She puts me in touch with the New York City coven, mayhap even the same witch who was harassed by my insolent cousin earlier. My attendance is confirmed. They will arrange my long trip to Monstera Bluff. The clan’s council of elders will balk at my plan, but my attendance is not up for debate. I am their leader. It is my call to make despite their disagreement. I will arrangefor my younger brother, my most trustworthy ally, to stand in for me while I am away. Finally, I may be able to push us to a brighter future and do right by my mate in the same turn.
Chapter 2
Ada
Life handed me lemons but forgot the sugar to make lemonade. It’s turning me into an insufferable sourpuss.
The sun has only just risen, and I’m already sitting on my front porch glumly watching the bustling and downright noisy activity on my lawn. I can feel the pout in my lower lip. It’s stuck in place. Several members of my coven, assisted by a construction crew, shovel the final, grimiest layer of charred debris from where my carriage house formerly stood. Now it’s a big old mess. The volunteer clean-up effort has been at it for a few days. Using their magick, the witches condense and shrink the burnt wood, remnants of furniture and appliances, roofing tiles, and everything else that was destroyed, piling it all into a dump truck provided by Guardian Construction.
Each shovelful makes me wince as it clunks into the bed of the truck. One of the crew notices me staring while he’s at it and gives me a friendly wave. I lift a hand and twist my lips into something resembling a smile to try to act like a normal person who isn’t obsessively watching part of her home getting carted away. The construction company is now owned by my friend Ben Garde-Pierre, Cara’s mate, who freed her from the carriage house and flew her to the healers clinic just in time. He’s athome recuperating with her, but his dad Nicolas, who retired from the business just a few years ago, flies overhead. His long leathery wings beat unhurriedly as he lands near the truck to inspect their work. Nicolas stretches those great wings behind him before neatly folding them along his back. The gargoyle has stopped by every day during this process.
“Good morning, Ada! Looks like we’ll be done this afternoon!” he calls out to me as he cheerily waves.
“Thanks!” I respond, faking a similar level of enthusiasm. “I have coffee and oatmeal bars inside if you want any.” Luckily, there are still a few left after the rest of the group swooped in to devour them when they arrived.
“I had breakfast already with Lillian but thank you for the offer. I’m only here for a few minutes. Do you still want this area seeded with grass?” he asks.
“Yes, please.” I confirm the original plan. “I still don’t know what I’ll do with it.”
Nicolas nods sympathetically, witnessing how hard I took the news earlier this week when he told me the structure wasn’t salvageable. He’s been so kind that I’ve tried to be stoic in his presence to spare his feelings.
The last several grueling days were spent sorting out its burnt hull, recovering as many of Cara’s belongings as possible to give back to her, getting the damage assessed, and ultimately, choosing to tear it down. Clancy Evermane, the mayor and a close friend, was with me through a lot of it, making decisions and directing work when I could barely get out of bed the first couple days following the attack.
Losing the carriage house gutted me, though I’m trying to keep that to myself while these friends and neighbors are hauling it away for me. They don’t need me weeping over every burnt scrap. I haven’t given up onallsense of propriety just yet. It was built at the same time as the manor house. A piece of myfamily’s history is lost with it. But I’m the only one left to care. The end of the Mayweather line in Monstera Bluff. I don’t know if I’ll ever rebuild it, considering what happened. It may be time to do something else with that space.
Nicolas looks busy with his crew, so I force myself to stand up from the porch swing with an unladylike grunt and head inside. It’s early November and even here in coastal Georgia there’s a chill in the morning air a little too cold for my liking. Anyway, there’s a lot to tackle today, though I’m jonesing to crawl back into bed.
First thing on the list is to check my email. Even though I was thoroughly exhausted last night, I finally sent an invitation to the contingent traveling for the safety council, a group of representatives from around the Whispered Folk world. I will provide housing for five of those guests in my home. The first to respond would reserve those spots—the fairest way I could think of to offer it. I didn’t want to promise anything before the construction was over, so my email came after several other community members with large homes and extra bedrooms did the same. The inn will soon be full as well. In all, there will be at least fifty convening here, if not more, helping us deal with our town’s situation as well as planning for more robust security measures for their own communities. It’s a lot of distinguished guests to host at once for an extended period—at least a few weeks, maybe longer for some—so I will take in as many as will be comfortable.
Same as I’ve done the last couple mornings, I sit at my kitchen table after fixing myself a pot of my favorite English breakfast tea to work from my laptop. The kitchen is the coziest room in my home, always warmer than the grander rooms on the main floor. It’s situated at the back of the house, with tall glass doors that lead to the back garden. I spend a lot of time here.
Without magick, the simplest tasks, like brewing a pot of tea, have proven tedious. I never knew how true it was that a watched pot never boils. Well, eventually it does, but it’s slower than a Sunday afternoon. Usually, I’d instantly heat up water inside my charming ceramic teapot using a miniscule amount of magick, a blip really, but I can’t even muster that anymore.
Luckily, Walt Sutton, my honorary uncle, came to my rescue the other day after witnessing me losing my vertical hold. Impractically, I tried boiling water in a much too big pot on the stove which I proceeded to spill more than pour into our mugs, almost burning both of us in the process. Lo and behold he returned a couple hours later after running some errands with an electric tea kettle among other items I haven’t needed until now. As a human, he had a good sense of what I’d need to get by until… if… my magick returns. Even though I thanked him profusely, I was being so ridiculous and morose. He took it in stride like he always does. But I’m still upset at myself about the way I acted. Like I was complaining I had to live likehim, Mother Earth forbid. But he knew I didn’t really mean it. My fear and sadness got the better of me.
“I’m just plain useless, Walt. I’m not cut out for life without magick!” I whined to him that afternoon as we finished sorting through the shopping bags.
“You are a capable young woman. I’ll teach you how to use all of this. Heck, I’ve got Acton using an immersion blender and a juicer at home to make his plant food. All of this will be a piece of cake for you. You’ll be whizzing around the house like you used to in no time.” His voice had a smile in it the whole time, not holding my petulant mood against me.
Acton’s plant food has been a long-running joke between all of us. As a dryad, a forest sprite, Acton’s diet is quite different than ours. He used to tease me about trying it when I was a little girl. I’d always laugh and shriek and run away. It became a gamebetween us throughout my childhood since it was all in good fun.You’ll sprout the most bountiful blooms from your ears!Or my favorite,Your flatulence will be scented of the sweetest roses!It got me every time.
“I’m no spring chicken. Haven’t been for a while now.” I sure was pissing and moaning something fierce.
He laughed good-humoredly at me the whole time. “I just call it like I see it. You have a long life ahead. Whether it’s with magick or without, you’ll do just fine. Trust me on that.”
“What if I get too accustomed to not using magick? I might jinx myself and it’ll never come back.” I wanted to sound defiant, but my quivering chin gave me away. I was just so embarrassed by those superstitious thoughts.
Walt looked shaken up by my admission, but he quickly pulled me into a tight hug. “It’ll all come out in the wash, my dear. You’ll see.” He held me while I cried on his shoulder and didn’t let go until my tears stopped. I’m the luckiest witch in the world to have him as my uncle.
Despite Walt’s constant reassurances when he and Acton checked in with me daily, the gravity of my situation feels like being mired in quicksand. I’m not sure which moves to make. If they’ll sink me even further or lead me to safety. So, I’ve gone the scaredy-cat route and have been lying low, not wanting to go to my shop, Mayweather Potions and Panacea, or to town hall more than is strictly necessary. It’s too hard to keep up appearances. Sunny, my apprentice, is more than capable of taking on the extra responsibility while I’m away. She’s already gone above and beyond while I’m holed up at home, wallowing in peace.
I’m tired of answering the same questions and hearing the same condolences. I’m pinned down by their near universal pitying eyes and overflow of sympathy, all but broadcasting their inner appraisal of so much power and potential lost. The doomof the once-great family who founded the town. It’s not meant to be malicious, but I still see it, feel it. It was non-stop the one day I attempted to work at the shop this week, overwhelming me while I was already so fragile and self-conscious. But that’s small-town living. Gossip is the town currency.
While I’m home, I continue to work on organizing for the arrival of those coming to help us. Making sure we have meeting spaces and plenty of food and caffeine on hand while they’re here deliberating. I’m basically in full event-planner mode. Fresh off organizing the town’s Samhain festival, I’m in my element.
My cats, two British shorthair brothers named Vanilla Paws and Earl Grey, keep trying to walk across my laptop on the table. They’re very playful in the morning. I’ve already tossed around their catnip toys and waved their feather wand, but they still demand my attention.
After a few failed attempts to walk over my keyboard, persistent enough that I had to block them with my arms and gently scoot them back, they finally give up. Vanny, who is all black except his white paws that make him look like he wears kitty-sized socks, jumps to the floor and struts away haughtily, as if telling me he didn’t really want anything to do with my laptop anyhow.How dare I suggest otherwise?Earl Grey, regal and gray like his name suggests, lounges on a chair next to mine to take his first nap of the day. He’s a prolific napper. They seem thrilled that I’ve been home so much this week, though I wouldn’t go so far as to say they nursed me back to health. They’re in it for treats and a warm lap.
