“I was just as angry as you were, but for Goddess’s sake Maggie, she died of a broken heart. It’s not as though we were kids who couldn’t fend for ourselves. All I ever wanted was a love like that—a true love—and I waited centuries for it before Richard walked into my life. When he left, I finally understood how Mum felt. Are you telling me you’ve honestly never cared about another human being that much?” What Clara really wanted to know was whether her sister had ever cared about a man that much, but she chose not to push her luck.
Mag raised an eyebrow., “I care about you that much, Clarie. And you’ve never given me a reason not to respect your choices. What you did with your loss was become stronger. You stuck around to raise your daughter. You let the hole in your heart heal over into a manageable scar, and realized that there are very few men capable of living up to the example Papa set for us. Do you think I’m proud of myself for running scared? Maybe if I’d stuck around, been there for you and Sylvana, your relationship wouldn’t have devolved past the point of no return.”
Mag’s words shocked Clara; she’d had no idea her sister blamed herself for anything that had happened. “Don’t blame yourself for my mistakes. Families are complicated things. When expectations get all tied up with the notion of unconditional love, we forget how easy it is to hurt each other when our defenses are down.”
“Yes, Clarie, it certainly is.” Mag agreed. “All the same, I’ve made mistakes myself. Hopefully, we have plenty of time to make up for them.”
Clara hugged her sister and padded back to bed with a lighter heart, praying to the Goddess Mag was right.
Chapter Nine
Clothed in the rich reds and golds of autumn with the clock tower standing out in sparkling white, the town of Harmony could have posed for a jigsaw puzzle or a calendar shoot. The Big Spurwink river ran down behind the town with a curve as graceful as a lady’s spine.
Mag spun the wheel and turned left when she should have turned right.
Eyebrow raised, Clara asked, “Did you forget the way home?”
“No. I’m getting some decent ice cream, and you’re paying. You owe me.” Clara had been right; her sister was still unimpressed with her ice cream-related lapse, though Mag admitted running into John had been fortuitous, especially after Clara had relayed the conversation regarding Brad’s father. “Dairyland closes in a few days anyway, and I want another cone of that pumpkin maple swirl before they do.” Mag flicked the VW’s blinker to indicate a right-hand turn into the parking lot.
“It looks like we’re not the only ones with dessert on the brain,” Clara noted the line that trailed nearly back to the road. After less than a year living in the small town of Harmony, she recognized a number of the people milling about the parking lot. She waved to a couple of frequent customers, then turned into a space near the back and killed the spell that kept the sound of the minibus engine revving.
Even Mag, who was loathe to socialize, had become known and respected for her brusque personality and ability to locate rare antiques. Upon being spotted by one of the members of crochet club, where Mag routinely declared her disdain by clinking knitting needles together loudly, Clara was left alone to wait for her turn at the window. She pulled her sweater around her, shivering, and was a little sad to realize this truly was going to be her last ice cream cone of the season.
Somebody tapped on her shoulder, and when she turned to see who had summoned her, she was pleasantly surprised to find Evelyn St. James, the latest “Evelyn” in a long family line of bakers whose secret recipe yielded the airiest, most delicious yeast donuts in four counties.
Since becoming the reigning Evelyn and taking over where her mother and grandmother had left off, the youngest St. James had expanded Evelyn’s Bakery into a coffee shop and eatery with her inventive recipes. In recent months, she’d begun frequenting Balms and Bygones, picking Clara’s herbalist brain for unusual pairing combinations.
“Hey, how did they do?” Clara asked without preamble.
Evelyn grinned. “My grilled cheese donut went like gangbusters, but your cardamom and blueberry one was the biggest shocker.”
“You’ve got another idea brewing, don’t you? I can tell.” Clara’s mouth was already watering at the thought.
“I’m not sure, but it involves crushed up Fruity Pebbles and marshmallows. Something like a rainbow rice crispy treat, but in donut form. If that makes any sense.”
“Sounds delicious to me. I’m available as a taste tester anytime.” Clara wiggled her eyebrows.
Evelyn laughed. “It’s a date, then. Hey, did I see you headed up toward Huffington Manor the other day?”
Clara sensed an opportunity to find out a little bit more about the public opinion of Stephanie and her family, and nodded. “You sure did. It turns out we have a friend in common, but I only recently met Stephanie. She seems nice.” Clara let the simple statement hang in the air, and waited patiently for Evelyn’s response.
“Yes, she certainly is. Always has been. You ought to take a look at her herb garden. Boggles the mind, and I’ve heard she’s even got a shed back there that’s built to look like a gypsy wagon. Not exactly in keeping with the rest of the grounds, but who’s going to stop her? Can you imagine having all that money and no family to share it with? At least, no family to speak of.” Evelyn rambled, her long hours behind the counter at the bakery having accustomed her to gossiping without remorse.
“Actually, I did get a chance to see the wagon, and I’ve got to admit it’s pretty cool.” Clara wondered if anyone knew just how appropriate the wagon was, considering Stephanie’s maternal lineage, but kept the thought to herself.
Mag joined the line in time to hear what Evelyn had said and butted into the conversation. “It’s sad, isn’t it? I’ll give credit where it’s due: Stephanie seems lovely,” she commented, catching on to Clara’s intention without the necessity of a discussion.
“She certainly fits the description of ‘poor little rich girl’ to a T.” Evelyn remarked.
“We met her uncle John while we were there,” Mag added.
Clara’s cheeks pinked, and she remained silent at Mag’s mention of the man.
Evelyn gave a little hum. “John Masters hasn’t been quite the same since he lost Buffy. She liked to spread the wealth just as much as the rest of the Huffingtons, but he’s a bit tight with the purse strings.”
Mrs. Green, the nosy neighbor who lived next door to Balms and Bygones piped up, shoving herself further in line to join the group. “He’s turning into an old Scrooge. Used to be quite the troublemaker, that man. Course, that was ages ago.”
“He might act like a Scrooge, but he looks like an old-timey movie star.” Evelyn’s eyes misted over. “Reminds me of Marlon Brando. Well-preserved, that’s for sure.” She wiggled her eyebrows and the color in Clara’s cheeks went from pink to bright red.
She wished the fall breeze hadn’t eliminated the excuse of hot weather, and hoped nobody noticed her reaction. Knowing her sister’s keen eye had picked up every nuance of her expression, Clara knew she’d be teased mercilessly later.
“What kind of trouble did he make, exactly?” Mag asked before Clara had the chance to.
“Oh, nothing truly scandalous,” Mrs. Green said, flapping a hand. “Helped steal the Harmony High School mascot before the Homecoming game his senior year.”
“And there was something else, too.” Evelyn snapped her fingers as if it would help bring back the memory. “Remember?”
“I only remember him spending a lot of time out at the pits.” Mrs. Green couldn’t dredge up the details, either.
Clara and Mag exchanged a confused look. “At the pits?” Clara asked.
“The gravel pits out on the western edge of town. Used to be what we called Lookout Point, because you can see the river from the top of the ravine. Kids like to take their dirt bikes out there in the summer, and in the winter it’s all about the snowmobiles. I’d imagine most of what they’re racing over is old beer c
ans and empty wine cooler bottles. Chief Cobb’s tried to put a stop to the partying, but since nobody’s ever been seriously injured he might as well be talking to a brick wall.”
At the chance for new gossip, Mrs. Green lit up and leaned in close to absorb every detail. “Speaking of scandal, such a shame about Stephanie Huffington’s young man.”
“Yes,” Evelyn continued, “Didn’t you know? He left her in the middle of the night. Packed up and moved away, from what I heard.”
“Any idea why?”
“It’s a mystery, but it goes to show that money isn’t everything.”
When Clara opened her mouth to defend Stephanie, Mag dragged her away with some lame excuse.
“What are you doing?” Clara snapped, trying to pull her arm free. “They’re talking about her like she did something wrong.”
“I know, Clarie. But you’re not going to convince anyone by arguing when we don’t know the truth. There are any number of reasons he might have left.”
Taking the driver’s seat when they got back to the van, Clara paused a moment before turning the charmed key that ran the bus in lieu of a working motor. “Then let’s find out why. We can protect Stephanie’s good name and give her closure.”
“And how do you propose we do that?” Mag barked.
“We’ll go to the shelter where he worked. Ask some questions. It’s what we do. Don’t you think we should? We could go right now—it’s probably still open.” Clara eased out of the parking space and prepared to turn in that direction.
“It’s going to have to wait until tomorrow. Did you forget we’re expected at the full moon celebration tonight?”
Banging a hand on the steering wheel, Clara said, “I did forget, and worse, I was supposed to cook something for the potluck picnic after the ritual.”
“There’s a picnic? Or is it more like a cookout?” If it was a cookout, there might be hot dogs and Clara rarely let Mag have those at home. Something about having taken Sylvana to the plant on a school field trip and seeing what went into the making of them.
“All I know is Penelope called and asked me to bring broccoli slaw. Now that Hagatha’s settled down—and I don’t trust that as far as I could toss an elephant—Penelope seems quite pleased with herself. She practically ordered me to bring food.”
Near to drooling, Mag focused on the food portion of the conversation. “If that’s the one with the bacon and cheese in it, I’m with Penelope. You could make extra and put some in my fridge.”
***
Dressed in their ritual garb and ready for what, for a witch, equates to a night on the town, there was no need for Mag and Clara to bother driving the five miles to Dawkin’s woods, where the full-moon celebration was taking place that evening. Skimming was much faster, and would negate the necessity of driving while intoxicated by the swell of communal power that always accompanied these types of events.
For once, Mag was in a better mood than Clara, who had worn a sour-faced expression while donning her robes. Since she preferred a solitary practice, joining in coven politics usually raised Mag’s hackles, but when it came time to commune with the Goddess, she could get on board with the extra kick of power. And there’d be food. Possibly hot dogs.
“What’d you do, swallow a bug?” Mag asked when even the sight of Jinx batting unsuccessfully at Whizzer’s curious but incorporeal nose didn’t nudge a smile from her sister’s lips.
Clara heaved a big sigh. “Truthfully, I’m feeling a little sorry for myself. When Penelope asked us here, it was with the understanding that we’d be leading the coven. I spent twenty-five years encased in stone listening to the Port Harbor witches complain about Calypso Snodgrass, and now that I can work my magic again, I’m still finding myself stuck on the sidelines while Penelope Starr tries to shove Hagatha unceremoniously into retirement. It’s frustrating, to say the least.”
Mag let out a low whistle, “Clarie, I think that’s about as honest as you’ve been on this particular topic. Buck up, little sister, and remember who you’re dealing with. Old Haggie might be willing to step aside and let Penelope run the Moonstones into the ground, but she’s kept a tight hold on the reins to the coven itself. This ought to be interesting, to say the least. The rest will work itself out eventually. Always does.”
“And that’s about as optimistic as I think I’ve ever seen you. Period. Okay, fine, I’ll stop moping.” Clara pasted a smile on her face, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. Mag wished there was something else she could say to lift her sister’s maudlin spirits, but couldn’t think of what, so she let it rest.
A few moments later, the pair landed with a soft thump at the edge of the woods, their feet touching down on a soft bed of moss. Through the trees, the faint glow of bobbing torches led Mag and Clara to a ring of stones filled with the charred remains of last month’s gathering.
Clara, relishing the one responsibility she knew was still decidedly hers, fulfilled her duties as former Keeper of the Balefire and made a show of lighting the ritual fire. She conjured a bit of the flame from the tip of her finger, willing it to grow into a ball between her palms. A shower of sparks accompanied its trajectory into the pit, where it roared to life amongst the wide-eyed gasps of Harmony’s underage magical community.
Mag settled into a seat with a proud smile playing across her lips. She could have done the same thing Clara had just accomplished, but it meant more to her sister. Once everyone settled in, Hagatha emerged from the shadows with as much pomp and circumstance as she could muster.
“The full moon, as you all should know, represents abundance and prosperity. It’s a time when we celebrate Mother Earth, and by extension, all of the blessings she has bestowed upon us. The Goddess often works in mysterious ways, and sometimes she makes us fight for what we want. You all know the story of how witches were given the gift of near-immortality, right?”
A chorus of yeses fell from their collective lips, but their eyes remained locked on Hagatha, urging her to tell it again anyway. Hagatha spared no energy on her performance, honed from years of repetition and enhanced by the genuine joy it gave her to pass the legends of witchkind down through the generations. As far as she was concerned, books were for worms, while the oral nature of folklore helped paint a more vivid mental picture that drew in the listener and increased the retention of detail exponentially.
Hagatha’s eyes sparkled as she circled the campfire and spoke to the small crowd of pint-sized witches and wizards sitting cross-legged on the ground in a circle around her feet. Their little faces held a mixture of avid curiosity and excitement as the elder witch stretched her arms wide and spun in circles while retelling the tale of the faerie prince who fell in love with a powerful witch.
“Thousands of years ago, the civil war between the Faerie courts of White and Black—Seelie and Unseelie—raged in the Faelands, on the verge of rolling over into the Earthly realm. The dark Unseelie deemed it ‘unnatural’ for the Fae to consort with other beings—especially witches and humans. That doesn’t sound very fair, does it?” Hagatha paused to ask, noting the nods of all the little heads in answer to her question. Truthfully, she preferred children to adults, as they hadn’t yet developed the level of cynicism that comes with age.
Mag and Clara, positioned themselves on one of the carved logs ringing the fire, listened with rapt attention. This story meant just a little more to them than it did to anyone else present, and it was the first time they’d experienced Hagatha’s telling of it. In these moments, it was clear to see why she had been named High Priestess in the first place.
“One brave witch, Esmerelda, took matters into her own hands, crafting a special flame to protect against the Black Court. You see, her husband and his half-Fae sister had been killed in the battles, and Esmerelda was left alone with a young daughter, Bianca, to protect.
“When Unseelie prince Oberon came looking for the girl and laid eyes on the beautiful Esmerelda, he fell instantly in love and vowed to change his ways. At first
, the feeling wasn’t mutual—after all, the Unseelie were responsible for the heartache Esmerelda had experienced. Oberon didn’t give up, and eventually Esmerelda returned his love and pleaded with her brother and sister witches to help banish the Unseelie from this realm once and for all.”
With the crackling of the Balefire behind her, Hagatha’s words seemed both ethereal and historical at the same time, weighted with the power of her years and position.
“Much of witchkind joined the fight, and with the help of Oberon and the Seelie race, eventually overcame the Dark Court and restored peace to the Faelands. In order to keep the Unseelie from returning to the Earthly realm, Esmerelda created a failsafe—a sacred flame that protected against the darkness.”
Hagatha’s eyes flicked first to Mag and then settled on Clara for an extra moment. “Do any of you know what flame I’m talking about?”
The children grinned and responded in unison, “It’s the Balefire!”
“It certainly is—and we’re lucky enough to have not one but two Balefire witches in our coven. It’s a great honor.” Tiny eyes widened, and Hagatha’s theory on oral history was proven fact: none of the children present would forget the day they got to hear the legend of the Balefire in proximity to direct descendants of the famed Esmerelda.
“What about the rest?” Little Sadie Spellman piped up when Hagatha made a move to sit back in her seat.
Hagatha looked around at each child with exaggeratedly wide eyes. “You want to hear what happened next?”
“Yes!” Came the enthusiastic reply. They were like tiny sponges, soaking up whatever knowledge could be gleaned from listening to adults. Of course, you never knew when they’d spew the information back out, and it often occurred at the most inconvenient times. It was no wonder Hagatha felt a kinship to children, considering she suffered from the same affliction.
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