“There she is.” My dad is here.
My mom is too. She’s holding my left hand.
Hayride has my right hand held close to his chest. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he looks close to tears. “Nat.”
“Thirsty,” I rasp.
My mom brings a straw up to my lips, and I sip from a cup of cool water that soothes my throat.
I don’t know why it feels so raw.
“So sleepy,” I murmur.
“Rest. We’re all here,” my dad says, and I see Thad being rolled inside the room as he sits in a wheelchair. A white blanket covers his lower body.
I want to say something, but I can’t summon the energy.
“I won’t leave you,” Hayride promises, and that’s all I need to hear.
The dream that follows is a weird one. . .
THE HOUR IS LATE.
I know the time without looking at a watch or phone. It’s the witching hour—a time where magic is at its peak. My blood stirs with recognition. I’ve been here, on nights like this one, many times in the past.
Fog rolls across the ground and tries to leap over the headstones as I walk among the graves, but doesn’t quite manage it. I see the gathering ahead of me, and I smile. Fairy lights twinkle low in the sky, illuminating the figures of my sisters.
It’s the coven.
They’re dancing. I don’t know what we’re celebrating but I suddenly ran toward them, laughing as they turn and notice my presence. Excitement bubbles in my belly as I join their dance. My body twirls and I move my feet to a beat that’s as familiar as my own heart’s rhythm.
Each of my sisters surrounds me, joins hands, and lifts their arms and voices in a lyrical chant. I can see the mystical energy surrounding my body. It sinks in below the skin, swirling around my organs and bones.
Strengthening. Healing.
I feel invigorated.
Granny Jo approaches me first. “Welcome, sacred sister.” She lifts a necklace over my head. The silver moon charm that dangles from the center features a beautiful blue stone.
Cami is next. “For clarity, sacred sister.” She slides a bracelet over my wrist made of leather that’s been braided and twisted into a stunning piece of jewelry. Little silver half-moon charms are attached in several spots.
The next woman approaches. “I’m Lottie Bishop, Scythe’s ol’ lady. We’ll meet soon.” She lifts an artist’s brush and swirls it over my skin. There’s a tingling sensation, and then a mark appears. It’s similar to a birthmark with darkened, pinkish skin in the shape of a crescent moon. “For protection.”
And then I see Serena. Her eyes fill with tears as I gasp. “Serena? How?”
“The ancestors granted my wish.” She hugs me to her, laughing and crying as we embrace. “I want to bestow my gift upon you as well.”
“But you already gave me the family tree.”
“This is different. A welcoming. A claiming of your birthright.” Her fingers clasp mine, and without my consent, my eyes close.
Visions swim before me like short videos. Moments of history with the Scott women and their legacy. Secrets never to be spoken aloud. Truths I will embrace for the duration of my lifetime.
“Thank you,” I whisper as my eyes open.
“This is your gift. To see me whenever you wish. To visit this holy place with your sacred sisters.”
“How?”
