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Callie reached for a large carafe of red wine, filled her glass, then passed it around. I handed it to Aurora.
“Not for me. Not tonight. It’s the house rule,” she said.
Priya looked at me from across the table, then at the wine. I looked back at her. Callie and Jess were already sipping. I raised my glass and drank.
“Tonight is very simple,” Aurora said, watching us drink. “People expect it to be elaborate, and then I tell them what it is and they look almost disappointed, so I’m going to apologize in advance for how plain it actually is.”
She drew a circle with her index finger on the table. “You’re going to write down what you want, or who you want, and create a symbol for that desire, held inside a circle. Not what you think you want, not what you can defend wanting at brunch. The real thing. The thing you’d only whisper. Then you’re going to tear the page out and you’re going to give it to the fire.”
“That’s it?” said Callie, the faintest strain around her smile. She’d paid for more than that, after all.
“That’s it.” Aurora’s smile widened. “I told you. I’m sorry. It’s a terrible business model. But it works.”
We laughed politely, a beat late.
“What does the fire do?” Priya said.
She said it lightly, but I’d figured out that Priya’s questions were always two rolled into one.
“It burns the paper, Priya, I’m not burning evidence here,” Aurora said, her smile wide again. Her voice dropped half a register. “What it means is that you don’t half-wish. Don’t write something and then in your head go, but maybe I don’t deserve it, maybe I’m too broken, maybe I’m not ready. The fire can tell. It knows a woman arguing with herself.”
Nobody spoke for a moment. The fire popped behind her. I could taste the fog on my tongue.
We ate. The wine kept going around. Aurora grazed on approximately three bites of food, moving a cucumber slice around her plate.
“Can I ask a stupid question?” Callie said, swirling her wine, “and just get it out of the way?”
“My favorite kind,” said Aurora.
“Is this, like, witchy? I just want to know what I’m telling my mother.”
Jess stifled a laugh.
“It’s whatever you need it to be.” Aurora set her chin on her hand. “If you want it to be witchy, it’s witchy. If you want it to be journaling with extra steps, it’s journaling with extra steps. Most people in your life will accept journaling with extra steps and stop asking. I find women only need me to give them permission to do something they already wanted to do.”
“That,” Priya said, swirling the wine in her glass, “is the most honest thing anyone has said to me all year.”
“Don’t tell anyone,” Aurora said, the string lights glinting in her eyes. “I have a brand.”
We laughed, properly this time, and for a moment the relief I’d felt at the gate returned. Aurora was good at this: managing us, holding the magic together. I was grateful for her performance, and, at this point, I still consented to all of it.
“So,” Aurora said, when the laugh had thinned out. “Before you write, we receive the cacao.”
She rose with a new quiet composure. Kai appeared at her side holding a tray with five small cups on it, all made of glazed rustic clay, and the smell rising from them was a mix of chocolate, smoke, anise, and an earthy heaviness I couldn’t name. One of the cups sat at an angle, and Aurora picked it up.
Kai handed out the rest of them, the sea-salt scent of his hair passed around with it. I caught Callie glance at him once, like she was picturing him in a wetsuit.
The cup sat round and heavy in my palms, warm as something alive.
I took a sip of it, and it tasted like everything at once: sweet, a little salty, a delicate earthiness, and a warm spice lacing through it. There was an aftertaste though, and I can still taste it now. I’ll taste it forever.
“Nourishing, isn’t it?” Aurora said, setting her own mug down.
“Mmhm,” I said.
“What’s in this?” Priya asked.
“Ceremonial-grade cacao, sourced in Ecuador. A blend of spices, a little maca, a hint of salt and sugar. And a blend of organic herbs to raise your vibration. For the soul to receive, the mind must be open.”
