by Jill Nojack
The rest of the three of us give her looks, then Tom shrugs, hands her the purse, and takes my arm. We wait for him while Tom puts on the rest of the clothes from my backpack because wandering around in plaid flannel undies isn't the best idea in late October. Darrin joins us. Nods are exchanged. We're all still a little shell-shocked.
Then, we walk back toward the center of town, where people are starting to congregate around the gazebo now, still buzzing about the entertainment they just witnessed. Some of them point at us. Others wave and shout, "Great show!"
The witches give us knowing nods.
Robert scans the crowd from the gazebo as we approach. His face brightens when his eyes alight on Gillian. He rushes down the steps and comes toward us, his eyes never leaving hers through the crowd.
When he finally lets loose of her long enough to speak, he says, "Something happened here, didn't it? But for the life of me, I can't remember what it was. I was at the edge of downtown with only the haziest memory of how I got there. And then everyone's telling me what a great show the town put on this year."
Gillian rubs his back gently with one hand from where she is still snugged firmly into his side by his left arm. "Long story. I'll tell you when you've got a drink in your hand. I think you'll need it. For now, you have a mansion to raffle off." She looks at her watch. "Yes, in just about ten minutes, according to the Faire schedule."
He raises his eyebrows at that but doesn't say another word.
***
"He really is terribly dashing, don't you think?" Gillian whispers to me as Robert addresses the town from the podium set up in the Gazebo.
I nod. He is.
But Tom's better.
I squeeze his hand where he stands at my other side, his full attention on Robert's speech.
Robert is talking about the drawing now. The old Stanford mansion is really quite a prize—it's supposed to be pretty much a time capsule of the town. When old Hetty Stanford passed away—she was nearly a hundred—she left the mansion and its contents to the city.
But some people say that's just because no one in the know would want it. It's supposed to be haunted by the spirit of Giles's only mass murderer, William Stanford, who disappeared after killing five of his neighbors. Most people stopped visiting Hetty long before she started actively keeping people away. Sightings of William's ghost were frequent.
Robert stops talking—it was all just blat, blat, blat to me anyway because all I can really think about after our close calls is keeping a tight grip on Tom's hand.
I sneak another look at him: his attention is still focused on the Gazebo as Robert reaches into an old straw hat to pull out the winning raffle ticket. Robert looks surprised as he reads, then smiles.
He looks up and announces, "Well, this is very fine. Very fine indeed. It's nice to see the Standford mansion end up with the heir of one of the older Giles families, recently returned to take over his family's old business." He dangles a set of keys in front of the mic as he leans in to say, "Tom Sanders, would you please come pick up the keys to your new home?"
I turn to Tom, and he's beaming. I ask, "When? What? You put your name in the raffle?"
"Hey, a guy's got to plan just in case the world doesn't end. I never told you how I feel about it, but I don't think I can keep living forever in the place where I was enslaved. I have so many happy memories there now, but…."
Wow, am I a failure as a girlfriend or what? He shouldn't have had to tell me it was difficult for him to stay at the shop: I should have known. Sometimes I'm just so stupid.
I ask, "You think there'll be room there for one slightly dense but very loving girlfriend? Because I sure wouldn't want to keep living at the shop without you."
He kisses me on the top of the head as he pulls me toward him. "I think that can be arranged." He grabs my hand and turns toward where Robert still waits, looking expectantly in our direction.
"Let's go get the deed to our new home."
He rushes along so fast I'm afraid I'll fall, but if I do go splat, I'll still be smiling.
I hold Cassie's hand while Robert lets go of Gillian's long enough to step into the side mirror view of the cement truck and direct it to back up until the long chute is placed directly over the hole that had been dug for Anat's prison in Corey Woods. Magic can forge a pretty good prison, but a few tons of concrete will last longer.
Robert holds his hand up for the truck to stop and then walks to the driver's door to have a quiet conversations before the gritty gray cement starts to flow. Then he walks back to where Cassie, Gillian, Nat, and I stand to watch as the hole slowly fills. Robert connects back with Gillian, grasping her hand tightly. Only Nat is singular, clinging to the handle of the flashy red vinyl purse that saved us all.
When the hole is half full, Nat hands me the purse, "You do the honors, Tom. None of us would be here without you."
Her expression when she lets go is sad, scared even, for just a moment. That's not like Nat. I don't know what that's about. She'd taken the purse back and held it for safe-keeping since the day of the Faire, carrying it with her everywhere for the past two days. I don't know what would make her so reluctant to give it up now when we can make sure it never gets opened.
"Don't want to say goodbye to your old enemy for good this time? I'm sure you can find other ways to keep life interesting."
She glares at me. "I say she's finally where she belongs. But I'm going to miss the bag."
I put my arm around her shoulders, supportive. "Let's do it together." She resists, but then she sighs and lets me pull her in. We stand united as we each find a handhold on the red vinyl handle and swing the purse outward, tossing it into the rapidly filling hole, where it lands with a soft, wet plop. Its red gleam is buried in gravel, sand, and cement within minutes.
"Thank you, Tom," she whispers, too low for the others to hear over the grinding whine of the truck's mixer spinning. "It's more than a purse, you see. It's a ward. One that cost me dearly to create. That's why I knew it could hold Anat. It was designed to keep the spirits of the dead from coming too near. And the interior? It would prevent one from ever getting out. Even a dead goddess."
"Why would you have something like that?"
"Because my family's magic is tied to the other side. We see the spirits who linger instead of passing beyond the veil. We see them all the time…" She takes a deep breath as the truck stops spilling cement into the hole, and she starts to walk away down the path we'd cleared through the woods, no longer facing me when she says, "Can you imagine what that would be like? What was it like for you, Tom, when you saw your mother there in the middle of downtown?"
I grab her hand and make her turn back to me. "How did you know about that?"
"Does it matter?" Her eyes narrow like she's angry, then they widen and she asks more gently, "Imagine if she was there all the time, within your reach, and yet you couldn't touch her."
"I think that would be terrible."
"Yes, Tom. Terrible is exactly what it is."
I give her one more squeeze before I step back to stand with Cassie to watch the hole fill.
When it's done, I walk with my friends back out of the woods, away from the final resting place of the demon goddess who wanted to destroy us all.
The swath of cleared ground that had been made to allow the construction trucks through the woods looks like a wound against the green forest lands. But even now, saplings that were bent but did not break begin to reach upward again, in hope, toward the late fall sun, and our feet stir up a dance of golden leaves as we walk.
Wounds heal. My friends have taught me that.
***
"That's gorgeous. Am I really supposed to eat it?" Cassie says, as I set the pie in front of her. I'd decorated the crust lovingly with raised and cut-out leaves and vines and finished it with an egg-white wash to make it shine with a perfect light-caramel sheen. "And anyway, isn't it wrong to have dessert first?"
I grin. "It's the main course. A meat p
ie. In fact, I got the recipe from Gillian's stash of her mother's old recipes. It's a little old fashioned, but I've had my heart set on it for a long time. And I'm not going to have any time to cook for you soon with all the work I'll be doing up at the Stanford place to turn it into the Sander's place so we can move into it by Christmas."
"Christmas? That soon?"
"My gift to you. Is it big enough?"
She laughs. "They say size doesn't matter." She grins, her eyes shining me my answer. She loves it.
Then she says, "You know, that pie smells amazing." Her eyes drift back to it. She's getting a mansion, and all she can think about is chow time. She asks, "So, this pie…what's in it?"
"It's pigeon."
"Tom! You didn't!"
She goes tearing out of the dining room, and I follow her out the front door into the street. The setting sun reflects off the line of shop windows in pale reds and oranges. As she exits, the startled pigeon takes off, then circles back to land again on the bench after it realizes she's no threat.
She turns back to look at me. "You are the worst…"
"That's not what you said last night." I pull her into the doorway, where we snuggle tight. "I just thought, in memory of Cat…well, it's symbolism, right? It didn't have to be our pigeon. I don't have the urge to hunt it now that Cat is gone. But everything I've ever hoped for is coming true now, and I wanted Cat to be here, too, in some small way. And there's another thing…" I drop to my knees and pull the small velvet box containing the all-important ring out of my pocket. My heart races as I look up at her. "Will you…"
There's not even a moment when she hesitates.
"Hells, yes!" She laughs, dropping to her knees in front of me so that we're on the same level. "Oh yes, yes, yes!"
My hands are shaking as I try to put the ring on her finger. Hers are, too. It's a miracle we don't drop it and watch it roll into the sewer. Our miracle.
She leans in to me and we smother each other's mouths with kisses, then she grabs one of my hands and pulls me up and along, back into the shop, laughing, floating, crazy with love for her, and then I remember: there's one more thing I need to ask. For Cat.
I stop her just before she lifts her foot to travel up the stairs where our bed awaits. I pull her tight against me and place my mouth near her ear to whisper it.
She leans back and twists to look at me, confused at first, frightened maybe, then intrigued. She smiles, and she says, "Yes."
As a little girl, I wanted the gown, the prince, and the fairy tale. But as Robert wraps a fine cord around my wrist to bind it to Tom's, I realize the only thing I ever really wanted was Tom's hand fasted to mine here in Corey Woods with all of our friends watching. All of them—the witches and the warlocks, of course, but also the ones who have no magic, my friend Daria among them. Even my Dad is here.
Of course, not everyone's invited to the second ceremony, the secret ceremony. I'm still a little scared about it, but I trust Tom. Perfectly.
I don't even mind how cold it's gotten or that a snowflake or two drifts down from a gray sky that promises more. It's Christmas, after all. I know most of the witches aren't into it, but it's still a special day for me.
"Tom, Cassie, this ribbon symbolizes your life together, your love for each other, and the connection you have found that tied you together long before the one here that symbolizes it. But the true ties are created by your pledge to each other, by your vows today, by your two souls, bound now together as one."
I can't take my eyes off Tom's face. I'd pinch myself to see if I'm really awake, but I don't want to wake up if I'm not. I can't believe we're really here together after everything we've been through. I'm sure whatever words Robert said and I repeated were deep and meaningful, but the minute I say them, I can't remember them. Nothing sticks except for joy.
Best. Christmas. Ever.
"Now, to seal your bond. Tom, will you kiss Cassie?"
Tom's face splits in a broad smile. He leans in to our kiss, gentle, loving, and yet fierce. Then we reluctantly pull apart and turn to face Robert, our hands still wrapped together.
"In all things, you are joined." He unwraps our hands without undoing the tie and hands the cord to both of us. Tom grabs me and pulls me toward the cabin we've decked out for the reception where a roaring fire and our feast await.
The snow comes down in soft white feathers now. Everyone loves a white Christmas.
***
With the fire and the mulled wine and the friendship and the scent of the pine, it's the best wedding reception ever. I think we may all be a little drunk when the small group of us gather on the porch, shivering.
Aurelie walks out, supporting High Priestess Maryse on her arm, both of the women wrapped up in huge, warm, and very fake furs. I mean, they're French. Of course they're going to slog around in the woods in style, right? It's just fantastic that they're here. It means a lot to Tom.
We don't have far to walk to reach the ritual grounds. It's stopped snowing now, and the moon is visible, ringed with clouds, but bright and nearly full. We wait as Robert and Darrin catch up, each of them carrying a small travel cage. They set them down gently next to where Tom and I stand, grinning goofily at each other. We enjoyed every minute as we waited for the moon to rise and be our witness for the final ceremony tonight.
Aurelie assists Maryse as she draws a circle around us, making things sacred, making things safe, blessing us before we begin. The others ring the ritual grounds with candles: black, brown, and white.
When Robert, Gillian, Natalie, Darrin, and Aurelie encircle us, just outside the ring of candles, I'm not cold anymore. Not when I'm warmed by the love of the people around me. Tom puts his arm around my waist to pull me close, and I snuggle into him. "Thank you," he whispers, barely audible. "Thank you for being willing to share every aspect of my life.
Perfect trust. Tonight, I need perfect trust in Tom, in my friends, in the Goddess. And it's easy. It's easy to trust every single one of them.
Maryse begins. I don't understand the French, but I don't need to. She motions toward the cages, and I bend to the one to my left as Tom bends to the one at his right.
When we're standing facing forward again, Tom holds a black cat against his shoulder, and I hold Sheba, a long-haired calico, against mine. She's usually queenly, even a little mean, but tonight, under the moon, her heart is racing and her back claws push against me like she plans to run.
Maryse lays one calming hand on Sheba's head and another on Tom's Kit. Both cats relax. They must recognize the high priestess as a friend. She talks to them, soothing.
She's asking permission of them before she begins. Then she moves her hand to Tom's shoulder. He nods. His answer is yes.
She moves to me, and I nod the same. For Tom. To share his life, the full range of his life, I would do anything. And I will honor my animal in all ways.
Maryse nods and motions for us to sit.
It's cold on the inch of snow. It melts into the seat of my jeans and panties, but I won't be wearing them much longer, anyway.
She lays a hand on top of each of our heads and begins the chant. I feel it first where Sheba lays against me, the urge to combine with her, her body pressing into mine. Mine into hers.
And the pain begins. Tom said it would. I ride through it, trying not to panic, reaching for Sheba with my mind to soothe her, too. How strange it must be for her.
The screaming is horrible from the inside. I can't imagine what it's like out there. Everything contorts: my hearing, my vision, the horrible screaming. Gillian moves toward me, concern on her face, but I'm frightened by her swift movement.
I back away on my black and orange, white-tipped feet. The screaming becomes yowling and then subsides. I arch my back and hiss.
Kit slips up beside me, soothing, his sleek fur sliding against mine. Sheba grasps him around the neck with my neat paws and gives him a playful nip before I get control of her and let him go. We touch noses. Saying hi as the pain recedes. Kit
's head, Tom's head—it's confusing—gives me another quick butt to point me in the other direction. I turn, and Maryse and Aurelie have handed their clothes to Robert and Gillian, who fold them neatly over their arms.
The French women move a few feet apart as the others back away to give them room to shift, their feminine bodies going strange until it's finally done.
Where Aurelie had been, now there is the wolf. She'd told us not to fear it. I meet its eyes and I'm reassured. There is something more than wolf shining there.
Next to her, the biggest owl I've ever seen blinks its eyes, then leaps into the sky, winging its way above us for long minutes before it comes back to perch on the wolf's back.
The wolf's big head motions toward the woods, the direction of the musky smells that make my haunches tingle with anticipation of the hunt. We pad along behind our guides to the wild, where we will fully become one with our sacred animals. Me and Tom, side by side. In this thing together.
"You might as well come out. I've felt you skulking around at the edge of every shadow since I had to give up my ward," Natalie says with faked aplomb. The stress rides up her spine in sharp prickles. She's not prepared for this even though she knew it was inevitable from the minute she sacrificed her trusty red handbag for the good of Giles.
And there he is, fading in to nearly opaque. He hasn't changed one bit. He's still wearing that gawd-awful diamond-patterned sweater vest and tie over a tight white button-down shirt and a pair of cotton dress pants. His hair is still cropped short on the side and his curls are brylcreemed into an oily-looking pile on top. A change of wardrobe and hairstyle certainly couldn't hurt. He looks like a child to her now, when she used to think he was so grown up and exciting.
