Many of my birth chart clients have a true soulmate that they long for in this lifetime. Often, they bring me the birth information of everyone they date or are even interested in. I analyze the charts to see if the two have shared past lives together. I can’t guarantee anything, of course, but it does add weight to the idea they’re soulmates.
The voice in my dreams—memories—was Quinn’s too. I wonder what century they are from? What country?
Ireland? Scotland?
Of course, my subconscious could simply be working overtime. In essence, the first dream reflects the fact I’m holding Quinn in jail, trying to keep my heart safe. The key to that cell is mine to give and I’ve allowed him his freedom if he chooses to take it. The second? He’s sacrificing himself to save me and our child. This might reflect his earlier insistence at dinner to withhold the truth in order to keep me out of danger.
“Autumn?”
I look up, startled. “Yes? Sorry. Daydreaming.”
At his arched brow, I straighten and take the cup he offers. “Seriously, Quinn. Thank you for getting me home. I’m okay now, I swear.”
The words remind me of the dream and I try not to cringe.
He appears unconvinced and reluctant to leave. Sirius climbs onto the sofa and leans against me, as if assuring him I’m in good hands. Quinn scratches the dog’s ears. “You need anything, you call me, hear?”
I nod and see him to the door. “I can run you home in the van.”
“Nah. I can use the walk. The crisp air will clear my head.”
I don’t argue about the rain coming any minute. I’m too tired…too confused.
He plants a quick kiss on my forehead and leaves, the light of his lantern disappearing down the path.
I sink onto the sofa again and give Sirius a hug. “Thank you.”
He licks my face and lays down next to me. I sit and finish my tea, staring into the fire, at the cards. I pick up the deck and shuffle.
The Fool card flies out. It has multiple meanings, like all of them, but a specific interpretation sticks in my mind—trusting someone.
I pull from the middle for clarification.
The Four of Wands. I laugh out loud at the universe and it’s message. With the Fool card, this signifies a second chance with an ex. I’ve seen it too many times in my readings to ignore the obvious message.
I’m still shaking my head at the accurateness, when a soft knock sounds on my door.
It’s Winter. “I felt a disturbance in the Force,” she teases with a smirk. She’s wearing our mother’s cloak, woven with a conglomeration of various colored threads and magick. It’s a family heirloom, one that has seen decades, if not more, and vibrates with ley line energy. We know it’s directly tied to our mother’s ancient Celtic ancestors, the Gwrtheyrn. “You okay?”
She might have sensed something was up, but more likely Quinn stopped at her cabin on his way by and alerted her to my midnight stroll.
Behind her, the clouds part briefly and the moon reflects off the near-white ground. It’s as if I can see the hoarfrost creeping toward us and I shiver hard. Something evil is afoot. Uneasiness, like a dozen sticker burrs, pokes at my clairsentience.
Swinging the door open, I motion her in, ignoring Godfrey’s yowl. “Would you like tea?”
She doesn’t favor tea like the rest of us, but she nods and slips off the heavy cloak, draping it around my shoulders as she heads to the kitchen.
Mother used to wrap us in it when any of us fell ill or had a bad day. The magick in every thread hums, the scent of Mom’s lilac and gardenia perfume ever so faint.
Tears well in my eyes. I miss her so much.
I inhale deeply, letting that achingly familiar and comforting fragrance soothe me. The weight of the heirloom reminds me of all the women who’ve come before and handled life’s toughest problems. Some were respected and honored for their healing abilities. Others were burnt at the stake, drowned, imprisoned.
The second dream-memory makes a lump form in my throat.
Winter pulls out one of Spring’s new blends from my white painted cabinets. They’re solid wood straight from the forest. They’d darkened over hundreds of years of hanging here. Summer convinced me to lighten them up a few months ago and I’m glad I did. The kitchen is much brighter and seems cheered at its facelift.
“Do you plan to be up the rest of the night?” I tease, pointing to the dirty chai blend she’s selected that has almost as much caffeine as a straight shot of coffee.
“Probably,” she says. “I think we have a lot to talk about, don’t we?”
Yep, Quinn told her.
There’s no use denying any of it, and I don’t need to with her. We sit at my table and I tell her about the dreams. I don’t mention the sleepwalking, but she’s already put two and two together. “You should stay at my place for a while,” she says.
She and Mom had to keep me under lock and key after the breakup. Winter had to do it again when Mom passed last Samhain.
Reverting to sleepwalking is understandable considering Quinn’s reappearance in my life, but it shakes me up regardless. It seems to be my reaction to deep emotional stress, starting when Dad moved out when I was a teen.
This is what Quinn can do to me—make me forget how far I’ve come without him.
I get up, shed the cloak, hanging it on a hook near the door, and find my basket. Another thing that belonged to Mom—she was always weaving on her loom, knitting, or crocheting. Years ago, the Harringtons kept sheep and she purchased wool from them for her craft projects.
While Winter and I sip tea, I take up the blanket I’m making for the kittens. They rotate between our homes and I’ve made blankets for three of the four beds. None of the cats seems to enjoy staying with Spring, probably because of her mockingbird, Hoax. He’s always cussing and cursing the rest of us, including our familiars and the kittens. I don’t know how she puts up with him.
Her kitten bed is the final blanket for me. As I knit, Winter and I discuss the sleepwalking like we’re psychologists—detached and removed from emotion—and I feel better. She calms me down, along with my knitting, and even makes me laugh a little.
Spring and Summer always claim I’m the motherly one, but it’s secretly Winter who helps me pull that off.
“You know,” she says, “some of this could be because of Mom’s death anniversary.”
I glance at the cloak by the door. “Could be.”
“Quinn’s reappearance has brought up past issues. Samhain is close. Emotions are strange things, sometimes intertwining. The trigger for your sleepwalking may seem like his return, but it could also be losing Mom.”
My sister knows me so well. I mull it over, remembering how Mom did her best, along with Winter, to help me overcome my grief when Quinn cut ties with me. The two of them are linked in my heart and memories. Mom was a rock for all four of us through our lives, our greatest teacher as well as supporter.
My eyes burn again. Winter gets up and goes to the bathroom, returning with a box of tissues. For the next hour, we talk only about Mom, shed a few tears, and raise our cups in salute to her.
This brings up our quest to free her soul. The demon is after ours as well, desiring our abilities to help him destroy this universe and move to the next.
The five altars in the forest forming a pentagram and our magick are all that holds him prisoner. Our Gwrtheyrn ancestors trapped him there centuries ago to keep him from rising to feed on humans.
Since Beltane, we’ve been trying to release Mom and destroy him for good. We’re still working on how to do that and it’s slow going. When souls are involved and the magick needed is untested, there are many, many details to take into consideration.
Winter leaves shortly before sunrise and I cuddle on the floor with the kittens, Sirius coming to lie against my back.
No more sleepwalking. The next time I see Quinn I’ll grant him his freedom from the prison I’m holding him in. His karma is his own, just like mine bel
ongs to me.
I don’t know what the future holds for either of us, but I need to stop clinging to this wave of grief, this anger about his departure. The same holds true for Mom’s death.
Maybe then we’ll both be free, as well as in our previous lifetimes together.
I fall asleep, and this time I don’t dream.
6
I’m tired the next morning, but the emotional release of the night brings me peace. After making my offering to Coventina and an extra for my ancestors, I pull a card. This too brings me peace.
The Fool comes again, and a second falls out with him. The Hermit.
This combo signifies closing out the past and welcoming a new beginning.
I brush my hair into a ponytail, put on my running clothes, and leave the cabin. Before Sirius and I start our run, I stand under the trees, a collection of pines, redwoods, ash and oak.
My favorite is the single red maple.
It sits in amongst the others like a stranger in a strange land. I wonder if my many-times great-grandmother felt like that when she and Grandpa moved here with their daughter in the early 1700s. Mom always told the story of Bree Gwrtheyrn with pride in her voice. A great Seer in a line of great Seers, the ley lines showed her she was to take back that magick from the demon and stop his attacks. That her lineage was a powerhouse to right the imbalance in the Pacific Northwest started by this evil entity, and stop the end of the world.
She brought her sister and aunt, all of them a force of nature even without their various abilities. My sisters and I have inherited their gifts, as well as their legacy. But without Mom to guide us, I feel we’re floundering.
“Trees of my ancestors,
grant me your vision.
As a leaf does fall,
Pray blessings for all.
Grant me one wish
To see what’s hidden.
Bring forth the ancient line
And share with me their wisdom.”
As if my wish has been granted, a fire red leaf breaks free from the frosty branch and spirals down. I spring forward and grab it before it hits the ground, holding it with reverence.
Tonight, I’ll scry with it and see what messages it reveals.
Sirius and I stop in the kitchen at Conjure, like usual, and Spring hands me a tiny apple tartlet.
“Try this,” she says.
Apples are a huge part of fall for everyone. For witches, they’re used for divining as well as cooking. Perhaps I’ll add one tonight.
I’m not one to turn down pastries fresh from the oven, so I sink my teeth into it and moan from the delicious mix of cinnamon and warm sugar. The light fluffy pastry is baked to perfection. All I can do is nod vigorously as I finish it and grab a small amount of cider. “That’s fabulous,” I tell her.
A smile graces her face, and for a moment, I see our mother. Maybe because of my emotional hangover, grieving for her all over again, but also remembering what an incredible woman she was. She loved to bake as well, and I see her spirit superimposed over Spring as she moves, pulling more tartlets out of the oven to cool, and wiping her hands on her apron.
“I know Quinn’s upsetting you,” she says quietly, not looking me in the eye. “But I also know he’s a good man.”
“Did you see that in his tea leaves?” I tease.
My sister sees portents in the dregs of tea cups. She’s also in communication with the fairies of the land who bring her messages.
She gives me a patient smile. “I don’t need magick to tell me that. Every time he looks at you, it’s obvious. I hope the two of you can be friends again, maybe a little more. He was always good to you—to all of us—and I think there’s more to the story than he’s admitting.”
Nothing between us sisters stays secret for long. She either picked up on my thoughts regarding Quinn’s refusal to tell me the whole story, or Winter filled her in.
But I trust her counsel. She’s more powerful than she lets on. Setting the cup in the sink, I give her a quick hug. “I’m working on forgiving him.”
Outside, the frost twinkles under the weak morning sunshine, and my warm breath fogs the air. I have Mama Nightengale’s order in the basket on my arm and Sirius and I head south on our normal route. Of course, my mind is filled with Quinn and his parents.
It takes a good half mile, and getting past the Harrington gate, before my left brain finally settles down and lets my body take over. My familiar keeps close, as if sensing I need his support, and I pat his head as he lopes along beside me.
After delivering our wares to Mama N, we turn into the entrance to the national park and I take a moment under one of the weeping willows near the ranger’s office. No one’s here yet, and it’s peaceful, only the birds chirping in the trees to keep me company. This willow is probably a sister to the one that resides behind Summer’s cabin and doesn’t lose her leaves until deep into winter. The smartest of the birds and squirrels take refuge in her.
Sirius wanders away, nose to the ground, but soon comes back. I stand there a little longer, meditating on everything and nothing at the same time. As the memory of the dreams and the sleepwalking surfaces, I imagine a river floating both away. When I feel sorrow or any other strong emotion, I visual those as tiny boats going down a river and disappearing.
My feelings about Quinn—traitors that they are—keep returning.
Minutes later, I give up and Sirius and I head up the trail at a brisk walk.
Sirius senses my return to calm, and ventures off the path a few times to flush out a rabbit or squirrel. He barks at something unseen up a tree. As we come to the Harrington farm, Sirius gives a short bark. It sounds like a hello, and I look up from the path to see Quinn waiting for us.
He stands in the same spot near the fence. Today, he holds two cups of coffee and extends one to me when I get closer.
Sirius runs up to him and sniffs him through the wide wooden planks of the fence. “Good morning, buddy,” he says to the dog. “Did you sleep okay, stargazer?”
I can’t help but study his face, wondering if he’s teasing. I see no subterfuge in his eyes, and accept the mug. Steam rises to tickle my nose. “Like a baby.” No sense divulging I’ve only had a few hours because of my messed up emotions. “And you? Did you get any rest? How’s your dad?”
“He had a pretty good night. Mom, too.” He reaches over and offers a hand to Sirius, who sniffs at it before letting Quinn pet him. “Lots going on today?”
It doesn’t escape me he didn’t answer about his night. Does he dream of me, I wonder?
There was a time in high school when I taught him about out-of-body-experiences. We tried many times to meet on the astral plane, but never succeeded. Probably a good thing, since we were two horny teenagers at that point with strict parents and nosy siblings. Our make-out time was extremely limited.
It might’ve been fun, but it could’ve caused us a lot of problems. You have to get really good when you practice OBEs so you don’t accidently end up where you don’t want to. Sexual energy of any kind sends out a loud beacon to all the planes and can attract any number of icky things into your field.
“Between my private readings, the trick-or-treat prep, and the shop sales, yes.”
The coffee is good, the warmth of cup in my hands even better. He nods, his eyes bright as the morning sun hits them. He glances at the stand, the rows of gardens behind it. The tree farm and barn. “Good to be busy. I’ve missed this—working with my hands, you know?”
I smile. “You sound surprised.”
He shrugs, a careless grin crossing his features. “National intelligence is important, but yeah, this is too.”
I hand him my cup, wanting to dive deeper into a conversation about his job, but I know he’ll button up the minute I mention it. “I better get going. Like I said, I have a lot to do. If you change your mind about that secret…”
He takes the cup and laughs. “Let me know if you need more pumpkins—or anything—today.”
Déj
à vu hits again. I sense there’s more he wants to say, but he doesn’t. “Tell your folks hi from me. Spring is baking pumpkin pecan muffins for your mom.”
“She’ll love that.”
I’m about to take off with Sirius, feeling a little lighter, when a black SUV with tinted windows pulls into the drive, cutting me off. Quinn tenses and so does my dog.
I can’t see the driver, but a woman in a prairie style dress with a knitted sweater over it slides out of the passenger side. Faded orange hair shows strands of gray in it, and she tugs at her clothing, adjusting the waist over her plump hips. She’s not from around here, and I feel her mix of emotions like knife stabs. Determination, false charm, fear that she’ll fail.
Quinn walks to the pumpkin stand and sets down the cups. “Sorry, we’re not open.”
The woman stops at the gate, glances my way, her pale blue eyes falling on Sirius, who is standing guard. She gives him a weak smile, looks the place over, nods. “Beautiful farm.”
A big smile graces her face, the corners of her eyes crinkling. She looks harmless, and yet…
“Really beautiful.” Her attention sweeps back to Quinn, the smile revealing a slightly crooked tooth in front. “I was hoping to speak directly to you, Major Harrington.”
Major. It’s the first time I’ve heard anyone use his official title.
His face hardens. “I’m not interested.”
Interested in what?
I instinctively step forward. “Who are you?”
She ignores me and extends a hand to Quinn, still all smiles and harmless friendliness. “Janice Watson. I spoke to your father last week. I’m sorry to hear he’s in the hospital.”
Quinn takes no notice of her hand, his eyes narrowing. “I know who you are, and we’re not interested.”
It hits me then—she’s from the Algon Corp that’s trying to buy properties in this area. They’ve sent us a letter, but apparently, they’re taking a more direct approach now.
Watson smiles at Quinn, lowering her hand. “Please hear me out. The happiness it would bring people to have this farm to visit and relive their childhood memories! It’s really the perfect little place for a year-round hometown holiday retreat.” The last words come out sounding like a marquee. “We’ll keep the farmhouse, of course, and build some quaint little cabins, similar to the property up the road, and people will come from all over, even Canada, to spend time here.”
Of Stars and Spells Page 5
