Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

When a Stranger Calls

Ominous clouds close in over the forest by the time I get back to my cottage. I’d been spared a rainy ride home from the apothecary, but more storms are on the way. Merlin greets me and I give him a few distracted pats while sitting at my desk. It is wooden, creaky, and filled with dozens of small drawers and hidden holes to squirrel away everything from writing supplies to forbidden treasures. Various recipes, order forms, and other papers are scattered on the surface. I pile them up and stuff them inside one of the cubbies. I open my Herbal back to the to-do list, crossing off my visit to the Raven no need to hurt anyone’s feelings.

The pages flip again, a little more forcefully this time.

“Ghost-Be-Gone Gin and Tonic,” I read. “For all sorts of hauntings, literal and metaphorical.”

I grimace. Even if it hadn’t been a dream, Margaret hadn’t been a ghost. Spirits were ethereal, invisible forces across the veil that separates the living from the dead. I’d seen Mags. I’d felt her touch.

“I don’t like what you’re implying,” I say. “And why are you trying to get me drunk, huh?”

My Herbal shudders, and with a groan, the cover snaps shut. My wooden desk shakes a bit from the impact. I bite my lip, knowing I’ve upset it.

Merlin nips lovingly at my ear and then lets out a warning chirp, staring at the door.

I glance that way, just as everything around me goes quiet. A distant intention reaches out to me. Then, the sound of a wave crashes against the door.

I sigh. Miranda.

I walk to my door and open it. A small box, wrapped up in brown paper, sits on my welcome mat. A bright white envelope is tied to the top with string. The letter is slightly wet and smells of salt. It’s been ages since Miranda has reached out, and it’s especially odd she would contact me today, so soon after her mentor’s passing. I set the brown package on my desk as I read the letter.

Darling Hecate,

As I know you enjoy the solitude of your little cottage, I believe you are unlikely to have heard the news. I am sorry to inform you that elder Margaret Halliwell sailed into the next life early this morning. Of course, this could not have come at a worse time. Margaret was this year’s host for the Samhain gathering, and now all the plans have been flung into the abyss. She really did not time her departure well. A more perfect storm could not have formed. There will be no funeral, thank goodness. Her body has been given to the sea, as she requested. With no living children, her Book has been sent to the coven’s archives. Her affairs were in order, as she had several boxes addressed to members of the Atlantic Key. You included. I did find that strange, that she would leave something to you, but we both know her mind was a bit addled. Either way, I have sent along the box.

Breaking from my reading, I study the package on the desk. Margaret left something for me? She and I spoke very little before she got sick last year; she always preferred Miranda over Celeste and me. I unwrap the box, hesitant. It’s wooden, made from mangrove, with a stormy ocean scape carved into the lid. A small yellow sticky note is taped to the top, with Hecate Goodwin written in Margaret’s elegant scrawl.

The lid of the box creaks as I lift it. Inside are the six tins of the hawthorn balm I’d made for her the past year. All untouched.

“Oh Margaret,” I whisper sadly. It seems she hadn’t been interested in my help after all. Such a shame. I will have to burn the contents of the box. These balms had been made specifically for her. If I give them to anyone else, the intention might get confused. My hand hesitates, hovering over the last item inside, a small glass vial full of a dark brown liquid. A murky sort of water, swirling with sediment.

“What are you?” I wonder, pulling it out of the box and turning it over to inspect further. There are no identifying marks. I look at the back of the sticky note with my name, hoping to see a line of explanation. But the other side is blank, leaving no clue. How strange.

Perhaps Miranda knows what it’s meant for? I pick up my sister’s note again and continue to read from where I left off.

This week is in absolute disarray. I have written to the coven and volunteered Goodwin Manor for the New Year celebration. That announcement caused quite a few waves, but everyone is pleased. Obviously, this is a very inconvenient task to take on, but I am determined to do my duty as a witch of the Atlantic Key.

Please open up the manor house and have it ready. Celeste and I will arrive the night before Mischief and depart after the festivities of Halloween. It might be nice to be together on our first Samhain without Mother. All our old traditions could help heal the wounds of grief. And if there is time, we will try to find a moment to celebrate your birthday.

Let me know how quickly you can get the Manor open. I will send a guest list and menu in a few days.

I have to say, with Mom and Margaret gone in one year, I do sometimes feel the world is against me. I just pray this week is one of smooth sailing, but I don’t have high hopes.

All my love,

Your sister,

Miranda Helenia Spence Goodwin

My eyes grow wide as I read. My sisters will arrive Thursday; that’s less than five days to prepare the kinds of Samhain celebrations they are used to. They will want the pumpkin display, the dumb supper, the cocktails, the Halloween feast. Not to mention the coven-wide celebrations that take place after sunset on Samhain. There is no hope of finishing everything on time. I set the letter down on my desk and look over to my broom, still resting atop the kitchen table. Somebody’s coming, indeed. About fifty somebodies.

“Thanks for the warning,” I grumble to the broom. Any sympathy I might have had for my older sister has evaporated. Only Miranda can make her mentor’s death seem like an inconvenience done deliberately to annoy her.

All thoughts of Margaret’s apparition and the box she sent me have been relegated to the back of my mind. I need to clear my head. With the storms outside, it would be unwise to head into the forest. My next best option is to cook.

I prep a pan of chickpeas and wild mushrooms to roast in the oven. I add lemons, garlic, and rosemary for extra hits of flavor. My mother’s voice echoes in my head as I chop the herbs.

“What is this, Hecate?” She points to a plant with dozens of spindly green needles shooting out from a long thin stalk.

“Rosemary,” I say.

“Very good.” She nods. “And what is rosemary’s purpose?”

“Making gravy taste good?” I answer after a moment. My mother laughs.

“That certainly is one purpose, yes. Anyone—witch, hexan, or mortal—can use rosemary to imbue a meal with lovely flavor. But it has other purposes too. Rosemary is for remembrance. In the hands of a trained witch, rosemary can feed and amplify her intention to honor her ancestors. Do you understand?”

I shake my head. My mother picks up the rosemary stalk, her voice even and patient as she speaks.

“Intention is what feeds magic. The desire to have something done and then increasing the chances that it will happen, all through our intention.” She hands the herb to me so I can study its leaves.

“That is what magic is, after all. Turning fortune in our favor. Increasing the probability of your desired result. In the Atlantic Key, we call on our own intention and that of the witches that came before us. Their power remains though their spirits have passed. That power runs in your blood.” She tickles my nose with another rosemary stalk, and I let out a surprised giggle.

“But,” my mother says, “a sacrifice is required to feed that power. Otherwise, it would feed on you.”

My eyes widen at the ominous thought. My mother laughs.

“Don’t be afraid, dearest. The only witches in our coven that have to worry about that are the ones who practice meta-magic. Luckily, everything in this world can feed intention. Plants, animals, technology. If you can touch it, see it, or imagine it, it can amplify your ability to do magic. As a hedge witch, you’ll work with nature. Herbs and plants will help you channel your intention. It’s important to know what you should reach for when you’re practicing your craft.”

She points again at the other herbs.

“Sage for wisdom. Dried rose petals for love. Thyme, parsley, oregano. All things that can be found in any kitchen. Write this down, Hecate.”

The edges of the vegetables and herbs have charred, beginning to burn, as I wipe tears from my eyes. I struggle to breathe through the sudden onslaught of grief brought on by the memory of my first lesson in magic. Four months after her passing, and the longing to hear my mother’s voice again is still as sharp as broken glass.

Sniffling between soft sobs, I sear a chicken breast on my stove top and boil a box of store-bought pasta in water as salty as Ipswich Bay. When the chickpeas are fried and the charred mushrooms have cooled, I assemble a plate of pasta, chicken, and vegetables. The final touches are a ball of creamy burrata cheese, aged Parmesan, fresh butter, and balsamic vinegar drizzled over the entire dish.

Sharp and salty from the vinegar and parmesan, refreshing from the lemons and mozzarella, and earthy from the herbs and mushrooms. Even through my blocked nose, still a bit stuffy from crying, the flavors are stunning in combination. Each bite is a perfectly timed movement in a symphony. I force myself not to lick the plate clean, instead setting it on the ground for Merlin, who happily slurps away.

I brush him by the fire for longer than usual, allowing the flickering flames to hypnotize my sadness back below the surface. By the time I finish, Merlin’s purrs have given way to soft snores, his paws kneading the skin of my legs as he falls asleep. I grab the book Ginny loaned me off my side table and haul it onto my lap. Merlin wakes at the movement and jumps off me, curling up closer to the fire.

“You’re going to get singed if you’re not careful,” I warn him. He looks at me with half-closed eyes before turning his face back toward the flames.

“Suit yourself.” I laugh and open the book. An hour passes as I read, curled comfortably into the leather chair.

When the clock strikes eight, I prep my breakfast for the morning. Tucked away in one corner of my kitchen is my mother’s Recipe Book. Once again, Margaret’s words echo in my mind.

“Find your mother’s book, and you’ll know why she named you a hedge witch.”

I set the bowl of overnight oats in the fridge and pull the Recipe Book out of its cubby. It’s heavy in my hands, the cover starting to show age, with the weathered etching of a bubbling cauldron on the front.

“Don’t be jealous,” I say to my own Herbal, still on my desk, as I begin to flip through pages. With my mom gone, all the personality of her book has disappeared. If there is something in here to discover, I’ll have to find it myself. Pages full of words I’ve read a dozen times since June. Recipes, to-do lists, diary entries. Just like mine. After half an hour, I slam the book shut, frustrated. The only difference between our books are the medicinal concoctions mine includes. And that several days are missing from my mother’s diary section.

The missing entries are scattered, random, and barely occur twice a year. The skipped dates are a little odd; she was a prolific diarist. But it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that she had days where she was too busy to write. Besides, even on the days she did write, there is no grand answer, no reason for naming me a hedge witch.

“It was just a dream,” I say to Merlin. “Not every dream is a prophecy.”

Putting my mother’s book back in its cubby, I settle again into the chair by my fireplace and pull out some needlework, deciding I’ve had enough crochet for the week after last night’s adventure. My current needlework project is a shawl of silvery stars I’m embroidering for Celeste’s birthday. Nine passes, ten passes, eleven passes. My eyes grow heavy and my wrist sore as I count out my final row of stitches. As I cut the final silver thread, Merlin jerks awake and bolts to the front door.

“Did something out there startle you, little wizard?” I ask lazily. His ears are perked, his head tilted. He lets out a soft chirp. A strong rapid knocking on the door breaks through the sound of the storm.

My eyes flicker to the broom on my table as I anxiously wrack through my brain. No babies are due in town that I know of—at least none whose mother wishes for a midwife. Anyone sick would likely wait until the storm cleared. Could it be Miranda, demanding to know why I haven’t responded to her letter? No. Not even she’s that insistent.

Quietly, I rise from the chair and grab my sharp fire poker from its hook. From one of the cubbies in my desk, I grab a silk sachet full of rue leaves and slip it into my pocket. I walk to my door and peek through the small viewing slit. A tall figure is standing on the stoop, draped in shadow and dripping wet from the rain. Cracking open the door, I peer outside. The light from the fire casts a dim glow on the shadow’s face. My breath leaves my lungs as I catch the scent of cinnamon and recognize the man on my porch.

“Hecate Goodwin.” He grins at me through the rain. “Just the witch I was looking for.”