Prologue
Renata
Five years ago…
Taking a deep breath, I count down the minutes until my mother’s shop, Old Wives’ Apothecary, closes for the evening. My two younger sisters were supposed to close tonight but didn’t bother showing up for their shifts, leaving me here without a break. Again.
Unfortunately, I’m not surprised. This happens every time my mother takes our eldest sister, Agatha, to retrieve more everoot. They’re gone for at least three weeks but come back with enough of the herb to last a year, though the price of it is more than the average family can afford.
Clara and Prudence use their annual trip as an opportunity to shuck all responsibilities and spend a few weeks without my mother’s watchful eye. As petulant as the two can be, I don’t blame them. I often wonder if my mother’s neglect is better than her attention. Agatha is her favorite—her heir—yet not even that has saved her from the sharp sting of our mother’s hand.
Mindlessly, I rub the bruise on my forearm that bloomed last week before they left—a parting gift. It came abruptly after a mint plant I was carrying shriveled in my hands. It doesn’t happen often, not since my magic has matured, but sometimes it reactsto my emotions. Especially anxiety, which usually comes to life in my mother’s presence. I blink quickly a few times, trying to stop the loudsnapthat continues to play on a loop in my mind. The sound of her open palm on flesh is one I can’t forget.
I won’t find any consolation from tattling on them anyway. It still comes back to bite me in the ass somehow.
Why weren’t you watching them, Renata?my mother will ask, as if they aren’t adults themselves.
Clara and Prudence are the prized jewels that never leave the cabinet. At least not until the right buyer comes along.
When the clock strikes six-fifty p.m. I perk up, ready to start closing down so I can leave right at seven. As I pop the cash drawer open, a smoky wisp catches my attention. Slowly, I lift my head, finding Mary Agnes, Hemlocke’s local ghost and greatest lore. She spends her endless days wandering through the main square, observant and lonely. I’m the only Gray Witch in town, so I’m the only person who can see her.
With a quick glance out the windows, I quietly say, “Good evening, Mary.”
Unable to speak, she tilts her head, keeping her cloudy gaze on me. She’s never caused me any fuss, and thankfully, she only visits when I’m alone at the store. Like all ghosts, Mary Agnes is in a spiritual limbo, a sort of purgatory, where she will remain until her unfinished business is resolved.
The problem is no one knows what actually happened to her four hundred years ago, adding to the town’s memory of her.
Grabbing a stack of bills from the drawer, I rattle on, hoping to offer a few minutes of company. “The shop is closing soon but you’re welcome to stay as long as you want.”
A lot of ghosts are troublesome and agitated. Mary Agnes is justsad.
Her head whips back, looking over her shoulder for a second before she quickly moves forward, through the store counter and through me. The paralyzing cold sensation of making contact with a ghost infiltrates my body. For a few seconds, I’m frozen in place, gripping the hardwood tightly. I can’t speak until warmth sparks in my toes and slowly climbs its way up my body like vines on the side of a house.
“Goddammit,” I quietly seethe. It’s unlike her. There have been times I’ve offered her the warmth of the living by placing my handthrough her chest. She’s never demanded it before. Shaking off the lingering cold, I loudly ask, “What the fuck, Mar—”
Just as an older woman walks in.
“Fuck,” I say under my breath with wide eyes, hoping she didn’t see me talking to myself. She doesn’t say anything, but offers me a kind smile. I swear her eyes flick in Mary’s direction. Not daring to look at the ghost, I plaster on my fakest customer service smile and watch her walk through the aisle. Straight to me.
She’s tall and bony, looking to be around sixty-five years old. Her hair is mostly gray, with a few stubborn streaks of black lingering around her temples. It reaches her shoulders, brushing the corduroy jacket she’s paired with a white t-shirt and patchwork maxi skirt—eclectic and clearly handmade. The pale wrinkled skin around her dark eyes and thin lips hints at a well-lived life—one of happiness despite the firm frown she currently has on.
“Good evening,” she greets, stopping on the other side of the counter. “To both of you.”
My mouth falls open and I finally turn to look at Mary. She tilts her head at the stranger from her spot next to me. After a few seconds, she nods in greeting and crosses her hands in front of her, watching.
When I look back at the woman, shock is flitting across both of our features. Mine from the fact there is a Gray Witch standing in front of me, one who must be from out of town. There’s a sudden sense of familiarity, recognizing our magic is aligned.
Her shock grows the longer she takes in my features. My long, white-blonde hair that reaches my mid-back. The five-foot-nine height that matches hers. My milky complexion and onyx eyes each get a moment of appraisal from her.
A deep sense of foreboding builds in my gut. For a single second, I consider my mother’s warnings—the ones she only spits out at me when she’s angry, which I’ve learned to ignore.
Until now.
As she gets closer, her perfume floats through the air. Rosemary with a hint of spices—my favorite tea blend. The familiarity of it settles some of my worry.
“Good evening,” I greet and push the drawer back with my hip. I try to act normal, not wanting to bombard this customer with a hundred questions. “How can I help you?”
Old Wives’ focuses primarily on childbirth and fertility, so it’s rare we get older customers. We always keep a small stock of common medicines and elixirs for the random person who stumbles in. I can direct her somewhere else if she’s in need of a specific remedy.
