shake off their sleepiness.
