“She was almost forty-five when she died. We don’t know what happened. She was casting her circle. It’s a way to repay the craft. Something that is very different from Wicca and the other neo-pagan movements. They treat circles as a connection, as a strength-giving instrument. Our circle is cast to give back. To repay the blessings. It’s draining, and it’s dangerous if you aren’t prepared. That Samhain, Halloween, if you will—she was supposed to have help, as it’s incredibly irresponsible to open a circle alone, but… She was found on the cliffs. And yes, on the very cusp of forty-five.”
“And you? Rhiannon is forty, so that makes you?—”
“I will turn forty-five next year. Come what is meant.”
Around them the rain had started anew, strong and mournful. Pru had a distinct feeling there was much more to everything being shared with her, the unsaid lurking under the surface, playing hide-and-seek with the daylight.
“But that’s not your story, Prudence.” Ceridwen’s touch warmed, and when she looked at Pru, she was back to her usual self, traces of sorrow deep in her eyes hidden and sheltered. “You’re here because your power is awakening, and you need guidance. Are you ready to embrace the gift?”
Ceridwen turned her hand palm up, offering it to Pru. It felt like a gauntlet. Pick it up now and your life will forever be changed. Turn back and everything will be the same. And yet, Pru knew that nothing ever would. Once she had felt the power in her veins, once she had been touched by it, there was no going back. She could almost hear the beckoning of the wind.
She laid her palm on Ceridwen’s. A moment passed. A heartbeat. And then their hands were surrounded by soft light,warm and joyful, filling something inside her she hadn’t known had been empty for so long.
Ceridwen’s fingers intertwined with hers and the light didn’t fade. Their eyes met and held, and when Pru threw her head back and laughed, it was like she was laughing for the very first time, joy pulsing in her veins, making her giddy, making her alive.
11
RHIANNON, WARM BREAD & THE HAMMER OF WITCHES
CROWHARTS MENDING FENCES?
Rhiannon Crowhart has been seen frequenting the establishments of her family members. We hope she enjoyed the latest delicacies served at the Tavern and Crow’s Brew superior coffee.
In other news, the work on the hotel on Viridescent Cliff is almost finished. The town awaits with bated breath the grand opening of the Astronomy Resort. Something tells us the new owner of the Tower has many an ace up her expensive sleeve.
Look up and watch the Cliffs!
—Crow’s Caw
“She is doing what?”
Rhiannon knew she had it coming. Why had she even considered going to Crow’s Tavern during the dinner rush, to sit on a stool in the kitchen where her aunt was reigning supreme, presiding over a carefully orchestrated chaos performed by half a dozen sous chefs all running around like headless chickenswhile serving with godly precision culinary masterpieces to tourists who wouldn’t know better anyway? When she said so, Victoria tsked and slapped a plate of bread on the counter in front of her.
It looked divine, and Rhiannon hadn’t even touched it yet. And the smell was…the same. The exact same one that reminded her of so many evenings like this, sharing the kitchen with Victoria, chopping the mise en place and stealing the occasional hunk of bread from Jean, their in-house baker.
Jean was long gone, his talents being handsomely compensated in New York. A boy who looked no older than eighteen years old was huffing and puffing over fresh dough in the allotted corner of the kitchen.
“He’s twenty-six and better than Jean ever was. Try it. Oh, and taste the olive tapenade, I’m trying something new.” Victoria, without lifting her eyes from a ticket handed to her by one of the runners, pushed the plate closer to Rhiannon. “As for Prudence Fowler, well you know your sister, every stray, orphaned creature was always taken in?—”
“She isn’t a stray, Victoria!” Rhiannon stabbed the closest slice of bread into the tiny ramekin of olives.
Victoria, clearly unperturbed by her tone, did not take her eyes off the piece of paper. When she did it was to address the runner, standing at attention in front of her.
“So, every possible substitution under the sun? Am I reading this right?”
“Yes, ma’am. And no, they aren’t allergic. We double-checked.”
Victoria sighed and tucked the ticket into the queue. Then she deigned to look at Rhiannon.
“So, what do you think?”
“Ceridwen should mind her own business.” Rhiannon was aware of the whine in her voice. She didn’t care for it.
“I mean the tapenade.” Victoria wiped her hands on the apron and reached for Rhiannon’s plate, taking her time picking a slice of the still warm bread before dipping it into the olive and garlic concoction.
Rhiannon took a bite, more out of habit of eating everything Victoria put in front of her than to appease her aunt.
“It’s fine.” It was better than fine. It was incredible. Rhiannon couldn’t help but close her eyes and savor the tiny morsel. The briny notes of the olives paired incredibly with the buttery, warm dough. She wanted to pull the breadbasket back toward herself.
