I repeat the words again, using a fingertip to trace the invitation script into the candle. On the third repetition, the spell takes hold and flows through the candle and out through the flame.
The candle flame dances in the softness of my exhale, and as my spell covers the paper and the words I have written, contentedness smooths out the harsher edges of my loneliness and doubt. I may have lost my coven. I may spend my days in a silence most people will hopefully never know. But the candle is proof—I am never truly alone. Not as long as I have my magic.
With that spirit and energized by the sight of the candle burning happily away, I get up and start gathering items for a gift to send as well.
“Ah yes!” I state as the perfect gift becomes so obvious.
That will be the perfect thing to send along with my message. A heartfelt thanks for the invitation, my regrets that I cannot attend, and a lovers’ grimoire cast with a beautiful intention of a royal union.
This is the kind of project my sisters would have rejoiced in. Everyone would have had a part to play. There would have been playful arguments over what to include and who should cast the spells and which of us should be the one to carry it to the wedding.
I think of my sisters and their joy and wrap that around me like a blanket and hum one of the songs we used to sing under my breath as I work.
Joy is going into this gift, not sorrow. Not the anticipation of grief. The anticipation of togetherness. Of happiness.
I find a small, beautiful wicker basket and empty out the fresh flowers I gathered earlier this week, although the lovely scarlet bloom lingers in my gaze as if it wants to be included. Then, in a small but lovingly made book I sewed myself, I write out several spells for a beautiful life together. Blessings on the ceremony itself. Blessings on the couple’s new, combined life. Blessings on the first year of their marriage. Still more blessings on the many decades they will spend together.
Blessings for a long and fruitful life for both of them. I write out these spells with as much determination in my heart as I can muster. It flows so easily and so lovingly. I hope Prince Adom and Princess Charlotte will have each other until the end of their days. I wish for them to have everything that I will not. My pen stills at the thought. Perhaps it is best I end my intentions here.
I gently place this little book of magic into the basket, but it looks too lonely there for what it is. The book needs a bit of company for the journey to the ceremony. More company than my letter alone.
More small miracles are the answer. Prince Adom and Princess Charlotte are royals. They have everything money could buy, but these smaller delights cannot be bought. They must be found and kept and given.
My heart lifts as I move around the cottage. I have saved many such small bits of magic over my years, and there was never an occasion like this to use them. As I open drawers that expand far beyond their physical limits, the spells allow more space than one could imagine so I may store all my trinkets neatly, I choose gifts that serve a specific purpose. I can only hope their warmth is still felt in the glass vial of phoenix fire and the vial filled with petals from divine roses that are no longer. Even holding these glasses bestows power and blessings, and for a few moments, I hold them in my palms, knowing the power and the gratitude that exists within the vials.
“Take that feeling with you,” I whisper to the vials, then lower them to the basket. A wicker basket woven by a witch, flowers, and a hand sewn grimoire with blessings along with vials of the past that no one else could possibly possess. Surely, this gift will be met with awe and understanding that I wish them all the love in the world.
Just as the vials are about to drop from my fingers, a new sensation comes over me. Colder than before. Sterner than I felt in the last days.
The hairs on the back of my neck rise, just like they did when I heard the howl of the wolf. This time, it is no mere nervousness. The feeling is much more alarming.
Something’s wrong.
A gasp leaves me as the vial drops from my hand. I feel it before it happens. The next moment, the wind bursts through my window. The panes of glass swing in on the hinges, banging against the opposite wall, and a gust of wind shoots across the cottage like an arrow, blowing out the candle before the wax is finished melting. I find my body tense, my hands shaking.
A crack of lightning sizzles through the air, scaring the breath out of me, and then the window goes dark. Rain pours down from the sky and beats on the roof. It is so loud, and so sudden, that I can’t hear my own heartbeat, though I can feel it banging in my chest.
Something’s gone horribly wrong.
I go to the window, blinking against the harsh wind and hoping the glass doesn’t break. I don’t dare cast a spell at it in case the power is amplified by the lightning. I find the edge of the window and press it shut, even as more raindrops fly into the cottage, catching in my hair and wetting my face.
I just manage to shut it before more rain comes down harsher. These droplets are much sharper, like hail, but that is not what worries me most. Punishing. A cleansing but punishing rain.
What has happened? I fear the worst: I’ve angered the magic.
What worries me most is that the sky is not only darkened from storm clouds. It’s dark as night outside. My eyes don’t want to believe what I’m seeing, but they must—there’s naught to see outside my window.
This must be something to do with magic, and powerful magic at that. There can be no other answer.
But there is no one in this land who is more powerful than I am.
There is not supposed to be anyone more powerful than I am.
The sky gets even darker, and a huge bolt of lightning flashes down from the sky, landing in the field with sparks that turn to flames and die away under the rain. That is what finally makes me act. I step back from the window and wave my hand. All the shutters close again. I send some extra power across them to make sure they are shut tight and bolted, then go hunting for a cloth to dry my face. Quite a bit of rain came through the open window.
I stand before the fire, letting it dry the damp places on my dress, and press my face into a cloth made by Elsma, who was the best seamstress in the coven before she died. If she were still alive, and still here, we would all be gathered at the fire right now, leaning close to speak into each other’s ears and trying to decide what the storm meant and who had made it happen and what could be done about it.
I try to breathe through the realization that I must do this alone. This isn’t even the time I miss them most. I miss my coven most on the longest days of summer, when the light seems like it will never end, and we could cast spells and sing songs and make each other laugh until we fell asleep under the open sky.
