Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

Five Days Until Halloween

I bolt upright. The barest hints of dawn light gild the edges of my windows. The sheets around my legs are a tangled mess. A sign of a restless night.

“Strange dreams again,” I mutter, climbing out of bed. At this rate, I will be thoroughly exhausted by Halloween. My hands shake as I tie my hair into a low ponytail with a green silk ribbon. Whenever I am this unsettled, there is one tried and true cure. The forest. Merlin is curled up on his chair, still fast asleep, and takes no notice as I leave. I light my fire before grabbing my herb basket and walking out of the cottage.

It’s misty this morning as I approach the woods. The dull, scattered light washes out all the red tones of my hair, turning it the color of late summer straw. Yesterday’s storm brought a drop in temperature, and with it, the full throes of fall. It will not rise above fifty degrees until spring. Before I enter the forest, I place my hand on the maple tree I dedicated my craft to.

“I ask to walk these woods and take of your bounty,” I say in a hushed tone.

Gnarled limbs greet me, and the approving spirit of the forest thrums in the bark. I slip past the tree line, venturing deeper into the wild green. The memory of my nightmare causes me to walk with lighter steps than normal. Thankfully, the forest floor remains solid as I traverse the natural roads that exist between the trees, breathing in the morning air. The verdant smell of moss growing on the bark of ancient white pines returns my mind to me, and roaming deer make their way past without flinching or taking much notice of my presence.

Surrounded by silence, I gather whatever offerings I can find. Pinecones and other small sticks that will be good kindling through the rest of the week and months to come. The weight of my basket grows as I harvest crab apples, chokeberries, nettle, and even a few sprigs of winterberries. Despite its shrouded canopy and general gloomy weather, this forest never fails to provide.

As a young witch in training, I’d forage among the roots with Celeste, my constant raven-haired shadow, who was frightened of the woods. She would wait at the edge of the tree line, sniffling softly until I came back to her, my hoard in hand. Nettles for soups and teas, knotweed, dandelions, and acorns for tinctures and pies. Maple syrup in the spring thaw and berries and mushrooms all throughout the warm summer.

I always had a natural talent for distinguishing nutritional plants from deadly ones, though my mother encouraged me to gather any and all things that I found.

“The poison is in the dose … and in the intention,” she used to say with a wink whenever I handed her wild foxglove or hemlock. I never saw her cook with them, yet their glass containers in the pantry would slowly empty out every year.

As the morning mists begin to lift, I come upon a pile of bones and feathers scattered around the base of a tree. A small bird left its nest too soon and has been made prey. Unusual for this time of year. Its tiny skull is picked clean of flesh, but it’s unfractured. Gingerly, I pick up the skull. It’s strange in my hands, the stinging feeling of a limb fallen asleep. Cold and hot all at once. I grimace, still unused to the energy of death. It’s a rare sensation. In my practice, life surrounds me, vibrant and thriving. Death is emptiness and heaviness all at once. There had been a day, as a teenager, when I’d found a young fawn among the trees, recently dead and scavenged. My mother had been with me, and when I went to inspect the bones, she grabbed me roughly by the shoulders and scolded me.

“You must never touch the dead, Hecate,” she had demanded. It was a lesson she’d drilled into me many times before. “It could interfere with your magic.”

When I’d rebelled, wrenching from her and making another move toward the bones of the fawn, her free hand came down and struck my cheek with a sharp crack. It was the only time in my life that she ever hit me.

Never touch the dead. It was one of her most sacred rules.

And it was one I had broken the day she died. In the very moment that I’d lost my mother, I’d been introduced to the writhing electric wrongness that was death energy. I hadn’t realized at first, when I saw her sprawled out on the kitchen floor, a pot of boiling water unattended on the stove. I try not to remember the way my hand had begun to sting when I’d touched her still-warm cheek and stared into her lifeless eyes. A stroke. Dead before she hit the ground. Almost two decades of studying medicinal magic, and there was nothing I could have done to help her.

I inhale sharply, my head spinning. I try to bring myself back into the forest. Into the present. I place a shaking hand against the cool earth, digging my fingers beneath the layer of pine needles. The life energy of the soil, the connection of the tree roots below, calls out to me. First, a feeling of welcoming joy, a celebration of the living force being recognized. But beyond that, there is a nervous unsettled thrum. An off-kilter beat that rises from the ground and pulses into my blood.

“All will be well,” I whisper, both in hope and incantation.

I take a deep breath, inhaling the life all around me, marred only by the stinging signal of the tiny pile of bones. After a few moments, a few counted breaths, my mind calms.

I place the skull back down, letting the bird rest, and gather my heavy basket onto my hip. It’s time to return. Merlin will be desperate for breakfast by now. I walk barefoot across the forest floor, using my hands to ground myself into the trees and find my way home. As I come out of the woods, I freeze. A figure stands in my garden. Matthew Cypher.

Somehow, in the haze of my nightmares and anguished memories, I had completely forgotten him. I survived the night with a necromancer in my house.

I’m almost impressed with myself. But I quickly rebuke that train of thought. I “survived” nothing. Matthew has been a perfectly acceptable houseguest.

His blue eyes are vibrant in the mist. He is in the same clothes as last night, though they are wrinkle-free.

“Good morning, Kate,” he says. For a brief second, his gaze travels over my body. But then, his head snaps away; he lets out a small cough and becomes very invested in my bed of New England asters.

A slow wave of embarrassment crawls along my skin. The damp morning has made my nightgown stick to the curves of my body, the fabric almost see-through. I clutch the herb basket to my chest, giving Matthew a curt nod, and rush quickly inside.

“Well done, Kate,” I murmur in exasperation upon reaching my room. “While you’re at it, go ahead and do a strip tease for customers next time you stop by the Raven & Crone.”

As I berate myself, I quickly change into slim black pants and a red, orange, and gold checkered flannel shirt, leaving no button undone. In the time it takes for my embarrassment to fully subside, I brush my teeth, wash my face, and braid my hair into a series of plaits that twist together and cascade down my back.

Matthew is sitting in my reading chair by a crackling fire when I finally emerge. Merlin is curled happily on his lap, purring. I stare at the scene with some bemusement. Merlin is typically an aloof cat when it comes to humans other than myself and Celeste. He only barely tolerates Miranda, and yet here he is sleeping soundly as Matthew pets him absentmindedly. I watch the unusual pair for a few moments before letting out a quiet cough.

As soon as Mathew sees me, he moves to stand, but I stop him.

“No, stay where you are,” I say. “Merlin won’t appreciate being jostled. He seems very comfortable.” Matthew slowly lowers back into the seat. Merlin stretches out lazily from the movement but doesn’t open his eyes.

“Good morning again,” Matthew says.

“Good morning,” I offer back. “Enjoying my fireplace?”

And my chair? And my cat?

“Very much so. I see you took my advice,” he says, gesturing to the iron plate behind the flames. When I’d showed him this cottage in its dilapidated state ten years earlier, Matthew offered several suggestions for how to improve it, including a way to get the ancient hearth to efficiently heat the front room.

“Several people told me to get a fire plate when I started renovating,” I say walking into the kitchen, refusing to let him take exclusive credit. He smirks.

As soon as I grab a small tin of wet cat food, the clinging of a jingle bell rings out, and soft paws thud against wood as a scampering Merlin arrives at my feet. He mews until I set his bowl down.

Matthew laughs quietly as he rises from the chair and joins me in the kitchen. He watches as I pull out the large bowl of muesli from my fridge. I also grab a bowl of strawberries, a couple of figs, and a cinnamon stick from one of my many spice racks.

“I have a bike you can take into town,” I say curtly to Matthew as I use my pestle to grind the cinnamon in my mortar. “Ann McAlister runs the Ipswich Inn. Rooms are rare this time of year, but Ann always holds one for emergencies.” And she owes me a favor. I’d cured her eldest son’s acne in time for prom two years ago.

“And Rebecca at the Raven & Crone Apothecary can help you get some rarer ingredients. She might even have some Samhain-harvested moonvine from last year.” I send out a little prayer that she will come through and get this man on his way. “Also, Ann’s husband is a mechanic. He can tow your car.”

Matthew lets out an amused breath. “I don’t have a car that needs towing.”

I pause preparing breakfast for a moment and look at him.

“Then why …?” I stop myself.

I had assumed he’d broken down on some muddy rural road and hiked all the way to my door. He looks at me expectantly, as if guessing the train of my thoughts. He must have traveled here by more magical means. I’m curious but refuse to give him the satisfaction of asking. If he wishes to be mysterious and strange, then fine. I will not go out of my way to indulge him.

“All right. But you’ll be needing a room at the Ipswich Inn. So, the offer to borrow my bike stands.”

“You’ve certainly planned my day out for me.” The amusement has not left his voice.

“Well, I assumed you would be eager to gather your ingredients and get home.” Now that I know he works with shadow magic, I don’t want to think too hard about how those ingredients will be used.

“An understandable assumption,” he agrees. “But I should give my father a day or two to cool down.”

“What did you two fight about, anyway?” I ask. It had to be something serious, to send Matthew to the opposite end of the continent. For the quickest of seconds, the good humor vanishes from his eyes, but it’s back just as quickly as he flashes me a bright smile.

“Let’s just say differences in ideology,” he offers. Before I can roll my eyes at his constant evasion, he continues. “Nothing that won’t eventually be forgiven. But as I said, he’ll need a few days. And I certainly don’t see the point in bothering with a local inn. Can I not just stay here?”

The knife I am using to slice the strawberries almost slips from my hand, and my heart begins to race.

“Last night was an emergency, and I fulfilled my duty to you. But I’m too busy this week to continue playing hostess.” My voice stutters a bit through my surprise.

Matthew studies me. “Oh? Big plans for Samhain?”

“Yes, actually. If you must know,” I say, “my sisters are coming home for the holiday and will expect all the bells and whistles that accompany its traditions. I’m going to be spending all week opening up the Manor, getting supplies, cooking, and decorating. And I would prefer not to leave someone alone in my cottage all day.” I hadn’t thought of Miranda’s note since Matthew arrived yesterday. But I’m not technically lying. And yet, as I say it all aloud, the enormity of the project weighs down on me.

I gather up the berries and spices and stir them into the bowl of muesli. For a final touch, I arrange a single sliced strawberry into a sunburst in the center and drizzle a small spoonful of honey over the top. I hand Matthew the bowl, which he takes eagerly.

“Why would having me stay here alone be an issue?” he asks. I instinctively bristle at the pushiness of the question, but the inflection in his voice suggests he is simply curious. Still, I’m defensive.

“For starters, the last time I invited you to this cottage, you spent the entire afternoon lying to me.”

Matthew’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “I never lied to you,” he says, mystified.

I scoff. “You told me you were a Texan hexan!”

He shakes his head and holds up a finger. “Ah, see we disagree there. You assumed my affiliation. I never claimed to be of that coven.”

“Well … you …” I stutter for a moment. Of course I had assumed that was his coven. Most covens are matriarchies. And the hexans from the Rocky Mountains all have a certain … granola look to them. Texas was the obvious choice. I never would have dreamed that members of the Pacific Gate would show their faces on the East Coast, not when their rivalry with the Atlantic Key stretches back so many years.

“You never corrected me,” I finally say. “I kept asking if you liked to ride horses! And at one point I think I even requested you describe Texas to me.” My cheeks warm at the embarrassing memories. Matthew looks sheepish, but he can’t seem to help the grin on his face.

“If I recall, I told you I love riding horses, which is true, and I answered honestly that I thought Texas was a lovely state, if a bit hot.”

I groan in annoyance at all these technical truths. Matthew puts a hand up.

“I surrender. I’m sorry. You’re right, I behaved badly. I was curious about you and was worried you’d reject me if I corrected your assumption about my coven.”

And I had. The moment my mother found us and told me Matthew was heir to the Pacific Gate, I’d fled.

“Regardless of all that, I don’t like having my home invaded. I wouldn’t be able to stop worrying about you being here while I’m out and about. And I can’t be distracted while trying to get ready for the celebrations.”

“I could always assist as a sort of payment,” he offers. “And if I’m helping you, then I’m not left here all alone. An idea which seems to torture your psyche.”

He gives me a crooked grin before taking a bite of the muesli. The teasing in his eyes disappears as he eats the oats appreciatively.

“Assist how, exactly?” I question with a grimace.

“With decorating and prepping,” he says as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world.

“How could you possibly help?”

“We do celebrate New Year’s in the Pacific, you know,” he says sardonically before taking another bite.

I have no response for him. It’s not every day a necromancer offers to help you carve pumpkins and dust an old house. Before I can think of something to say, he continues.

“Besides, you shouldn’t be forced to take on all the work yourself. Not when you should focus on your birthday.”

I shake my head. How could he possibly still remember that detail?

“I’ve always had to share the spotlight on my birthday. This year will be no different.” I begin tidying the kitchen, nestling dirty dishes into the sink.

“But you’re turning thirty-one this year,” Matthew insists.

“Yes. I know.”

“Don’t you need to prepare? Aren’t you nervous?” he pushes.

“Why should I be?” I respond. He sets his bowl aside.

“I don’t know,” he says. “It’s your coven with all the rules regarding magic. I would be nervous if my craft was about to be taken away from me by a power-hungry meta-magic witch.”

Is that what this is about? The Containment? I want to laugh.

“The Containment doesn’t take away magic we want . It lets us focus on what we know we’re good at. By blocking unnecessary avenues to magic, our chosen craft strengthens. It increases the likelihood that our intention works.”

Matthew shakes his head, and his dark hair rustles with the movement. “I could never imagine being so restricted.”

“Well, I could never imagine being so scattered and unspecialized. So, I guess we each have our own way of viewing things,” I shoot back, crossing my arms.

“Perhaps.” He frowns.

The word hangs between us as we stare at each other. Merlin is nibbling happily from the bowl of muesli that Matthew abandoned. Neither of us admonish him. We are locked into each other, neither one willing to be the first to break.

The tension is interrupted by the familiar sound of a crashing wave knocking against my front door. I jump and Matthew rises immediately from his chair.

“Who’s there?” he calls out, forcefully.

“It’s fine,” I assure him, rushing past to the front of the cottage. “It’s just my sister. She’s always had a flair for the dramatic.”

He grabs my arm before I can open my door. “Wait,” he urges. I do, mostly shocked into compliance at the touch.

Matthew softens his grip but keeps one hand around my arm as he looks out the small window on the side of my cottage.

“It isn’t your sister,” he says tensely. His eyes scan the forest and the hill that leads up to the manor house. “There’s no one there.”

I laugh and pull myself free from his grasp. He reluctantly lets me go.

“Trust me. That was Miranda. She always needs to be certain her will is known.” If you caught her on an especially bad day, there was the risk that she might use her Siren song against you, one of the many tools in her kit that she uses to get her way. I open my door, and sure enough, there is another letter on my stoop, damp and smelling of salt. The scent is more potent today. Fishier. I sigh. She’s annoyed with me. I rip open the envelope and read the contents.

Hecate,

I have yet to hear from you confirming the plans for the end of the week. Are you not aware that this is urgent? Please let me know you are alive and that things at the Manor will be in order for Celeste’s and my arrival! If it would be easier for you, we could stay at your cottage, even though you know I detest it. Twenty-four coven members have already said they will be present for Samhain. I expect more to confirm in the following days and will send updates so you can adjust the menus accordingly. Get back to me ASAP on this. Not kidding around.

~Miranda Helenia Spence Goodwin

Despite myself, I let out a few short giggles at Miranda’s note. Matthew walks up behind me, and I don’t try to hide the letter from him as he reads over my shoulder.

“She’s a bit demanding, isn’t she?” he says with slight horror. All the tension has left his voice.

“If I were brave, I would ignore this letter and the twenty panicky ones that will follow. Let her figure the holidays out for herself,” I say. Matthew looks at me in conspiratorial delight.

“So do it. It would be no more inconsiderate than what she’s expecting of you.” For the first time since I saw him on the doorstep last night, my attitude toward Matthew Cypher warms ever so slightly. It is a rare occurrence in my life for someone to side with me against Miranda. With Matthew smiling at me, gleeful mischief in his eyes, I’m sorely tempted to follow his suggestion. Especially given the threat of Miranda staying at my place. Our energies never mix well in close quarters. I wouldn’t be surprised if the cottage burned down by the end of her visit.

“I can’t. Celeste would be devastated if I canceled,” I say eventually, smiling as Matthew gives me a sad, mock-disappointed pout.

“However, does your offer to help still stand?” I ask, a strike of madness or genius hitting me.

“I’ll do anything you require of me.” He breaks out into a grin.

That’s all the confirmation I need. I walk over to my desk, grab a pen, and flip my sister’s letter over. On the back of the damp fishy paper I write,

Miranda,

The Manor will be ready for your arrival Thursday night. The cottage is not available. I have a guest staying with me.

Kate

I roll the letter up and wrap it with a string of dried elderflowers until almost no paper is visible. I light the silver-ash candle I keep on my desk and hold the letter over the flame, waiting. The fire is shimmery white, almost opalescent, and cool. It takes only seconds for the entire parcel to ignite and disappear from my hand like flash paper.

“There,” I say, resigned. “No stopping them now.” I never really had another option, but there had been something comforting in procrastinating my response.

“You can always change your mind,” Matthew assures me.

“No need for that. I love this time of year and all the traditions that come with it. And now I have you as my excuse to keep Miranda from invading my actual home.”

“I can stay here then?” he asks, pleased. I nod. His smile only grows. “I’m surprised,” he admits. “With the salt line and the rue underneath my bedroom door last night, and all the talk of the Ipswich Inn, I didn’t think I had a chance.”

“Having a hexan of the Pacific Gate sleeping across the hall from me is a much less frightening prospect than playing hostess to Miranda,” I confess.

Matthew laughs happily, and my own smile is involuntary. “And, my cat trusts you … so that’s something, at least,” I add.

As if on cue, Merlin brushes affectionately against Matthew’s legs. I roll my eyes at him. Matthew bends down and gives him three long stroking pets.

Another thunderous watery crash echoes around my door. I groan in exasperation. Matthew wrenches the door open and scoffs as he bends down. He holds up the soggy yellow Post-it note that is stuck to my welcome mat.

That wasn’t so hard now was it?

What do you mean you have a guest? Who is staying with you?

~Miranda Helenia Spence Goodwin

“She seems lovely, your sister.” Matthew smirks, crumpling up the note and beckoning me outside the cottage.

“I am glad for the company to weather her demands,” I admit as we walk.

“Even despite how strange said company may be?” he teases.

“Yes, very strange.” I laugh. The horror I had felt last night over Matthew would be nothing compared to Miranda’s mortification once she discovers her hermetic sister is housing a practitioner of the forbidden crafts.