by Tessa Adams
Donovan obviously doesn’t know where my thoughts are going, though, because he presses his keys into my hands. “Don’t let pride get in your way,” he tells me. “I’ll cover for you. I’ll even call you when the coast is clear.”
“Do you really think my not being there will change anything? What do you think she’ll do if I don’t show up at dinner—or the Solstice ceremony planned for afterward?”
“Make us suffer through Micah’s impersonation of a guy with a stick up his ass? Tell us to sit back and let the witch whisperer have a crack at the rest of the family?”
I laugh, as Donovan intended. It’s not as hard to do as I thought it would be—witch whisperer really is the worst description ever. “Well, yeah, but when that’s over, she’s just going to come up with a new plan to unleash my magic. And then another one and another one and another one after that. I’ve had enough. This has to stop, and I’m going to stop it. Tonight.”
“Oh, yeah?” My brother eyes me curiously. “And how exactly are you planning to do that?”
I turn and stare at the black dress. I may not have magic but I have more than my fair share of ingenuity. “Watch and learn, Donovan Morgan. Watch and learn.”
Four
When I walk into my mother’s parlor—an old-fashioned word for an old-fashioned room—thirty minutes later, all eyes shift to me. And not because I’m fashionably late.
With the help of Willow, the sister who’s closest to me in age, I’ve made a few adjustments to the dress my mother left for me. I’ve also made a few adjustments to the rest of my appearance…and from the look on my mom’s face as she heads straight for me, they are adjustments she does not like. Which, of course, is exactly what I was going for.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she hisses at me. Her left hand wraps around my upper arm and she tries to tug me from the room, but I’m not budging. She’s the one who led us to this showdown and I’m not going to be the one who flinches first.
“You wanted a witch, so I gave you one.” I smile at her out of a face turned lime green from the judicious use of my sister’s underbase.
With her free hand she reaches for the broomstick I’m carrying. I refuse to let go—this time I am not backing down. “Are you insane?” she demands. “Get that hat off of your head!”
“What’s the matter, Mom? Too pointy?”
“You look like a crazy person.”
“And you act like one, so I think we’re even.”
She glances around, realizes the eyes of her most important advisors are on us and fakes a laugh. “Silly, Xandra, this isn’t a costume party,” she trills in the voice she reserves for recalcitrant subjects. A few seconds later, she ruins the benevolent affect by getting right in my face and whisper-yelling, “Don’t push me on this, Xandra.”
A few years ago that tone would have been enough to have me falling into line. But I’m not a teenager anymore and tonight it feels like I’m fighting for both my freedom and my sanity. “Why not? You keep pushing me. You’re just upset because I finally decided to push back.”
“I’m trying to help you and this is the thanks I get? You dressing up like a caricature on the most important night of the year?” She keeps tugging at me until finally I give in and let her lead me into the foyer and away from the hundreds of prying eyes.
“I want you to accept me for what I am, to stop doing ridiculous things to try to force something that just isn’t there. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.”
“No offense, Xandra, but I’m not the one being ridiculous right now. Not to mention completely demeaning our entire culture.”
Touché. And as tears of anger and humiliation tremble on her lashes, I could almost be sorry for dressing up like the Wicked Witch of the West. Almost. “A witch whisperer, Mom? Really?”
Her eyes narrow dangerously. “Who snitched?”
“So many people know that you can’t figure out who it was that told me? And you think I’m demeaning?”
“You need to trust me on this, Xandra. You’ll be so much happier once we find a way around your disability and your powers are unlocked.”
My disability? Is she kidding me with this? I stare at her, openmouthed, and wait for her to take back what she’s said. But she just stares at me, mouth grim and eyes enraged. “There are no powers to unlock, Mom. When are you going to get that through your head?”
“Of course there are.” She waves a dismissive hand that does more to make my blood boil than anything else that has happened today.
I start to let her have it once and for all—so angry that I am not at all interested in pulling my punches—when a soft but clear voice comes from right behind me. “Pardon me, Your Majesty?”
We turn as one at the interruption, my mother’s eyes laser bright as she focuses on the woman who dared to interrupt our conversation. I don’t recognize her—and believe me, I’d remember her if I’d ever seen her before. She’s short and rotund, and her bright orange hair is swept into a beehive of epic proportions. Even worse, she’s dressed in a bloodred cocktail dress that clashes with her hair and does nothing to flatter her figure. But the pièce de résistance, the train wreck I just can’t take my eyes off, is the pair of bright yellow cowboy boots with turquoise piping that are peeking out from under the gown’s jagged hem.
Who in their right mind wears bright yellow boots? With a red dress? To the biggest social event of the year?
Tonight is the most important holiday celebrated by our coven and the house is filled with my parents’ friends and most trusted advisors, all of whom have come to make merry before the solemn ceremony begins at midnight. I can’t imagine this woman falling into either of those categories, especially considering the way my mother is looking at her at the moment—like she’s a particularly disgusting specimen of fungus.
“This is not a good time.” My mom is speaking between clenched teeth now, a surefire sign that she’s furious. Which makes no impact on me, because I’m just as angry. Maybe more. How can she not see that she needs to get off the crazy-wheel? My disability? Really? It’s not like I’m not a successful, functioning member of society. So what if I can’t make fire out of thin air? We have matches and lighters for that.
Surprisingly, the scowl on my mom’s face makes no impact on the woman standing in front of us, either. “Forgive me for saying so, Your Highness, but I think this might be the perfect time.” She lays one hand on my mother’s back and another on mine and gently pushes—as if she expects us to actually allow her to lead us across the foyer to someplace more private.
Neither my mother nor I budge. We may be acting like a couple of recalcitrant toddlers, but there’s no way we’re going to let anyone treat us as such.
“Salima, not now.”
My eyes widen. Salima? This is the witch whisperer? This woman who is more clown than clairvoyant? This is who my mother expects to save me from myself?
Now I’m more insulted than angry.
“But, Your Majesty, if you look beyond the obvious, you will see that this”—she waves a hand up and down to encompass me—“costume is a step in the right direction. While it is a rather unschooled attempt, I admit, Xandra is obviously trying to engage in a dialogue with you about her feelings. I know she has not chosen to take a conventional route, but this might be even better than that. If she really feels that being a witch makes her into some kind of caricature, then that could be why she is latent. Her powers simply can’t function when her ideal of herself is so incredibly skewed. In fact—”
“Seriously?” I interrupt, unable to take the bullshit any longer. I turn to my mother. “This is who you hired to fix me?”
Her eyes narrow and in those moments she is every inch the queen. “Which should tell you just how broken I think you are.”
It’s a direct hit but I’ll be damned if I let her see it. I turn to Salima, force a smile that I am far from feeling. Especially when it becomes obvious that my mother is actually considering her idiot
ic words. “Thank you so much for your remarkable insight into my neuroses, Salima. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. But, if you’ll excuse me, I need to mingle.”
She nods, knowingly. “Bitterness is understandable. No one likes to be confronted by their own weaknesses—”
A strangled scream escapes from my throat—I can’t help it—and for a few precious seconds I imagine what it would feel like to wrap my hands around Salima’s throat. And squeeze.
The cold slap of my mother’s voice banishes the fantasy. “The only place you’re going is back to your room to change. I will not be made a fool of in front of my entire coven.”
“But you have no problem casting me as the fool, right?”
For a second her eyes soften and I think we’re making progress, but then Salima ruins it. “Am I to understand you think being a witch makes you a fool, Xandra?”
“It’s neither me nor your legacy that makes you foolish, daughter.” My mother’s gaze sweeps over me, all traces of compassion gone. “You do that all yourself.”
It’s another direct hit, but that makes me only more determined not to back down.
“In that case, let me get on with it.” I wrench my elbow from her grasp. “I’d hate to deprive anyone of their entertainment.”
“Xandra, I forbid you to go back in that room until you’ve changed.”
Amusement wells up—I can’t help it. “I hate to be the one to break the news to you, Mom, but you aren’t in the position to forbid anything. I’m no longer a lost sixteen-year-old kid who will do anything for your approval.”
“Xandra!” She all but stomps her foot with impatience and at another time I might have been amused to see the queen engage in such a mundane display of emotion. But with her one step away from breathing fire and my father bearing down on us like a ship that has set an immovable course, I figure this might be a great time to dive into the center of the crowd. So I do, hightailing it across the lobby as fast as my old-fashioned lace-up boots can carry me.
After all, the wicked witch thing might be a tad bit of overkill, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still have a point. And I’m determined to make it. I’ll be damned if I spend the next ten years of my life waiting for her to give up on the belladonna and go a more poisonous route. I’m latent and that’s never going to change. The sooner she and the rest of my family accept that, the better off we’ll all be.
Determined to make the best of the evening—despite its inauspicious beginning—I head to the bar. But I’ve barely got my first mojito in hand when darkness creeps over me, blinding me for a second to all but the agonized screams in my head. For long seconds I am bound and bleeding, my head bowed and long dark hair waving in the wind. And there is pain, terrible pain that rises up like a tsunami and all but engulfs me.
My knees tremble and I’m shaking so badly that I slosh my drink over the rim of the highball glass. It’s the cold wet on my hand that brings me back. I glance around to see if anyone noticed—after all, I’m not exactly inconspicuous in this getup. But everyone seems to be doing their studious best to ignore me, as usual, and for once, I’m grateful for the anonymity.
Still, as I slam my drink back in one long swallow, I can’t help but wonder. What the hell was that?
After dodging Micah for the third time in as many hours, I duck out of the house and into my mother’s garden. She and my father are already out here, preparing for the most important celebration of the year, and while I’m not keen on running into either one of them I figure being outside is a million times better than staying in the house and trying to avoid Micah, Salima and anything else my mother has cooked up for me.
I cut through the garden to the fence, and as I walk along it, I’m overwhelmed by the peacefulness of the night. The storm from earlier passed by a couple of hours ago, leaving the sky clear and the night glistening with the residue of leftover raindrops. Standing out here, surrounded by this tranquility as I watch the final preparations for the Solstice, I can almost pretend those terrifying moments earlier in the parlor never happened. After all, with my track record, it’s hard to imagine they could mean anything—except that being at home completely stresses me out.
It’s the only explanation, unless, of course, that belladonna my mother slipped me actually did the impossible. Which it didn’t. I lock the thought away as soon as it comes to me. Of all the places I’ve been—or want to go in my life—that is definitely not on the destination list.
I glance over at where my family is setting the altar. Normally, I’d be in the middle of the preparations, helping my family and our advisors with any nonmagical tasks, but right now it seems wiser to keep the length of the garden between us. Especially with the fulminating looks my father keeps giving me. So, instead of joining the others, I content myself with watching from behind the rows upon rows of plants. Besides being queen, my mother is one of the great potion-makers of our time, and there are few natural ingredients she doesn’t grow somewhere on the property.
Here, in her garden, it’s all flowering bushes, vines, and a few trees, along with a variety of stand-alone flowers that she harvests whenever she needs them.
Bright and happy marigolds to cleanse and foretell.
Soft and sweet peonies for protection and prosperity.
Wide-open primrose for truth-telling.
Delicate and lacy rue for healing.
Daisies for lust. Laurel for love. Lilies and mugwort and patchouli for fertility and row upon row of hydrangea for fidelity.
People are nothing if not predictable in what they want.
I turn to the right, watch as my mother clips some clover and dragon’s blood. She’ll use the clover for cleansing her tools while the dragon’s blood will amp up the power of her spells. Not that her magic needs any help, but there are a lot of people here and the magic she generates will need to touch them all.
Just beyond the garden, a crowd has gathered. Though many of our coven will do their own Solstice ritual later, gathering here at my house—sharing this holiday with my family and so many others—is a tradition few who live in Ipswitch choose to ignore. Anticipation lights up the air around me, their excitement and exuberance nearly tangible as the clock creeps a little closer to midnight. It’s hard not to get caught up in it, even for someone who has no power. Especially since tonight is perfect for the Solstice Seshaw, or prayer ritual.
The air is crisp but not too cold, while the fence and the forest shield us from the shadowy presence of the wind that moans through the wild, untamed forest that lies a few hundred feet beyond the boundaries of the garden.
Stars twinkle against the ebony backdrop of the sky above and a full, vanilla moon hangs invitingly in the center of the display. For a moment, just one moment, I wish for a tiny drop of the power that pulses all around me. I would love to draw down the moon, just for a moment. It’s a simple spell and one I’ve seen performed hundreds of times, but it’s one of my mother’s least favorites so I know it will not be cast tonight. Which is a shame because I can almost feel the energy boost now.
In the center of the garden, my father and siblings have joined my mother to finish preparations for the ritual. Spells are murmured as they place nine candles to mark the boundaries of the circle.
One for each of the shares of magic that fell to Egypt over four thousand years ago.
One for each member of my family—except for me.
It’s not a deliberate oversight, simply the way things have always been. Which is fine by me—especially as I don’t have the magic necessary to hold what would be my part of the circle if they ever decided to give me the chance anyway.
Besides, I’m not exactly dressed for it. Every one of my family members wears a long emerald robe that skims the ground. My mother and sisters are also draped in charms and amulets meant to both honor and release the ancient magic, while Donovan and my dad each wear a crystal pendant big as a baby’s fist.
They are the protectors, and the enforcers, of th
e circle. My mother is the caster, my sisters the binders. And I, along with the rest of the coven who have turned out for the ceremony, am the observer.
But not yet. It is not quite midnight and there is still work to be done, traditions to be observed.
My mother walks to the altar set up in the center of the circle. On it she places the Rw, a heavily embossed book with covers made of pure Egyptian gold and pages of the most fragile papyrus. It has been passed down to my mother from the women in her family—mother, grandmother, great-grandmother—for well over a thousand years and it contains the most sacred texts and spells of Heka. Though it is my mother’s, she won’t touch it again until the ceremony is over. First and foremost because it contains the energy of ages, energy that can bleed into and color her own Seshaw, and secondly, because she doesn’t have to. She has the entire book, and all of its spells, memorized.
As do I. Not that I’ll ever have a chance to use that knowledge. But the girl I once was—the girl who had hoped to be a different kind of woman—had spent months and years memorizing every spell so that one day she’d be ready to take her mother’s place. Ready to be a conduit between the sacred and the mundane.
I feel someone watching me and suddenly I’m as disgusted by the costume I’m wearing as my mother is. Not because I’m ashamed of my lack of power—as she is—but because I’ve made something special into something profane. I can blame my mother if I like, but if I’m honest, the onus for this is all on me. Lacking power or not, I can’t stand before the goddess in this mockery of ceremonial dress.
I glance at my watch. I have ten minutes before the ritual starts.
I slip into my room, clean the green gunk off my face and get dressed in the outfit I had planned to wear all along—a flowing emerald green skirt and jacket made of the softest velvet. It’s not a robe, and I don’t want it to be, but it’s a beautiful outfit, one that even my mother can’t find fault with.
