by E J Elwin
“That is fantastic,” said Jessica from behind me, with a wide grin on her face.
“Holy shit!” shouted Hortensia from a few aisles over. “No way!”
The rest of us wandered over to see what she was looking at, me still in my top hat and tailcoat. She stood in front of a long row of wigs displayed on a table set against the wall, all modeled by blank-faced mannequin heads. There was everything from long and straight platinum blonde to short and curly cherry red. There were also various hats on display next to the wigs, and there, we found what Hortensia was looking at. About a dozen mannequin heads all wore the exact same hat: tall, black, and pointy, with a wide brim. A witch’s hat.
Hortensia’s eyes were wide with excitement. “Do you actually wear those?” she asked.
“Yup,” said Jessica, with an amused smile. “The origins of the conical hat are widely disputed. As you know, in popular culture, it’s part of the negative stereotype of the witch as an evil, demonic hag, but there is power in reclaiming images or words that people have tried to use against you, and the conical hat represents just that: power, magic, defiance. There’s also a popular story in witch lore— a children’s story similar to what Ursula’s prophecy always was until now— about a conical black hat that came to life and protected its wearer from witch hunters by stabbing them with its pointed tip.”
“These children’s stories are all so age-appropriate,” said Sylvie, biting back a laugh.
“I loved it!” said Jessica brightly. “The hat really does have magical value and enhances a lot of spellwork, especially the kind done among covens. You’ll each be wearing one tonight for the Bonding Ceremony, in fact.” Hortensia actually squealed. “Also, it just looks fabulous. Don’t you think?”
“Hell yeah!” said Hortensia, taking one of the hats from its mannequin and jamming it on her head. She was silent for a few seconds, as though taking the moment in, and the others and I couldn’t help but smile. It was clear that she was living out a childhood dream in real time.
CHAPTER 16
Roses, Caves, and Illusions
Jessica stepped up to the door of room number five, then turned to us.
“This next room,” she said ominously, “is…” She wrenched the door open and revealed— “A bathroom,” she laughed apologetically. “Sorry. Rooms five and six are bathrooms.”
I looked into the bathroom and saw that it was large and luxurious like the one on the second floor, tiled in white, with a big bathtub and wide windows, only these didn’t face the ocean. Jessica crossed to the door opposite and revealed another almost identical bathroom.
“They’re great bathrooms,” said Sylvie fairly.
“Now,” said Jessica, more serious again, “the rooms on this side of the floor are the more magical rooms…”
Hortensia looked giddy with excitement.
“Room seven,” said Jessica, “is the Rose Room. My garden.”
“Garden?” asked Lizzie, confused. “But how can—?”
Jessica threw open the door and Lizzie broke off with a gasp. The entire room was covered in greenery. It was like walking into a packed and thriving greenhouse. There were rows and rows of waist-high planter boxes, packed to bursting with leafy plants. Most of them were roses— big, beautiful, vibrantly colored blossoms in full bloom. There was every color of the rainbow and even colors like gray, brown, and black. Vines spilled out over the planters as if the roses had been too much to contain. They wrapped around the bases of the boxes and grew along the floor and up the walls, a much heightened version of the kitchen cabinets downstairs.
Although the roses dominated the room, there were also other flowers like lilies, orchids, and dahlias, along with fruit and vegetable plants. I spotted a box of dark pink pomegranates and remembered Harriet mentioning that Jessica grew them. The wall behind them was covered completely in bright white daisies, a vertical meadow of flowers. I knew without having to ask, that the plants in this room were magical. There were two tall windows that let in the morning sunlight but there was no way it was enough to maintain a garden this lush and healthy-looking. Also, I was pretty sure that black roses didn’t exist unless they were dyed to be that way, and something told me Jessica hadn’t done that.
“How do they get enough sunlight in here?” asked Lizzie in a dazed voice.
“Manus terrae,” said Jessica, “flower power, can grow plants without sunlight. It’s very handy. For one, I don’t have to grow any of these plants outside and risk them being seen by prying eyes. Also, there are certain magical plants, like Wily Weeds and Varicose Vines, that are very powerful and needed in many potions, but are increasingly rare and hard to find.”
“Varicose Vines?” asked Sylvie, her eyebrows raised.
Jessica walked to a spot under one of the windows and reached down to open a small white box. It was a freezer. The girls and I leaned in and saw a cluster of white roses growing out of a thick layer of frost. The ghostly white petals were marked with thin lines of dark blue that shone boldly in the dim freezer and looked a lot like veins.
“Varicose Vines,” said Jessica, “are to potions what salt is to cooking. Pretty damn essential.”
“Ha,” said Hortensia. “That sounds like something my mom would say.”
“They grow best in cold climates,” said Jessica, “usually with sunlight. I’m lucky that I can grow them in here without it. Jasper and I share them with witch friends who need them.”
She closed the freezer and turned to a planter box by the window. The bright green sprouts inside were swaying as if in a gentle breeze, even though there was none.
“These are Wily Weeds,” she said. “They are to potions what flour is to baking.”
“Pretty damn essential?” I asked.
“Exactly,” she said, with a smile.
“These are… pretty,” said Lizzie.
We looked around and saw her standing in front of a large cluster of roses. They were pretty, but even in this room full of beautiful flowers, something made these roses stand out…
“Ah yes,” said Jessica. “Those…”
Sylvie, Hortensia, and I went to join Lizzie. The roses she was so entranced by had a planter box all to themselves, and were arranged neatly side by side in four clusters of four different colors: red, blue, purple and black.
The red roses struck me first. They were vividly blood-red, redder than any red roses I’d ever seen. The bold, bloody hue felt like the roses were shouting their existence into the room, as though screaming to be seen. I leaned in close and inhaled deeply. I was startled to find that they actually smelled like blood. I thought of nosebleeds and scraped knees, and that feeling I got on the playground as a child when I would hang upside down from the monkey bars and the blood would thump against my skull. A second deep whiff and I was astonished to smell burning wood, as if these roses had been put through a roaring fireplace, even though they were pristine and seemingly untouched by any sort of flames. Despite this blend of blood and fiery wood, the smell wasn’t bad. It was delicious, in fact, emitting all the natural sweet-smelling notes of a rose, but also so much more.
The roses next to them were a stunning ocean blue, reminding me irresistibly of Connor’s eyes. They emitted a salty sweetness which felt like they were channeling the sea breeze from outside. I leaned into them and gasped as I smelled not only the ocean, but fresh fruit— blueberries, lemons and pineapples— ripe and raw, as if someone were slicing them up under my nose. The petals also emanated what I could only describe as the smell of sunshine, something I’d never thought of as having a smell before. Somehow, the scents and blue petals together filled me with something that was like hope.
Next were the purple roses, a luscious, beautiful purple that pulsated off the petals like a heartbeat. I leaned in and inhaled the smell of grapes, of wine, of a blustery autumn day with crackling leaves falling from the trees. This time, I was filled with an unexplainable urge to laugh. It was the feeling of giddiness, of whimsy, of possi
bility. It reminded me of when we had been testing our powers in the living room. The sound of the girls’ laughter echoed in my head…
Finally, there were the black roses, a fierce and full black, contrasting brilliantly with the brighter colored roses around them. I took a deep whiff of them and inhaled the rich wet smell of the earth after it rains, the decadent smell of a leather jacket, the worn binding of a well-loved book… even the smell of a freshly brewed cup of coffee.
I was mesmerized by the roses, unable to take my eyes off them, drinking in their smell as though it were a life-sustaining meal, until Jessica’s voice brought me back to where I was.
“These,” she said, “are the Sacred Roses. I was inspired to create them by Ursula’s prophecy. You’ll find they each include scents related to your respective gifts and elements.”
“It’s… intoxicating,” said Sylvie, who indeed looked slightly tipsy.
“I started growing them years ago,” said Jessica. “Of course, at the time, I didn’t believe the prophecy would turn out to be true, or that Jasper and I would end up being involved in it! It’s amazing to see that you’re all so drawn to them! They’ve never affected Jasper and me the way they’re affecting you. Oh, I just love that!”
“They’re the most beautiful roses I’ve ever seen,” said Lizzie. “Or smelled.”
“Wonderful!” said Jessica, clapping her hands together.
As we left the room, the roses vibrated ever so slightly.
**
“Room eight,” said Jessica, standing in front of the door, “is sort of like an extension of the Rose Room. We call it the Concoction Cave.”
“Rockin’ that alliteration,” said Sylvie, smirking with satisfaction.
Jessica pushed open the door and led us into what at first looked like a small dive bar, like the darkened second floor of McFadden’s Irish Pub. Then I saw the row of black cauldrons arranged on the wide wooden table set against the opposite wall and realized it was a potion brewing room. There were smaller tables set around the room, each equipped with wooden stools like the one Harriet had brought to the cemetery the night of the resurrection spell. The walls were lined with long wooden shelves that reminded me of the bookshelves upstairs, only these were packed with dozens and dozens of glass bottles and jars of different sizes and shapes.
The girls and I browsed around at the shelves. The bottles were filled with liquids of various colors and textures, and they ranged in size from tiny vials a few inches tall, to jumbo vase sizes. One vial contained a shimmering pink substance that looked like nail polish, but it was swirling ever so slightly even though no one was touching it. One of the vase-sized bottles contained a thick, forest green colored substance that looked like dyed mud.
The jars were filled with everything from crushed herbs and rose petals, to what looked like ordinary rocks and hunks of grass, to small gooey objects suspended in colorful liquids.
Hortensia gasped loudly. “Eye of newt?” she asked. “You actually use that?”
“Yes, eye of newt is a real potion ingredient,” said Jessica. “We don’t use it very often. Unlike Magick Malevolent, the Benevolent kind only calls for animal parts very rarely, and it never calls for human parts— well, except for bits of blood and hair, usually given willingly. Still, the most a Benevolent spell or potion will ask for regarding animals is the rare newt or rat eye. We haven’t opened that jar in years. Thankfully, potion brewing is a very herb-heavy art.”
“The newt eye probably doesn’t do much for the stereotype,” said Lizzie. “Of the cackling evil witch at her cauldron.”
“Oh, the cackling is real,” said Jessica, “but it’s not what you think. There is a very common mistake made in potion brewing, usually by beginners, that happens when two very similar-looking herbs with very similar names are mistaken for each other. They’re called Twiddle Root and Twaddle Root, and look nearly identical. If you accidentally use Twiddle instead of Twaddle or vice versa, the potion will go up in thick fumes that result in uncontrollable cackling if inhaled. It’s a bit frustrating, but also kind of hilarious to watch a witch try to contain the fumes while wildly cackling.”
Sylvie, Hortensia, Lizzie, and I burst out laughing and Jessica smiled in appreciation.
“It happened to me the first week my mom was teaching me potions,” she said. “Jasper just about wet himself from laughing. All three of us did, now come to think of it.”
Sylvie wiped a tear from her eye and panted for breath.
When we had finally settled down and were back out in the hall, Jessica stood in front of the next room and rested her hand on the doorknob.
“Room nine,” she said, “has served the same purpose since my mom moved into this house in the early seventies. It was named by three-year-old Jasper, then Beatrice, before I was born. It’s called the Broom Room, so named for the way he used to run around the house with his hands out in front of him, making noises like he was riding a motorcycle.”
Even though I knew Jasper had been born female, and had only been living as the man I knew now for ten years, I imagined a little boy running around the house doing what Jessica was describing.
“We’ve expanded it a tiny bit since then…” said Jessica, before pushing open the door.
Hortensia squealed again. The room was mostly open space, with a few tables and chairs, but hanging on the walls in neat columns were dozens of broomsticks, identical to the one Connor and I had seen of Harriet’s. Hortensia instantly ran to the nearest one but then stopped short and reached out very slowly to touch the gnarled wood handle, as though the broomstick were a living thing and she were afraid of hurting or startling it. It was exactly the way Connor had reacted when he saw Harriet’s broomstick. I felt a pang of sadness as I thought of him. I reminded myself that I would get to see him again in the Halfway Place in a few short hours, then focused my attention on the Broom Room.
“I can’t— this is—” sputtered Hortensia, too excited to complete her sentence. “Broomsticks!” she finally got out, which seemed to sum up her emotions quite well.
“I’d forgotten about this…” said Lizzie, running her hand over one of the broomsticks. “I’d kind of accepted that Sylvie was the only one of us who could fly… but we can too!”
“Oooh, could I try one?” Hortensia asked Jessica, practically bouncing up and down.
“While I’m sure the four of you will take effortlessly to flying a broomstick,” said Jessica, “especially you, Sylvie, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to wait just a bit. Your first time on a broomstick should be special, not bumping around inside a house. You’ll be up in the air soon enough, I promise. Let’s handle the Brotherhood first and make the skies safer for all witches in the process.”
Hortensia nodded her understanding.
“Speaking of,” said Jessica, “this is how we’ve expanded the Broom Room over the years…” She directed our gaze to the other end of the room, the far wall of which was the only one not hung with broomsticks, but instead a long polished wood panel. We followed her to it and watched her put a hand on a metal latch in the wood. The panel bent outward like a folding chair, opening up onto a section of the room about the size of my bedroom back at my parents’ house. The girls and I gasped like children at an amusement park.
The walls were covered in gleaming weapons of all different kinds and sizes. There were knives and axes, nunchucks and long wooden staffs, glistening silver throwing stars and medieval-looking maces, shining whips and brass knuckles, bows with quivers of arrows, large broadswords and katanas, and even two wooden baseball bats. The arsenal included every combat weapon I could think of, though there were notably no bazookas or guns of any kind.
Unusual as it was to see so many weapons in someone’s house, what was more unusual was the way these weapons glittered in different colors. Every weapon on the wall sparkled with crystals that were set somewhere on them. The swords and knives had them encrusted in their hilts, while the axes, staffs, maces, a
nd baseball bats had them on their handles, and so on.
I had never been much interested in weapons of any kind— at least up until the other night when Connor and I had been searching for some in that storage room— but I felt a strange pull to the weapons now laid out before me. There was an itch in my palms that only a handle of one of these crystal-encrusted blades could scratch.
“What do you call this?” asked Sylvie, gazing at the weapons. “The Combat Cave?”
“No, but that’s good!” said Jessica. “We might have to keep that!”
She stepped up to the display of weapons and picked up a shining silver dagger with a purple crystal set into its handle.
“Jasper and I have amassed these weapons over the years as our defense against deadly enemies. That includes the Brotherhood but also demons, in the rare occurrence when one of them breaks out of the Hopeless Place and into our realm. They always look for witches when they come to Earth. We are infinitely more valuable to them than non-witches. They will kill a non-witch who gets in their way, but we’re their real targets. This house is extremely well-protected from both human and demon enemies but we do have to go out sometime, and when we do, that’s what these weapons are for. The demons don’t really stop until they get what they came for. Just like the Brotherhood.”
“Can’t you use magic?” asked Lizzie. “Aren’t there spells to get rid of them?”
“These weapons are magical,” said Jessica, her eyes shining. “Demons, in fact, can only truly be killed by magic; in this case, enchanted weapons. You could take an ordinary kitchen knife, or a gun—” she rolled her eyes distastefully at the word, “but that wouldn’t stop them, and would barely wound most of them. One good thrust from one of these—” she flipped the purple crystal dagger in her hand, “and it’s demon begone!”
