A Different Witch (A Modern Witch Series: Book 5)

by Geary, Debora

  “But he did.”

  He had. This time. “Lauren says sometimes he doesn’t.”

  “Ooph.” Daniel’s fingers clutched hers reflexively. “That must be awful.”

  “His mom loves him so much.” She’d felt it—huge, deep oceans’ worth. “And some days, even that isn’t enough to get through.”

  Her husband laid his head back, pain tracking in his eyes. “Tab and Lauren do really important work.”

  They did. And she was pretty sure a perhaps-not-very-useful fire witch was going to be visiting the Center again soon, even if all she could do to help was clean up blocks. “Sometimes, I look at Aervyn and think we have the hardest job in the world.” She looked at her husband, tears threatening to spill over. “We don’t.”

  Daniel didn’t speak. He just tugged her into his lap.

  Exactly like Jacob’s mama had done. “I don’t know how he opens his eyes in the morning.” And yet he did. And he was learning. Talking. Playing sweet, giggly games with people he clearly loved.

  Her husband’s voice rumbled beside her ear. “He sounds brave.”

  Yes. The distinction between fragile and different was blindingly clear to her now. “To him, it’s normal.”

  “Mmm. A little bit like a small boy who likes fire trucks and teleporting and mostly ignores his hearing aids.”

  Yes. And no. Nell tried to follow the thread that had been tangling her up for hours. “Kind of, but Aervyn’s different. It’s sort of like game points. Most people have a certain amount. With hard work, you can get more, but they’re still limited.”

  Daniel chuckled. “Some of us aren’t fond of limitations.”

  How well she knew—but very few people had her husband’s gaming skills. “If you use too many of your game points on your wardrobe or fancy buildings, you don’t have enough left for weapons.” Or nasty surprises left by elderly librarians.

  “Sure. But most players only make dumb mistakes like that once. Not enough weapons, you die.”

  “What if the rules aren’t the same for everyone?” asked Nell quietly. “What if some people have to spend half their game points just to have one decent outfit?”

  Her husband’s breath blew out slowly. “Then they have to make some pretty careful choices on the weapons front.”

  “Yeah.” The kind of choices that might make you seem weak to others. Or fragile. “I think autism’s like that. Jacob has to blow half his game points just to open his eyes in the morning.” Maybe Beth, too.

  His arms wrapped tighter around her aching chest. “And you just want to give him half your stash, I bet.”

  “Yeah.” She sat up, running her finger down the cold drops on the outside of her smoothie glass. “I always think of Aervyn’s hearing aids as no big deal.”

  Deep brown eyes met hers. “They aren’t. But he’s got an awful lot of game points.”

  Exactly. She closed her eyes, grateful that he so easily understood. “I’ve been judging Beth by what she does with her leftover points, and not giving her nearly enough credit for what she’s already done with the main chunk of them.”

  Her husband was quiet for a long time, chewing the last bite of the bagel she’d never touched. “I’ve gamed with you for a long time,” he said finally.

  She waited, fairly sure he had a point. Daniel Walker didn’t always pitch in straight lines.

  “You know what I’ve never seen?” He took a deep swig of her smoothie and swung his legs over the hammock. “I’ve never seen any teammate of yours go under because they ran out of points.”

  He stood up. “Not ever. I’ll go get you another bagel.”

  Nell watched him go—and wrapped her arms around the words he’d left behind. They were one of the nicest compliments she’d ever gotten.

  And wickedly smart advice.

  Chapter 19

  Beth knocked on Nell’s back door somewhat gingerly. The invitation to drop by had been delivered along with little-boy giggles and a steaming plate of pancakes. Witch Central was apparently bent on feeding her today.

  Not that she was complaining—she’d happily consumed the pancakes, along with a truckload of nuts and a protein smoothie. The kind of circle work they did here in Berkeley was exploding her concept of a good, healthy witch diet.

  The door opened and Nell smiled, a canister of flour in her hands. “Hi—you’re earlier than I expected. Come on in.”

  The kitchen was warm, full of the scents of pancakes and melting butter. And eerily quiet. “Where is everyone?”

  “Napping.”

  At eleven o’clock in the morning? Beth looked at the clock, puzzled.

  Nell pulled out a stool, chuckling. “They’re always up at the crack of dawn after a big circle.”

  The circle had been only yesterday. Time flew so strangely here. “Why do they get up so early?” Ginia had shown up just as the first rays of sunshine were tickling the sky.

  “Hunger pangs.” Nell grinned. “Daniel feeds them a huge breakfast, I hit them with a light sleep spell, and we send them back to bed. Nearly always works. When it doesn’t, I have some very cranky kiddos on my hands by dinnertime.”

  “You should try protein.” The words escaped before Beth could yank them back. She ground to a halt—most people didn’t want to know about blood-sugar spikes and serotonin swings.

  “So Nat tells me.” Nell yawned. “If she has her way, we’ll all be munching nuts like squirrels.”

  Well, that put her firmly in the squirrel camp. Beth squirmed on her stool, brain sinking in the quicksand of casual conversation. “Thank you for the pancakes.”

  “No problem.” Nell traced a random design in the flour dust on her counter. “Daniel makes them a lot. Glad the Witch Central delivery service wasn’t a problem.”

  They still treated her so very carefully. “I’m hard for you to understand, aren’t I?”

  “Yes.” Nell’s finger had created an ancient pattern—one of the old Celtic knots Liri loved so much. “But maybe I’m making a little progress.”

  That was new. Beth stumbled around in her head for words and finally gave up. Silence would have to do.

  “I went to visit Tabitha’s center this morning. I ended up meeting the little boy Lauren works with.”

  Ah. “Jacob.” Beth still wasn’t sure how to feel about a child who shared her struggles.

  “Yeah.” Nell blew at the flour on her countertop. “He’s adorable and tenacious and funny and I have no idea how he moves through life with all that’s going on in his body and his head.”

  By having no idea what it was like to live in a normal body and head. “It might get easier for him as he grows up.” Or not.

  There was silence for a stretch as flour motes floated back to the countertop. “There’s a lot going on for you too, isn’t there? That we can’t see.”

  “Yes.” Beth wasn’t sure how to compare herself to a little boy she’d never met. Wasn’t sure she wanted to. “Asperger’s isn’t as severe as other forms of autism. Usually I just come across as kind of quirky.”

  “But it’s not easy for you. Sitting here in my kitchen, or putting up streamers for a party, or getting on an airplane to come here.”

  Beth knew an analytical mind in progress when she saw one. “Most new things are a challenge. Or anything with lots of people or sensory information to process.” She traced her own finger through the flour and redrew the Celtic knot Nell had blown away. “I end up putting a lot of energy into things that don’t matter to most people.”

  Nell stared at the complicated, twisting lines on the counter—an exact replica of her own. “Wow.”

  “I could have done that when I was Kenna’s size.” And been lost in it for days. “Carrying on a simple conversation is far harder. Too many layers.”

  “And magic adds even more.”

  “On its own, no.” Magic was pattern—Celtic knots formed in the ether of the universe. “But with people involved, it’s just another thing to juggle.”


  “Can I ask you something?”

  Nell’s fingers were fiddling again, this time with a set of crayons. Somehow, it made Beth feel better. “Sure.”

  “Why do you practice alone?”

  Because she always had. “I’m more comfortable that way. There are fewer distractions.”

  “Is that the only reason?”

  No. Beth considered for a long time just how much she wanted to bare her soul. And then she remembered a shy and fierce girl with warm hands who had called her brave. “Magic is a lot of trial and error. I try differently than most people, and I fail differently.”

  Sorrow flooded Nell’s face. “And when you do, we mistake that for weakness.”

  “Yes.” Beth thought of flowers and dragons and a back yard full of Christmas lights. And found the courage to tell the truth. “And sometimes, you’re not mistaken. I’m not fragile—but sometimes life makes me that way.”

  “I think I’m starting to get the difference.” Nell’s knuckles whitened around the crayons. “I’m not the right person to train you, and I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to understand that.”

  Beth wished for a few crayons of her own. “Because you can’t work with my autism.”

  “No—I think we could figure that out. But I’m a really direct person. A fighter, and not a very flexible one. I share your magical talents, but that’s not really what makes the best trainer.” Nell’s head tipped down. “And my butt-headed stubbornness is at least as much of a training issue as your Asperger’s.”

  It was impossible not to like that kind of honesty. “Liri would tell you that stubbornness is one of my more memorable traits.”

  “Yeah.” Nell’s smile was small, but very real. “It’s hard on the people who love us.”

  Something in common. She would need to think on that a while.

  “I don’t think I’m the right person to train you. Not for a while, anyhow.” Nell fingered the petals of a wilted bouquet of flowers. “But I would like to work with you one day. You visualize patterns like nobody’s business.”

  Something tight in Beth’s chest exhaled. “Maybe someone else can help me with the beginner stuff.”

  “You’re no beginner.” Nell looked up sadly. “Just another thing I was wrong about. I think that when we started off so badly, I blamed you. And I’m deeply sorry for that. I had plenty of people trying to tell me I had it wrong.”

  There had been lots of those people in Beth’s life—and very few of them ever made it to this place. “Please don’t blame yourself.”

  “Who else?” Nell lifted a helpless shoulder. “This is my world, and I couldn’t figure out how to welcome you into it.”

  “I’m not easy to welcome. It takes a special kind of person to…” Beth trailed off, not wanting to insult. “Liri was the first, really.” And through Liri, others had come. “Your daughter Shay…” She halted again, stumbling now on the rocky ground of holding one small hand instead of the others.

  “My three girls are very different. Not everyone knows how to see them as more than one of three.” Nell paused, three crayons in her fingers. “And when they do, it’s not usually Shay they see first. I’d like to thank you for that.”

  “She’s…” A tiny miracle with small warm hands and safe eyes. “She’s very special to me.”

  Nell exhaled softly. “She loves you very much.”

  And finally, Beth had the right words. “You shared her with me. That was a very fine welcome.” One that deserved a thank you. She reached for the canister of flour. “If training needs to wait a while, perhaps you can teach me to bake a decent batch of cookies instead. Snickerdoodles are Liri’s favorite.”

  The astonishment on Nell’s face was worth a hundred moments of awkwardness. “You want to make cookies?”

  “Yes.” Beth delighted in her idea. Aspies were hardly ever spontaneous. “Recipes have a beginning and an end. I think we’ll do fine.”

  “But you don’t eat cookies.”

  And in this place, perhaps that deserved an explanation too. “My brain chemistry is fragile. It doesn’t handle the swings of sugar very well. I do better on a diet of seeds and nuts and other boring squirrel food.”

  Making Nell laugh was almost as much fun as surprising her. Beth smiled. “Spellcasting isn’t your only magic. You’re the center of this place—the gravitational force holding everyone in.”

  “I’m a bossy witch, you mean.”

  “Yes.” Beth realized, a sentence too late, that this was one of those times when most people weren’t honest. “Sorry. Sometimes I don’t filter very well.”

  “It’s okay.” Nell looked over, eyes warm. “You’re not wrong about the bossy part. But what does that have to do with cookies?”

  “You’re the glue around here. And I don’t know exactly how you do that, but I’m hoping the cookies are part of it.” Beth felt one of her rare jokes coming on. “I figure it will get me further than trying to feed everyone nuts.”

  Reading eyes wasn’t her strength. But she was pretty sure that what shone from Nell’s was the beginning of friendship.

  “Tell you what.” Nell reached up into the cupboard and brought down a tin with a familiar label. “How about we start with good old-fashioned chocolate chip cookies? We’ll use white chocolate chips and throw in some macadamia nuts for the squirrels.”

  Something fierce and warm glowed in Beth’s chest.

  At last. Common ground.

  -o0o-

  Lauren curled up next to her husband on the couch, enjoying the endless ocean view and one of his rare lazy moods. “Think it will storm?” Gray clouds teased the western sky, offering at least the possibility of something other than winter sunshine.

  “If it’s a storm you want—” Devin’s grin suggested that lazy could be finished any time she wanted.

  Hmm. That had definite possibilities too. She snuggled in closer, working a hand under the hem of his t-shirt.

  Lazy vanished from his eyes. He shifted, laying them both out on the couch. Less good for ocean viewing, far better for hands heading under shirts.

  Lauren explored, reveling in the warm, solid feel of him.

  And then one of his pockets started howling at the moon.

  Cripes. That wasn’t his usual ring tone. She snickered and shook her head, suspecting shenanigans. “Sure you don’t want to move to outer Mongolia?”

  He growled and dug out his phone. And then squinted, mystified, at the message on his screen. “It’s for you. Apparently Daniel requires your immediate attention.”

  Whatever—her brother-in-law could wait. She snuggled into her husband again, ready to pick up where they’d been pre-howl.

  And then Deck the Halls hit the airwaves. In Darth Vader’s voice. This time it was Lauren who picked up the cell phone, trying not to laugh. Stop kissing Devin and check your email.

  Devin raised an eyebrow. “I need to have a serious talk with that guy.”

  Lauren scooted for her laptop. If Daniel was interrupting kissing, it had to be fairly serious.

  His message was at the top of her inbox. No text, just a picture.

  Nell and Beth, holding up a monster plate of cookies. And smiling.

  Lauren gulped and showed her husband the picture. One Aspie witch, happy in the heart of Witch Central. It made her unreasonably glad. And it made her proud of every last one of them.

  -o0o-

  Change was afoot—she could feel it. Moira breathed in the unusually crisp evening air one last time before she stepped into the small corner market and cafe. Kenna had fallen asleep in her dinner, and her parents had put her to bed with a lively twinkle in their eyes.

  An old Irish witch knew better than to get in the way of twinkles.

  She cast a glance at the fresh produce on her way in the door, still enjoying the magic of vine-ripened fruit in December. A stack of bright Clementine oranges pleased her eyes. Some of those might have to make the journey back to Nat and Jamie’s house.

  Ri
ght after a nice cup of tea.

  She made her way over to the counter, singing along with the Christmas carols under her breath. Silent Night had always been a favorite, even if she rather doubted the wee babe had arrived calm, quiet, and sleepy.

  And then she spotted a familiar body in the corner. Beth, sitting quietly, a mug steaming in her hands—watching the seasonal bustle go by with something akin to enjoyment on her face.

  Well, well. Change was afoot indeed. Moira placed an order for mint tea and walked over to the corner, giving Beth plenty of time to notice her presence.

  Giving her choices. Honoring her right to be a grown woman who sat in holiday corners alone—or with company. When the smile came, it pleased Moira down to the ground. “Might I join you?”

  “They have really good spiced cider here.” Beth held up her mug, smile a notch more tentative now, but still there. “I can order you some if you like.”

  The poor girl had about as much natural affinity for small talk as Marcus Buchanan. Ah, well—there was no better place to practice than with the Irish. “I’ve some tea coming, but thank you.” She patted Beth’s hand, and then withdrew gently when the girl flinched. No matter. Choices. “It smells delicious. My great-gran used to make something similar for a special holiday treat.”

  “Liri puts spices in wine.” Beth seemed astonished that she’d talked. “A recipe passed down from the German side of her family. It tastes like a cookie in a glass.”

  So the mysterious Liriel knew something of family and ritual. Good. “It sounds lovely. What other holiday traditions do you have?”

  Beth sipped her cider slowly. “Well, Liri bakes her special snickerdoodles. And lights—we put up strings of lights all through the shop. They make people smile.”

  Moira was getting used to their Chicago witch’s tendency to stare at a point just over her shoulder. Seeing faeries, perhaps. Not so odd once you had a chance to sit with it for a bit. “A grand way to greet the darkest days of the year, I’m thinking.” Moira smiled at the young man who delivered her cuppa. “I’ve a lovely warm pool in my back yard. Perhaps some lights would make it festive at this time of year.”