by Coralie Moss
My oldest sister nodded. “Which would align me with Atropos?”
“Yes. Given your early fascination with sharp objects and your propensity for cutting your hair and your sisters’, Atropos it is.” Alderose’s face went stony.
Maritza gave a tiny nod in her direction and continued. “Beryl, you are the most sensible and measured of your sisters?”
Beryl looked to us. We affirmed our aunt’s assessment. “Which connects me to Lachesis, the one who measures the length of a given life?”
Maritza affirmed Beryl’s connection to the Fate, then looked at me. “And you, Clementine, the youngest. You were born with threads twining through your tiny baby fingers. It was your birth that cemented my sister’s notions that her combined gifts had been divided amongst her three beloved daughters.”
“Why didn’t tell she tell us any of this?”
“Because to be gifted in such a way is to be burdened far beyond the normal weight carried by your average witch. Alabastair has informed me there is some suspicion my sister’s death was a crime. If that is true, I suspect her inability to fend off her possible attacker or their magic had more to do with the toll her body paid for managing the weight of so many destinies.”
8
My sisters and I could have used more time to let our aunt’s words sink in, but time wasn’t a luxury we had. Alabastair cleared a section of the table, set out snacks he’d packed into one of their suitcases, and asked, “Have the three of you come up with a strategy in regard to Mr. Ruisseau?”
We shared unsure looks with one another.
“Do you have any leads?”
I raised my arm. “We don’t have specific names, but we’ve been advised to start with magical beings who rely on water.”
Maritza studied the air around me. Her face wore a look that likely mirrored mine when I was seeing story threads. “Alderose, have you brought your sword or any of your blades?”
She shook her head. “That’s the second time in twenty-four hours someone’s asked about my sword. It’s not here.”
“You are going to want to arm yourself for the work ahead. Alabastair can create a temporary portal which will see you to your home and back.”
“Should—should we do that now?”
“Yes.” Maritza popped a cube of cheese into her mouth and speared a piece of apple with a toothpick. “Oh, leave the ring with us, please. Beryl, will you take on the responsibility for unlocking any doors we might come across?”
Beryl blanched.
“Don’t worry,” Alderose said, wiggling the ring off her finger. “This isn’t a one-ring-to-rule-them-all situation.” My middle sister hesitated for a fraction before she accepted the gold band and snugged it on one of her fingers.
Alderose hugged us tight and waved as they left. Maritza spun to direct her attention at Kostya. “You have a pair of strapping brothers, don’t you? Might one or both be open to assisting us with defense, should the need arise?”
“I do,” he said, laughing, “and they shall. Although Ivan’s trekking through Iceland and Laszlo’s off brooding.”
“Brooding?” My aunt arched one delicate eyebrow.
“Our mother is on a mission to see us mated and producing heirs, and none of us is cooperating with her timeline. According to her, our approach to finding mates the old-fashioned way will see her dead before she can bounce a baby demon on her knee.”
“I would not have described your mother as the warm and fuzzy grandmotherly type.”
“No one in their right mind would. Her change of attitude is baffling,” he said.
Maritza tapped her chin. “Perhaps it has something to do with the growing number of babies being born to her competition in the other demon realms.”
“Perhaps.” He smirked. “Would you like me to see what I can do about reaching my brothers? If I can’t locate them, I’ll bring in someone I trust from my division.”
“Please do.”
Kostya had his phone plastered to his ear before he hit the stairwell.
In the quiet that followed the demon’s departure, Maritza fed herself more, examining every morsel Alabastair had laid out before putting one in her mouth and chewing slowly. When she finished, she unscrewed the cup and lid on the thermos and poured herself a fragrant herbal tea.
“And now we come to you, Beryl, and to you, Clementine.” She wiped her hands on a cloth napkin and took hold of our wrists. “I am pleased for this time alone with you two. Your sister has a hard path ahead. I sensed it the moment your mother went into labor and have seen it revealed in more than one set of tea leaves.
“Alderose is a blade-wielder, with skills that have been passed to her through both your mother’s and your father’s familial lines. Heriberto del Valle is no simple hair cutter. He is a master wielder of sharp-edged blades and if he was here—” Maritza shook her head. “If he was here, he would be guiding your sister’s hands and honing her skills. But since we have no idea where he is or when he will return, Alderose will have to gather everything she has learned to date to keep her eyes and her mind and her blades sharp.
“Her duty—should she fully accept her role—will mean it is she who will deliver the coup de grace, the stroke that ends a life. She may have discovered her gift already, she may be tasked with following its pull soon, or she may decide her connection to Atropos is a destiny she does not want.”
“You’re speaking as though there’s danger ahead.” Beryl stood taller and shook her hair away from her face. “Do you have the power of divination, Tía?”
“Danger is coming, cariña, and death. And though I am no diviner, I can take what the dead reveal to me and use that to fill in the missing pieces around what I see.” Maritza rubbed her arms. Whatever chill she was feeling brushed over my skin, and I mirrored her movements. “And what I see are my three nieces, all of you so loved by your parents that they were loath to bring you into the family businesses. For that, I feel some…discord, with my sister especially. She kept me and our brother in the dark and now, in a time of great need, her silence fosters weakness not strength.
“But the mantle your mother tried hard to keep set upon her shoulders—and her shoulders only—is now divided amongst the three of you.”
I scuffed at the rug with the toe of my boot. “It’s hard to stay angry with the dead,” I began. “What if we see this as an opportunity to embrace our heritage, solve a mystery, and maybe make a life for ourselves by starting up Mom’s business again?”
“First, we have to complete this one task, Sissy. If there’s any justice in this world, Rémy Ruisseau’s love match is a Harpy.”
I cracked a grin, adding, “A Harpy with sisters and a mother who insist on living with them.”
Maritza opened her arms. “Are you two ready?”
Beryl and I looked at her, then each other, and nodded.
“Good. Let us begin. Clementine, you must examine the threads again, this time within the safety of a circle of containment.”
Maritza aligned the front edge of Alabastair’s crocodile skin luggage with the edge of the table. She smiled as she lifted the lid. “My darling created a special salt, blended to create an enticing and welcoming environment for ghosts. Though I don’t think your mother will show up here in her ghostly form I do think you will find it easier to manage the story threads from a place of protection.”
I released a heavy sigh. “I’m relieved to hear you say that.”
My aunt quirked an eyebrow at me. “One can get lost following the threads,” she said. “Especially the master threads, and I am speaking as someone who spends most of her waking hours with one foot here”—she tapped the floor with the toe of one bright yellow boot—“and the other foot… Well, sometimes I can’t feel either foot, let alone keep track of its location.”
She withdrew a large bag from the valise. “This is the salt. Beryl, could you please take out the four candleholders—they look like chunks of pinkish quartz but they’re salt too—and p
lace one at each of the cardinal directions?”
Beryl peered into the case, removed the holders, and set them on the table. “Which color candles should we use?”
“The pink set. The local witches on my brother’s island consider pink to be both protective and maternal and we want to generate as much of your mother’s energies as we can. Her creativity, her business acumen, and her desire to keep her daughters safe.”
Mom had chosen pink ribbon in the laboratory, when she was creating the three dolls.
Maritza made her way to Mom’s desk and from there, around the room. “Have you found your mother’s scissors? And her thread?”
I pointed to the large table. “There’s a whole selection of scissors and snippers and other kinds of cutters in there. Here. I’ll show you.” I tugged on the drawer’s handle. Maritza poked at the tools and shook her head.
“Moira used all of these but none of these are her spelled blades.”
“Wait.” I held up my hand. “I think I know where they are. I’ll be right back.”
I took the stairs two at a time. It was easy to feel sad about what was once a bustling, well-loved place, one that was always filled with laughter and the constant jangle from the bells that used to hang on the door. Having my aunt around lightened the feel of the entire building, as though the walls and floors could sense her connection to my mom. Squaring my shoulders, I strode toward the front of the store and veered off to the right. On the wall behind the counter was a rack of hooks and on the hooks hung a knit cap, a couple of worn cloth-and-string shopping bags, and my mother’s shop coat.
We were always teasing her about the shabby state of her signature garment, always urging her to make herself a new one. Alderose had even cut out and had me stitch an updated version from black twill. It was still hanging mostly unworn on the hook beside its threadbare counterpart.
I slid my fingers behind the collar and lifted the old coat off the hook. I took the knit cap too, crushing both to my face and inhaling deeply. I closed my eyes, breathed in again and again, until I was able to tease out a scent thread and coax it toward my nose.
Flax, hemp, and lanolin.
Mom.
And underneath that, at the periphery of memory, tangled in with a little girl’s longing, was the scent wet rock. Dank. Old.
I pulled away. Wrinkled my nose. Tried again. Sure enough, the unexpected scents were still there. I slid my hand into one pocket, then the other, and reencountered the bits of crumbs, lint, and forgotten beads I’d felt when I was in the cellar and seeing through my mother’s eyes.
No scissors. I lifted everything off the hooks, patted down the shopping bags. Nothing.
I stuffed the cap in one of the deep pockets and tossed the coat over my shoulder. Crouching behind the counter, I began to pull everything off the lower shelves, all the tins and boxes and cups with pens. I opened their lids and poked through their contents—including a small, plastic file box filled with numbered cards and book titles—and ended up with ink-splotched fingers and more questions than answers.
Mom, who were you?
It was like my mother had two distinct modes: Mom-mode and Moira-mode. Mom-mode included tons of hugs and macaroni and cheese by the case. The tiny fridge in her office was always stocked with sliced carrots and celery and boxes of organic apple juice. The chairs in the front of the shop were always available for anyone who wanted to sit. And the donation box… I peeked over the edge of the counter, reached for the battered container, and gave it a shake for old times’ sake. Paper rustled inside. I hunkered down in the narrow space between the wall and the counter, clutching the box in both hands.
My mother switched into Moira-mode when she slipped her arms into her shop coat and stood tall amongst her women friends, listening to their stories, nodding her head, never over-dispensing advice or freebies, but always—there.
Always available for them.
Always available for fund-raisers, food and clothing drives—anything that would assist with providing women in the community with a safe place.
I admired my mother’s spirit, her drive, her generosity.
And now we knew that for all her activism, she was holding something back from us, her daughters. Something big and important that was now creating a giant mess in our lives. A giant, dangerous mess.
I smoothed down the peeling edges of the box’s faded label, set it on the shelf, and squawked when a pair of scissors dislodged from underneath the countertop and landed on my knuckles.
Stainless steel, polished to a mirrored shine, glinting in the gloom. M. B. was engraved in an elegant, swirly script on the outside blade. Each shank was covered with a filigree design. The generous length of grosgrain ribbon was looped through one of the finger rings, with the ends tied together in a casual knot.
A reverential calm came over me. I swiped my hand on my jeans and reached for the scissors I had seen my mother wield hundreds and hundreds of times.
They were heavy. I slipped my fingers into the metal rings, separated the points, and felt the blades cut the air.
They were sharp. Decisive. I quickly closed the blades, set the scissors back on the shelf, and landed on my butt.
“Sissy?” Beryl’s voice floated down the stairwell.
“I’m good. I’ll be right up,” I yelled. I rolled forward onto my knees and patted the underside of the counter. There were no more surprises, and I’d need a flashlight to see into the corners of both shelves, but for now I considered my foray a success. I had Mom’s coat, her scissors, and her hat.
And all three were remarkably dust-free.
I trotted up the stairs and held up my treasure for approval. In my absence, my sister and my aunt had created most of a salt circle and placed lit candles around the room.
“This is beautiful.”
Beryl beamed. “Tía’s only been here an hour and already I feel like I’ve learned so much.” She extended a hand and I passed over the shop coat. Beryl slipped her arms into the sleeves and laughed. Mom was a good five or six inches taller than me, the tallest of her three girls, and the bottom of her shop coat brushed Beryl’s ankles.
“This doesn’t feel right,” she said, patting at the pockets. “It feels creepy to be wearing Mom’s coat.”
“Let me see it, please.”
My sister shrugged out of the garment and passed it to our aunt. Maritza lifted it by the shoulders and took her time examining the cloth, the long lapels, the buttons, and even the buttonholes. She turned the coat around, noted the belt across the back and the vent down the center back, and declared it a well-assembled garment. “Moira’s magic permeates every stitch and is especially potent”—Maritza turned the coat again and pointed to a small pocket I’d missed, hidden behind the left lapel—“here.”
She stuck her fingertip inside the pocket and lifted out a coiled braid of hair tied with a bit of pink silk embroidery floss.
Closing her eyes, she let the coat hang as she held the coil in front of her.
“These strands come from each of her daughters and she kept them over her heart.” Maritza curled her fingers around the braid, dropped the coat, and clutched her findings to her own heart.
“Tía?”
Maritza shook her head and sniffled. “Forgive me,” she said. “I’m getting us off track. I am occasionally pierced to the bone by how much I miss my sister.” She looked at her palm. “I’d like to keep this, as a reminder that Malvyn and I are next in line to protect the three of you.”
“Protect and educate and invite home for the holidays,” said Beryl. “And yes, as far as I’m concerned, you are welcome to keep that memento. There’s plenty in here and downstairs for me and Clementine and Alderose to divide.”
I picked up the coat. “I feel like I should wear this when I enter the circle. And the scissors. Just in case.” I stuffed the knit cap into one of the coat’s pockets.
“I agree. But wait until you are inside and the protection and containment spells have be
en cast.” Maritza bundled her hair into a topknot and pushed up her sleeves. “Let’s get this ball rolling. Beryl will remain on the outside. Her task is to raise or lower the walls of the circle, should the need arise. She will also tie us in—literally—using the thread we found in your mother’s desk.”
“Is it a special kind of thread?”
“Most certainly. Every time you cast a circle for the purpose of practicing magic, whether you use traditional items like salt and candles or you improvise, you create the potential for a completely unique experience.
“Because of the nature of my sister’s work, I believe she kept a record of every casting she did. While you were downstairs, Beryl found boxes of glass slides in a drawer of Moira’s desk. Each slide contains a name, a coil of thread, and a date. We haven’t had time to correlate that information with what is in her ledgers, but I believe the slides belong to either the client or their match.”
“Or both?”
“Whoa…”
“Yeah, that was my reaction,” Beryl said.
“What else do we need now, for this casting?”
“A purpose, an intention, even simply a question,” said Maritza. “Do you have one ready?”
“I have so many questions all lined up on the tip of my tongue,” I said, “but I’m guessing you’re going to advise me to keep it simple.”
“Yes. Can you separate your questions, perhaps combine the ones most relevant to our purposes, and come up with one or two?”
I nodded as I walked to the open section of the curving line of salt. “Where did Mom stash her financial records, and where are her notes about how she found matches for her clients. How does that sound?”
“Those questions are both succinct and general enough for you to be able to attract adjacent story threads. Ready?”
“Ready.”
9
I was inside the salt circle, making myself comfortable, when I flashed on an idea. I tugged the container of mascara out of my back pocket and waved it in my sister’s direction. “Beryl, would you be willing to pop down to the cellar and get that oval mirror for me?”
