3. Wisteria

Irush up the stairs, my heart beating a little harder in my chest as I shut my apartment door behind me and lean up against it, still gripping the opened envelope and folded papers. Whatever's written there, I feel certain that it's important.

I haven't heard from my aunt in years. She's my only living family member, a hedge witch that moved to Bayton decades ago after a failed relationship that made her swear off of love forever. She thought the rest of the family that tried to stay out in the mundane world were fools, that we shouldn't even try to fit in, that we were all better off going to places like Bayton and telling the rest of the world to fuck off. Truly, I don't know how she managed the flood of tourists, but I suppose a crotchety old witch fits right in with what the tourists want to see.

She left Bayton a few times when I was younger to come to family events, but after a while, she stopped showing up. I've told myself any number of times over the years that I should call her, go and visit her, try to maintain some kind of relationship with the only family I have left, but I always put it off for one reason or another.

Now, it seems that she's reached out first.

My hands tremble as I look at the envelope again. It's thick and heavy, clearly made with a real wax stamp, and the envelope smells faintly of roses. It's exactly the kind of flourish I would expect from her–she always had a flair for the dramatic, and a fondness for flowers. She taught me the meanings of them when I was younger, and it's something I've held onto, even though I've had no real reason to ever use that knowledge.

The paper inside is thick too, and scented with that same floral perfume. There's several sheets, and I frown at it, wondering what on earth she could have to tell me that would take up so much paper. A phone call or an email would have worked too, I think wryly, but my aunt wouldn't have done that. And truthfully, it's a personal sort of touch that I admire.

My dear niece,

I choke up the moment I read those words. Call it a sixth sense, call it magic, call it whatever, but the moment I read the first three words written in her pretty, flowing script I can see a picture of her in my mind, sitting at an old maple-wood desk and penning the letter. It's so clear that I know it must be magic attuned to these pages–that she's given me more than just this letter–because I've never seen her home in Bayton. I have no idea what the furnishings look like or what the layout is, but I can see her clearly–dark hair streaked with silver braided back neatly around her head, her back slightly bent with age, her hands less graceful now and the joints a little swollen. She's writing with an ivory fountain pen, the chair she's sitting in the same maple wood with a blue-tufted velvet cushion, and I can smell roses and lavender.

I stumble over to my bed, my head ringing a little with the sudden onslaught of magic. For once, the sounds of the city are drowned out, the room suffused with that floral warmth, and I feel that tight pang in my chest again. This took a great deal of magic to do. This letter meant something to her, and I feel another flush of guilt that I never took the time to see her–that there was always something else I needed to pay for, some reason I couldn't afford to rent a car for a few days, that I couldn't take off of work.

I have a sinking sensation that the chances I might have had to see her, to get to know my aunt better–to learn from her–are all gone now.

Taking a deep breath, I curl onto my bed against my stack of pillows, and read my aunt's letter.

My dear niece,

I wish I was writing to you with better news. It's been years since I've seen you now, and I have missed you. I know a good deal of the fault lies with me–I should have come to see you more often, cultivated the relationship that I know would have benefited us both. The world outside of Bayton is often so hard for me to bear–even here, I can't always find the peace that I long for. With every passing year, I wish for more isolation from the world that shuns us, to surround myself with those who understand what and who I am–who we are.

It pains me to think of you stuck in that city, surrounded by those who would wish you harm or simply wish for you to be different–for you to be quieter, and less than you are. I should have offered you a place here with me years ago, once it was only you and I left in our family, and I do regret that. I am trying to make up for it now.

To put it quite plainly, Wisteria, I'm ill. Very ill–the sort that might be able to be eased and my life prolonged if I allowed doctors to poke and prod and fill me with medicines that make my skin crawl thinking about it…but that's not what I want. We witches know the cycles of life and we know when it is time to let go. We know ourselves, inside and out, better than anyone. And I know that prolonging this will only bring me misery, instead of peace.

I am choosing to let myself fade away instead–and I suspect that fading will come quickly. I've made arrangements for all of the nonsense that comes with that–by the time you receive this letter, I expect I will be gone and all of those matters handled. I don't wish you to be burdened with it. I want to give you something instead.

There is a lawyer in Bayton–a Mr. Wilhelm Screed–who will handle all the paperwork for this. Come to his office here as soon as you are able, and he will manage the transfer of deeds to you for my home and the business that I have managed here for some time. There is a bit of money left too–no great inheritance, but enough for you to get by until you can get the shop properly running again. I ran it as an apothecary, but you should feel free to make it whatever you please. The tourists here are rabid for all things magic–whatever it is that you offer them, they'll be happy to partake.

I know there may be a great many reasons why you think you cannot pick up and change your life, Wisteria, but I hope you will think about what I am offering you, and how it might make that life better. Change is always difficult, but it can come with great rewards, if you are brave enough to try.

I know you can be brave, my darling girl. I will be thinking of you, wherever I am now.

Love,

Your aunt Eleanora

By the endof the letter, I'm sobbing. I have to set it down once to get up and get a box of tissues, and they're scattered across the bed in a pile by the time I'm done. I scan it once more, unable to fully process what it is that the letter contains.

My aunt has passed away. All of my family is gone now. That alone would be a lot to take in so suddenly–the grief of knowing she's gone, the guilt of not having made more of an effort to see her, the loneliness of feeling even more adrift in a world that doesn't really want me around. But in addition to that–

I read the last part of the letter for a third time. A house of my own. A shop. I look over at the wall next to my bed, where a corkboard is covered with sketches I've done and bits of magazines that I've cut out–an assortment of the dreams I've had for a long time. A shop of my own–part teahouse, part bookstore. It's what I've always wanted, that seemingly unattainable dream that tugs on my heartstrings every time I go in to work at a bookstore that isn't mine, and think of all the things I'd do if it was.

The last thing my aunt did was leave me a path to that dream, if I'm brave enough to take it. If I can find the nerve within myself to break my lease, quit my job, and take my meager savings and move to Bayton. I feel guilty for even hesitating. It's not as if I have to find a new apartment there–my aunt has willed me her house. Everything has been set up for me, a new life just waiting for me to walk into it.

I slide off of the bed, walking over to the corkboard hung over my small desk. There's the stack of magazines that I clipped pictures out of below it, well-thumbed-through, and I pick one of them up. Flipping through the pages, it feels too good to be true. I don't feel as if I deserve this–and I don't know if I'm capable of doing it, of starting my own business and running it, of making a new life…without having it all come crumbling down around my ears. For one brief moment, I try to imagine that this is all possible–that I really can have this, and I feel a small flush of excitement. I picture myself greeting customers, choosing which books I want to stock, creating perfect seasonal menus. But then I think of everything else–everything I don't know about running a business, and that feeling of panic sets back in.

The fear of failure is almost enough to make me tuck the letter away, call this Mr. Screed, and tell him that I can't accept. To let my aunt's estate go into probate, or whatever it is that happens when a family member doesn't take their inheritance. But there's guilt that comes with that too. My aunt went to lengths to make sure that I have a chance at this future, and that would be throwing it away. Letting someone else buy out her shop and live in her home.

That last thought stops me. I feel sure that out of everything, my aunt would hate the idea of her house not staying in the family. Of strangers living there. I shouldn't let that happen. I can't let that happen.

Is it wrong if a sense of guilt and obligation is what sends me to Bayton to start? Does that make me less brave? I sit there, chewing my lip to shreds, until I finally get up and go to make myself a cup of tea from one of the blends I made last weekend. That's what my aunt would tell me to do, after all, my grandmother too–any of my family, really. That's who we are. Hedge witches, the kind who invite you in for a cup of tea and a pastry made with magic and love, to sit in front of a fire and tell your problems to someone who cares. Someone who will try to fix them.

I want to be brave enough to do this. I can feel the tug in my chest, the longing to take this chance and go. To go to a place where I can find friends, where I can openly be myself, where I can flourish instead of hiding. Where the noise and chaos and constant aggression of the city surrounding me doesn't pound at my temples like the beginnings of a migraine. I want it–and I'm terrified to take the leap.

I glance over at my bed, at the sheets of paper, and I tell myself that I'll sleep on it. But deep down, I think I already know what it is that I'm going to do.

—

A quick search for Mr. Screed's office in the morning and a phone call confirms that everything my aunt said in the letter is true. "All you need is to come down to Bayton, dear," the receptionist tells me, her voice a creaky, high pitch in my ear. "Mr. Screed will be happy to set everything up for you. Ms. Avon was very particular about making sure it was all in order. Would you like to set up an appointment to see him?"

This is it–the moment of truth. I suck in a breath, thinking of all I'll need to do, and it nearly overwhelms me enough to hang up. But then I imagine the alternative–of saying no, of staying here. Of days spent in someone else's bookstore making barely enough to get by, of Mondays and Thursdays eating stale cookies in a group circle with others who are like me, but who aren't really my friends.

Nothing will change–or everything could change. The choice is mine.

I glance at the planner open on my nightstand, my days off next week highlighted and circled. "How does next Wednesday look?" I ask, my voice coming out a little strangled. It feels slightly hard to breathe.

"His Wednesday is open. How does noon sound?"

I glance at the planner again. I have Tuesday and Wednesday off, so I can drive to Bayton, spend the night, and then–

"Noon works for me." My heart is pounding as I sink down onto the edge of the bed and reach for my planner to write down the appointment. I can still say no, I tell myself, trying to calm my racing pulse. I can hear him out, and then make my decision. This doesn't lock me into anything.

I sit there for several long moments after I hang up the phone, trying not to panic. I'll bring it up at the group on Thursday. Maybe they'll have some advice for me.

It does not go as I hoped. Thursday evening, after work and a quick dinner of Chinese noodles from the place across the street, I find myself sitting on one of the folding chairs again with a chocolate chip cookie that's chewy in all the wrong ways, listening to Victoria talk about her coffee date with her mother. It hadn't gone well.

"She said she can't trust me around the family." Victoria sniffles, dabbing at her nose with a tissue. "My little sister's birthday is next week, and she says if I show up, she'll call the cops. I can't risk it–"

There's that all-too-familiar hum of understanding from the circle. None of us would risk something like that. It's always "shoot first and ask questions later"when it comes to a supernatural being accused, and the usual due processes don't apply–for the safety of the public. Victoria would be held until she could prove that she wasn't a danger, and in the meantime, she'd lose everything.

"Give her time," Ava suggests gently, although I can hear in her voice that she's only trying to soothe Victoria. There's not much hope that she can give her. "I've seen family members come around in cases like these. But think of yourself, too. You deserve to have your own feelings about this–"

I bite my lip as I see Ava's gaze fall on me. "How has your week been, Wisteria? Any more spell books to sort through?" She says it with a hint of interest that makes me almost wish that was what I had to talk about, rather than the sudden and unexpected upheaval of my entire life.

"Not–quite." I swallow hard, trying not to look at anyone else in the room. "I got a letter from my aunt. My only living relative. She passed away recently, and–"

"I'm so sorry to hear that," Ava says softly. "Were you close?"

"No–that's the thing. I hadn't heard from her in years. I didn't–make as much of an effort as I should have." I feel my eyes well up with tears, and I try to blink them back. The last thing I want is to cry in front of everyone here. "And her letter told me–"

I take a deep breath. "She left me her house, and her shop. In Bayton Heights. It's mine now, if I want it. All I have to do is–pick up and go."

For once, there's no murmured sounds of understanding. There's a dead, heavy silence in the room, almost oppressive with how suddenly quiet it is. Slowly, I chance a look around the group, and I see similar emotions reflected on almost every face there.

Jealousy. Frustration. Even anger.

"Is that really something you need to share with the group?" Bailey is the one who speaks up–the vampire. I catch a glimpse of lengthening fangs as she looks at me. "I thought this was a safe place to share the things we're struggling with. Not–winning the fucking lottery."

"Bailey." Ava's voice has a faint, gentle warning in it. "I wouldn't say that losing one's family member is winning the lottery, just because it comes with an inheritance. This is a safe space–and clearly Wisteria is struggling with this. Why is that, Wisteria?"

I'm no longer so sure that I want to share. I can feel everyone's eyes on me, hot and glaring, and I have the urge to get up and leave. "It's scary," I mumble, and I feel like a child the moment the words are out of my mouth. Everyone in this room would kill for the chance to have what I've been offered–some of them maybe even literally–and I'm waffling over it.

It hits me, then, as I hear the scoffs and groans from some of the others, that this is the best I can hope for if I stay. A group of people who are so mired in their own misery that they can't be happy for someone else who's gotten a chance to escape it. The collective unhappiness of this group is what binds us all together, not what we are.

Abruptly, I get up. I hear Ava calling after me as I drop the cookie on the long white folding table by the door and burst out into the musty-smelling hall, but I don't look back. I keep walking, faster and faster, all the way out into the cool fall air as I step out onto the sidewalk.

I don't know if Bayton will make me feel differently. I don't know if it will fix my problems or just give me new ones to deal with. But I can't stay here.

In the morning, I'll give Miriam my notice, and call my landlord. And then–

Then, it's just a countdown to the beginnings of a new life–or possibly the worst mistake I've ever made.