Rowan's Responsibility

by Terri Reid

  “What do you mean, this time?” Henry asked.

  Wanda stopped talking and stared at Henry. “Just where did you say you were from?” she asked.

  “Cambridge University,” Henry replied.

  “That’s in England, isn’t it?” she asked.

  Henry nodded, trying to maintain a calm and relaxed appearance.

  She nodded slowly and then leaned forward. “You tell those bitches that we are coming for them,” she hissed. “The power will be ours, and there is nothing they can do to stop us.”

  Henry nodded, turned off the recording app and slid out of the booth. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Wildes,” he said. “I hope you have a good evening.”

  He walked over to the bar and waited for Jimmer to walk over. “Thank you for your help tonight,” Henry said. “And I just wanted to clear up a misunderstanding that we might have had earlier, because I don’t want you to suffer consequences you don’t deserve.”

  Jimmer shook his head. “What?”

  “I told you I was from Cambridgeshire,” Henry said. “Cambridgeshire is actually in England.”

  Jimmer leaned over and lowered his voice. “You’re the guy from England?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Henry admitted. “But I would venture to say there’s not too many of us around here.”

  “You seem like a nice guy,” Jimmer said.

  Henry smiled. “And so do you,” he said. “Do you need to punch me or something, just to make sure there’s no trouble for you?”

  Jimmer looked slowly around the room. “Yeah, that would be good,” he said. “But I really hate to punch you.”

  “Truth be told, Jimmer,” Henry said, “I really hate for you to punch me too. But I understand that you need to protect yourself.”

  Jimmer looked at each of his boulder-sized arms and then smiled at Henry. “I think I can handle it,” he said softly. “But get the hell out of my bar, okay?”

  Henry nodded. “Okay.”

  Henry turned to leave, but Jimmer placed a beefy hand on his arm to stop him. “And watch out for those coven guys,” he whispered. “They’re evil, and they’re crazy.”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  Henry froze, his foot on the bottom of the barn stairs, and turned, shielding his eyes from the flashlight beam being directed into them. “I’m sorry, what?” he asked calmly.

  Rowan marched over to him. “Don’t ‘I’m sorry, what’ me,” she stormed. “Do you know what time it is? Do you know how worried I’ve been?”

  Henry studied the woman in front of him for several long moments. He could see the worry on her face. He stepped down and turned to face her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, a little abruptly. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

  Rowan tried to remove all the images in her mind that she’d been visualizing for the past hour; Henry’s broken body on the road, his motorcycle a tangled wreck, Henry being tortured by Buck and his companions, or Henry beaten and bloodied somewhere in the forest. And all she could do was sit by helplessly and wait.

  And now, he was treating her concerns as if they were senseless. She started to say something, but her voice broke, and a tear slid down her cheek.

  “Well, damn,” he said softly, pulling her into his arms. “I really didn’t intend to do this.”

  He held her and felt her tremble. “I’m safe,” he whispered in her ear. “Really, nothing happened.”

  “But, if they had found you,” she shuddered. “If they had hurt you…”

  He sighed. No one had cared about his well-being for a very long time. “Thank you for caring,” he said softly.

  She looked up at him, her eyes wet with tears and her lips trembling. “Henry,” she breathed.

  He should be thinking of comfort, he told himself. He should be thinking about how nice it was that she worried. He should be thinking about anything but how much he wanted to taste those trembling lips. He lowered his head towards her.

  “Rowan,” he said, brushing her lips with his own and feeling a powerful wave of heat surge through his body.

  “Rowan,” he repeated, lingering longer on the sweet taste of her lips and inhaling the arousing scent of her perfume.

  “I’m fine,” he breathed, trailing his kisses along her jawline, knowing that when she trembled in his arms, it was not because of worry. “All I did was chat with Wanda.”

  “Oof,” the air wheezed out of his mouth when her fist connected with his solar plexus, and he bent over in pain.

  He looked up at Rowan, who was standing in front of him, her eyes wide in horror, and her hand over her open mouth. “Henry,” she stammered. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what…I can’t believe…”

  He tried to speak, but he hadn’t quite caught his breath yet. “I…I…” he gasped.

  “I’m a healer,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m not supposed to harm anyone. I just heard you say her name…”

  She stopped and crossed her arms over her chest, the confusion suddenly becoming focused. “Why in the world were you chatting with Wanda at a bar?”

  He grabbed the stair railing and maneuvered himself, so he was sitting on the stairs. At least now he could catch his breath. He held up his hand, to stave off any more questions and took a slow, calming breath. “First, that was a very impressive punch,” he said slowly. “Second, we agreed that I would continue to do my research for this book in the same way I’ve researched other books, which means that I interview locals and ask them about their perception of the legends. Third, I have ventured into the darkest corners of the Amazon. I’ve researched tribes of cannibals, and I’ve stood in front of a classroom of bored twits. I think I can handle a group of men in a public place.”

  “But…” she began.

  He held up his hand to silence her once again. “And fourth,” he interrupted, “Wanda was the only member of the coven at the bar. It would seem there was a special meeting tonight. It would also seem that Jimmer was asked to be on the lookout for any Englishmen. Fortunately for me, Jimmer did not realize that Cambridgeshire is in England. I told Jimmer I was doing research on covens, he introduced me to Wanda. I interviewed her, turned down her many offers and not-so-subtle invitations and came back here.”

  He pulled his phone out of his pocket and held it out. “You can listen to our entire conversation if you’d like,” he said. “Because I recorded every word.”

  Rowan looked down at the ground, mortified. What in the world was happening to her?

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered to him.

  He shook his head and stood up. “I knew Cat had a trust issue with me,” he said, “and I understood it. I actually think we resolved it at dinner. But, I thought you and I understood each other, and at the very least, trusted each other.”

  She shook her head. “I do trust you,” she argued.

  “Maybe with your quest,” he said, turning and walking up the stairs. “But not with what counts. Goodnight, Rowan.”

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Rowan walked slowly across the barnyard towards the house, lost in her thoughts.

  “Do you need to talk?”

  She looked up, saw Patience hovering next to her and nodded. “I really do,” she said.

  Diverting her course, they walked over to the small, English garden on the side of the house and followed the cobblestone path to the center. Rowan sat on the small, wrought iron bench, and Patience sat beside her.

  “I hit Henry,” Rowan confessed.

  “You hit him?” Patience asked, aghast. “Why?”

  Rowan shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said.

  Patience clicked her tongue and shook her head. “You can try to lie to me, but it really won’t help you in solving this problem.”

  Turning, she looked at the ghost. “What do you want me to say?” she asked. “That I think I’m attracted to him?”

  Patience smiled and shook her head. “No, I don’t w
ant you to say that,” she said.

  Rowan breathed a sigh of relief. “Good,” she said.

  “Because you’re not just attracted to him,” Patience continued. “You have a special connection to him.”

  “I have known him for twenty-four hours,” Rowan replied.

  “You have known him all of your life,” Patience said.

  Wide-eyed, Rowan stared at the spirit next to her. “Yes,” she breathed. “Yes, that’s how I feel, like I’ve known him forever. Like we were…”

  “Predestined to meet?” Patience asked.

  Rowan slowly nodded. “Yes. Yes, that makes sense,” she said. Then she paused and shook her head. “Does it? Does it really?”

  “Remember when you were a little girl,” Patience said, “and you would tell me about your imaginary friend?”

  Rowan smiled and nodded. “I remember,” she said, and then her eyes widened with shock. “His name was Henry, wasn’t it?”

  “Where did you meet Henry?” Patience asked.

  Rowan closed her eyes and smiled. “In my dreams,” she replied with a sad smile. “For the longest time, Henry met me in my dreams.”

  “Then what happened?” Patience asked.

  Rowan, her eyes still closed, shrugged. “He just went away,” Rowan said. “Henry didn’t come to my dreams anymore.”

  Patience wiped a translucent tear from her cheek. “No, Henry didn’t come anymore,” she whispered. “He had to turn his mind to more important things.”

  Rowan opened her eyes. “What did you say?” she asked.

  “Nothing of importance,” Patience replied. “Just the murmurings of a spirit guide. So, what are you going to do about Henry?”

  “Does he know?” she asked. “That he’s my Henry?”

  Patience smiled and shook her head. “Not on the surface,” she said. “But perhaps deep down inside.”

  “I hurt his feelings,” she replied. “Because I didn’t trust him. And I think that hurt more than the punch.”

  “You punched him?”

  “Solar plexus,” Rowan admitted sadly. She looked over at the ghost who guided her. “Now what?”

  “Heal him,” Patience advised.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Henry wasn’t quite sure what kind of greeting to expect as he approached the Still Room the next morning. He chastised himself all night about his reaction to Rowan’s jealousy. They had only met twenty-four hours earlier. What right did he have to expect her to trust him?

  But, there was something about her, something about their odd connection, that made it feel like a betrayal when she doubted his motives. He knocked on the door and waited.

  “Come in. It’s open,” Rowan called.

  He paused. It didn’t sound like she was upset. Should he trust her?

  He shook his head. Good Henry, he thought derisively, complain about Rowan not trusting you, and then you don’t trust her.

  Henry opened the door, stepped inside and couldn’t believe his eyes. He didn’t know what he’d expected, a summer kitchen or a small herb shed, but this was a state-of-the-art laboratory with concrete floors, stainless-steel counters and sinks, and a variety of machines that were processing the harvested herbs.

  “Stay there,” Rowan called, coming towards him wearing a lab coat, hair net and paper booties over her shoes. “I have to get you suited up.”

  “Suited up?” Henry asked.

  She smiled at him. “Yes,” she said, pulling a larger lab coat off a rack near the door and handing it to him. “We follow federal manufacturing standards, so you have to have your hair, feet, and clothes covered. If you do any work with the herbs, you’ll have to wear gloves.”

  He slipped on the lab coat and shook his head. “This is amazing,” he said. “I never expected anything like this.”

  She smiled, clearly pleased. “Thanks, I’m really proud of it,” she said. “And we’ve been really successful with our products.”

  He slipped the paper booties over his shoes and then picked up the hair net and stared at it. “Really?” he asked.

  She laughed. “It’s not about being a fashion statement, professor,” she teased. “It’s about following the rules.”

  He put it on his head and then tilted it slightly to look like a thin, light blue beret. “So, does this look French?” he asked in a very bad French accent.

  She shook her head. “No, it doesn’t,” she replied with a grin. “But points for trying.”

  “Can I bring my phone?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Yes, just keep it in your pocket,” she advised.

  He stepped farther into the building and sniffed the air. “There isn’t as much fragrance as I thought there’d be,” he said.

  “Well, any fragrance in the air means that we’ve lost some of the essential oil,” she replied. “So, we try to keep a tight lid, if you’ll forgive the pun, on things. The plants are harvested, rinsed and then put in containers. But generally, we try to process them the same day we harvest them.”

  “What’s this?” he asked, pointing to a large copper container that reminded him of something he’d seen at a micro-brewery.

  “That’s our Steam Distillation container,” she said. “It’s for creating many of our essential oils. Do you want to know the process of how it all works?”

  “I do, yes,” he said eagerly. “But perhaps today I need to focus on the Willoughby Witch part of the process.”

  She nodded. “Fair enough,” she said. “Follow me.”

  She led him through the building to an office in the back. The office was decorated with pale daffodil-colored walls and with golden oak trim. An old rolltop desk sat in one corner, displaying antique mortars and pestles; as well as old apothecary bottles. Underneath a half-wall of windows that looked out to the lab, a countertop of oak housed several laptops and a small vase filled with lavender. Finally, an upright safe, that looked to be a hundred years old, sat in another corner.

  Rowan walked over to the safe, opened it up and pulled out an ancient, leather-bound book. “This was my great-grandmother’s grimoire,” she said.

  “A book of spells?” Henry asked.

  “Well, actually, yes,” she said. “A grimoire is like a witch’s diary, filled with her spells and notes and comments about what went right and what went wrong.”

  He grinned. “I can only imagine some of those comments.”

  She nodded. “Actually, her entries about trying to freshen a cow to produce milk for the first time are hysterical,” she said.

  “Why? What happened?” he asked.

  “She wasn’t too familiar with cows and was trying it on a bull,” she replied.

  He laughed. “And how did that turn out?”

  “She noted in her grimoire that the bull became slightly annoyed,” she said with a smile.

  She carried the book to the counter and opened it up, so Henry could see it. “But the beauty of this grimoire,” she explained, “was that, while my great-grandmother was not wonderful at freshening cows, she was an amazing healer and herbalist, and she passed down her book of potions to me.”

  Henry peered over her shoulder and looked at the delicate handwriting on the ancient pages. “I don’t see any eye of newt,” he teased.

  She looked up at him and smiled. “That’s because I didn’t show you that potion,” she teased.

  He looked down into her smiling face, and his heart skipped a beat. “And what potion is that?” he asked, trying to keep his voice casual.

  “The potion for not falling asleep in a boring lecture, of course,” she teased.

  “If you make that up and bottle it,” Henry said, “I’ll bring it back home with me once this is over, and you’ll make millions.”

  That’s right, Rowan thought suddenly. When this is over, Henry will go back home.

  The day didn’t seem as bright anymore. She nodded, forced a smile and pushed up her glasses. “Not for any of your classes, of course,” she said, but the smile didn’t
quite reach her eyes.

  “Of course not,” Henry replied, not sure why the mood suddenly seemed to change.

  He backed away and glanced around the room. In the corner of the desk were two framed certificates. He picked one up, read it and shook his head. “You have a PhD in Biochemistry?” he asked.

  She nodded. “All witchcraft and no science can be a problem sometimes,” she said with a shrug. “Especially when you are trying to chemically reproduce eye of newt because you’re tired of all these little blind newts walking into walls.”

  He didn’t laugh. “You have a PhD in Biochemistry,” he repeated.

  “Should I be offended by your amazement?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “No, not at all,” he said. “It just seems that every time I turn around I am more awestruck by who you are and what you do.”

  She shrugged. “I’m just me, Henry,” she said. “The same little girl who…”

  She stopped.

  He turned to her. “What?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing. Nothing at all,” she said. “Should we go through great-grandmother’s book to see if there’s anything in there that will help us with the quest?”

  He nodded, still bothered by her words. “Sure, let’s see what we can find.”

  She closed the door, and the sounds of manufacturing were immediately silenced. She smiled at him. “Soundproofed office,” she said. “Comes in handy.”

  “I bet,” he replied, pulling an extra chair next to hers. “Okay, let’s get to work.”

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Donovan Farrington parked in front of the Willoughby home and took a moment to get up the courage to get out. They had known who he was from the beginning and had accepted him as one of their own. Accepted him and loved him, he thought with regret. And when the time came to choose, he chose power over love, prestige over family. With a quick shake of his head, he dismissed those thoughts. There was nothing he could do about it now. He’d made his choices back then, and now he had to deal with the consequences. But what he could do, what he hoped to do, was prevent any harm from coming to the family that once cared for him.