Chapter 16

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Later that evening, when the witching hour had long since come and gone and all the wood carvings had been divided and sealed according to Uncle Badger's specifications, the Hawthornes took turns in the shower and bedded down for the night.

Grandmother had ousted me from my room, and with Aunts Peony and Eranthis, Mom, and Dad in the guest rooms hammocks, and Aunt Hyacinth, Uncle Badger, and Otter asleep in the den, there was no place left for me except the attic. With the shimmering waterfall mirror-portal. Alone.

"You're in the hearth room," Grandmother told me as she caught me gazing up the pull-down ladder.

Then she led me through my own house to that very room, barefoot and in a long nightgown, just like me. Summoning her magic, she grew me a bed by the fireplace. Not a hammock, but an intricately designed four-poster bed that looked to have come straight out of a fairy tale. Across the headboard, foxes chased after clever rabbits that hid in the knolls of trees or amongst the briars. Down the lengths of the frame, trout pursued minnows through a thicket of lily pads, turtles and frogs snoozing on their broad leaves and oblivious to the antics below. And at the foot of the bed, a field of wildflowers with dozens of butterflies.

I didn't know whether or not I wanted to sleep or open a bottle of Riesling and explore all the other nooks and crannies to see what scenes they depicted.

"What's this?" I asked, pointing to a small piece of wood that jutted out from the hearth-facing side of the frame. If I didn't know any better, it would seem Grandmother had grown a soft-boiled egg holder right by the pillow.

Grandmother didn't reply right away. Instead, she moved around the bed and crouched down by the hearth. Sticking her glowing hand into the flames, she retrieved the Hawthorne hearth ember. It was tucked quickly away into her golden censer, which fit perfectly into the little stand she'd grown out of the bed. Immediately, green threads of magic coursed from the censer and along the bedframe, pulsing faintly but steadily.

"For your protection, Meadow," was her answer. It wasn't just this ember that would be protecting me, but this entire hearth. There was no room safer in a hearth witch's home than the one that held her fire. "Should something happen, hold it tight. It is like the amazonite pendant I gave you, but much fiercer. But it's a last resort, Meadow. It burns hot and fast, so use it only when all else has failed you."

I cast a worried glance at the hearth. Now that there was only one fire in it, its flames had shrunk. But not too much.

"Badger was right," Grandmother admitted quietly, already turning to the kitchen. "You've quite the scrappy hearth."

When I could no longer hear the stairs creaking with her ascent, I climbed into bed and rolled over to examine the gold censer. I'd been expecting something akin to a tea infuser, just a bunch of plain pin-prick holes to let out the smoke, but of course Iris Hawthorn would have something more ornate then that. The vents resembled violets.

Were you just a dream? I asked my hallucination from all those weeks ago. Or were you really in that milk bath with me… Violet?

As if in answer, her words came tumbling back: "We obey one rule, child. The only rule that governs Nature itself: growth."

"We've got sweet potato hash and French toast casserole this morning," Aunt Peony sang out the next morning. "I didn't know if we wanted sweet or savory, so I made both."

Thistle thorns, I must've been so tired last night if I'd slept through the scent of cooking bacon and caramelizing sugar. I hadn't even remembered to call Lilac, not that I knew how to use the flames for that purpose. Yet.

From the den, I heard what had to be Otter rolling out of the loveseat, his long legs no doubt cramped from being tucked up somewhere near his chin all night. "But aren't those both sweet?" came his protest.

"Not when you cook the sweet potatoes in bacon grease and barbeque seasoning and top them with over-easy eggs." At the bottom of the stairs, Aunt Peony wailed her wooden spoon on a pot lid like it was a cymbal. "Up and at 'em! A big foraging and potion-making day today!"

No sooner did I climb out of bed, taking the censer with me, did that very bed and its puffy mattress and pillow stuffed with cottonwood fluff vanish. I yelped, still half asleep and believing Sawyer to be with me and now trapped in the otherworld of spare beds. But the little cat was still at Grimalkin University, I assumed, learning all he could about legends and staying well away from Grandmother's moonstone collar.

I missed him.

Stumbling into the kitchen with only one thought in my brain— latte —I was immediately deprived of the censer from Aunt Peony, a basket of fresh biscuits replacing it. "Then come back for the coffee pot," she instructed, releasing the Hawthorne hearth ember into the hearth like she would a frog back into its pond.

This time, my farmhouse flames eagerly greeted it, scootching over so the sleepy Hawthorne ember could better devour the fresh wood.

Coffee pot was quite literally what Aunt Peony handed me next: the soup pot filled to the brim with coffee. And a ladle. We weren't savages to dip our mugs or bowls or, in my case, a one-cup measuring cup, into the pot for refills.

As the family in various stages of dress and dryness—Aunt Eranthis was still toweling her hair—collected around the table, voices filled the air about who wanted French toast casserole or sweet potato hash, or both, and things like, "Would you please pass the maple syrup?" "I'll be needing one of those biscuits to sop up the egg yolk, thank you." "Where's the milk for the coffee?" "Oh, is there any more of that apple butter left? It would go marvelously on this French toast." "Is there any peppermint tea?" "Pass the butter! I've only asked for it three times now!"

It wasn't much different from eating with the hobs.

The hobs!

As I launched out of my chair, Aunt Peony held up a hand. "I took care of it already, Meadow. Dale and that Roland fellow came by earlier for a whole sheet tray of bacon and scrambled eggs and more of those biscuits. Said they were going to make sandwiches. Oh! Speaking of. I've got the snacks all sorted out for your excursion into the woods today."

Aunt Peony, Aunt Eranthis, and Mom would be staying home to man the hearth fire, protect the grimoire, and get prepped for all the potion-making and hearth witchery we would perform when we were finished at Cedar Haven. Grandmother was taking no chances: our coven was going to stay in multiples of three if we all couldn't be together.

Relieved that the hobs had their breakfast, I sank back down and dug into mine. Hot, golden yolk oozed out over an orange hash of crispy sweet potato cubes, minced red onion that had been softened in bacon grease, chunks of that fried bacon, and diced avocado. Sliced scallion gave it that touch of green that enlivened any dish, and the barbeque seasoning that coated the potatoes gave it a fragrant kick of smoked paprika and garlic with just a hint of brown sugar goodness.

Oh my Green Mother, how I had missed Aunt Peony's cooking.

When breakfast was finished, and at speed, too, we collected our foraging bags and stuffed Aunt Peony's packed lunches inside. Then it was out to the cars and onward to Cedar Haven.

The sky was that bright deep blue that heralded cold weather, the trees completely bare against its cloudless expanse. The storm had stripped the remainder of their leaves, and they sloshed and slipped under our feet as we headed down the steep sawmill path to the river.

"Everyone in pairs," Dad ordered when we were all safely gathered by the dormant sawmill. He was still in his battle leathers, though he wore a black trench coat instead of his robes. "This is a wild place, and we'll not be taken unawares. We will be quick, we will be silent, and we will all be back to the farmhouse before suppertime. Move out."