He only looked mildly abashed. “Still dimwitted.”
She patted her own substantial pile. “I don’t have any more native skill with rocks in bowls than you do, Jamie Sullivan. So what’s the difference?”
“Brib—” Jamie’s smartypants response got halfway out—and then he put the pieces together. “Because I don’t really want to be doing it. You do.”
“Yes.” Caro nodded and reached for a new bowl. “I think Hannah has more control over her magic than any of us have given her credit for. And yesterday, her desires changed.”
Lauren looked at Jamie’s pathetic trio of bowls. “You think she wanted a vision yesterday?” She’d been present for the mind-bending terror of the previous attacks—it didn’t seem possible.
“Not entirely.” Caro shook her head, pensive. “But I think she’s spent the last twelve years absolutely not wanting to see.”
And yesterday, Hannah’s conviction hadn’t been absolute. Lauren closed her eyes, remembering her first days in Berkeley. And had no problem at all understanding why.
“Twelve years in a mental institution would be awfully convincing.” Jamie frowned. “What am I missing? What changed?”
Lauren sighed—he’d never crash-landed in the middle of Witch Central. “She’s hanging out at Caro’s shop. Making friends. Connecting. Finding her people.”
Comprehension hit. “Ah, yeah. She wants to give back.”
Caro nodded slowly. “Yes. I didn’t have a whole lot of spare energy to look, but that’s what I think I caught the edges of. Her wishing happiness for a friend. Wanting to see Marion’s future.”
Lauren knew something about ridiculously brave generosity. It was contagious. And it was awfully hard to put back in the bottle. “Well, that kind of changes things.”
A witch active in her own magic. Most days in Berkeley, that would have been cause for celebration. In this case, it had just made Hannah a lot more dangerous.
Rocks pinged steadily into glass as six witches tried to figure out how to roll with what they’d just learned.
Lauren shut out the sounds and turned inward, chasing her instincts. A good negotiator knew how to find the tipping point—the place in a conversation, in a process, in a problem, where you could apply leverage and change the outcome. She listened to her gut, trying to find the leverage they needed.
And felt a pebble wobble under her fingers. An angular one, not happy about its spot against the smooth, curving glass. She gave it a little push.
And felt the lightbulbs go off.
The attack had made three things very clear, not two.
Hannah was insanely brave. They couldn’t clamp her precog forever. And she had the wrong teachers.
The last one—that was the leverage.
-o0o-
Sometimes, an old witch just happened to have her eyes in the right place. Moira was quite certain she had just seen a moment of absolute clarity happen. She settled her dish on the table and watched their very able mind witch process the idea that had just landed.
Lauren rubbed a smooth green pebble between her fingers. And then, eyes intrigued, dug for a different one. Red this time. And not at all round. She laid them out on her palm. “We’ve been trying to help Hannah deal with her magic.”
An interesting choice of verb.
Lauren caught the edge of the thought and nodded. “When I work in a circle with Aervyn, I’m a channeler. The magic isn’t mine, and it isn’t my job to control it. I just need to let it flow around me. Control comes with surrender.”
Jamie leaned forward. “We’ve been trying to help Hannah with that.”
“I know.” Lauren looked at the two in the room with precog. “It’s how the two of you handle it. Let it flow, keep yourselves sane, burrow into the awesomeness of the Sullivan family and Witch Central to recover.”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah. That about covers it.”
Moira smiled. Lauren wasn’t nearly done yet.
Their mind witch paused a moment, casting around for words. “When I go look at a new house listing, I’m looking to see if it might be a fit for any of my clients. But sometimes, it’s not a house meant for anyone. Four walls and a roof don’t make a place livable, and sometimes all the renovations in the world wouldn’t make it so.”
Wisdom came in so many wonderful ways. Moira smiled at the woman who was nurturing hers to abundance. “And the having of power doesn’t make it bearable.” Astral travelers had taught them that lesson, painfully and well.
Lauren nodded. “Yeah. We’ve been trying to help Hannah live through her magic. Surrender to it, basically, but in ways that keep her intact.”
Jamie frowned. “Well, we’re hoping that’s the first step to controlling it.”
Lauren raised an eyebrow. “Even though two very competent witches with far less precog can’t?”
He winced. Retha was already nodding.
Nell touched her finger to a candle and let a small flame burst into life. “I don’t like the word ‘can’t.’ Lots of people would have said that about Aervyn.” She looked up, banked fire in her eyes. “Sometimes it’s not about competence. It’s about need.”
“Exactly. But we have to think about what it is that Hannah needs.” Lauren held out the two pebbles in her hand. “These are bits of rock tossed into an enormous, stormy ocean. Precog feels a bit like that.”
Jamie snorted. “You don’t say.”
Lauren shot him a grin and then touched the green stone. “This one finds its center, lets the waves and the sea smooth its edges. It surrenders. This other one,” she held up the angular red rock, “it’s not smooth. Maybe it finds itself in a crevice somewhere, or—”
She put down the rocks. “Sorry. Enough analogies. We’ve been trying to teach Hannah how to accept and work with her magic. Everything in her screams against that. Her instinct has always been to fight. Maybe she’s not wrong.”
“Red rocks sometimes end up sand.” Retha’s eyes were dark and serious. “It’s not the path for every witch.”
Lauren’s hands had strayed to the red pebble again. “Hannah walks quietly, and she weaves, and she keeps her emotions under a really firm grip. She looks like a green pebble.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a small pillow, covered in vibrant geometric slashes. “But look at her weaving. I borrowed this from her room last night.” She paused, letting everyone take in the screaming, slashing color. “She made this after a decade living in a mental institution.”
Moira waited, adoring the lesson and the woman who was feeling her way through it.
Jamie breathed out and picked up the two small rocks, his eyes still on the pillow. “You’re saying she’s a fighter.”
“Yeah.” Lauren smiled. “And you and I and Nat are all green pebbles. Aervyn, too. In the face of big forces, we roll. Hannah doesn’t.”
“I don’t either.” Retha set a candle in its bed of colorful stones, and then looked up at the eyes turned her way and spoke wryly. “Anyone disagree?”
“Not a chance.” Nell raised an eyebrow, and then frowned at Lauren. “You’re saying Hannah needs to learn how to fight?”
Moira shook her head. She knew a little something about red and green pebbles. “No. She’s already doing that. She knows how to be a warrior.”
“Yup.” Lauren stroked the pillow under her fingers. “But she fights by trying to stop her magic.”
“Ah.” Comprehension exploded on Nell’s face. “There are a lot more ways to fight than that.”
There were indeed. Moira touched the pebbles in her pail. They’d been sending a lot of messages lately.
“She’s already begun.” Caro smiled. “With Marion. She made a choice of when and what she wanted to see.”
Nell nodded. “Pick the time and place of battle.”
It had gone to hell mere seconds after that—but those first seconds had been so very important. Moira was so proud of the room that could see the kernels of success in what many would have called failure.<
br />
“Fighting smart.” Jamie leaned back and looked at the woman at the end of the table. “Mom’s the best person on earth to teach her that.”
Lauren nodded—and handed Retha the red pebble. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”
Retha reached instead for the pillow and its bold, slashing color, and traced her fingers over its message. “Strengthen the witch we have. Not the one we thought she was.”
The surface layers of twelve years in an institution had led them astray. Moira smiled at the bright geometries of Hannah’s weaving. Such fight it had.
So many things talked if you had the courage to listen.
Chapter 16
Hannah landed in the back corner of Knit a Spell and goggled. Helga was up on top of the ladder, hanging her spindle over the side. Jodi sat at the bottom, trying to keep Sam away from the twirling toy. Marion studied the twisting yarn with intent focus, even as the baby took a tumble into her skirts.
Helga grinned merrily. “Good morning. We’re learning how to ply—check out my beautiful yarn.”
“Beautiful” wasn’t the first adjective that came to mind. The hot pink stuff hanging from Helga’s spindle was lumpy, bumpy, and thick as a rope. “It’s, um, very bright.”
Helga only cackled and started reeling her spindle up.
Caro snorted from her stool by the counter, a very competent thread hanging down from her own twirling toy. Careful what you’re calling ugly, girl. I hear weavers like a good textured yarn.
Hannah eyed the hot-pink rope and felt the giggles coming on. And an idea for a pillow. She grinned up at Helga. “Can you make about ten more yards of that?”
“Maybe.” The spritely lady on the ladder eyed her creation doubtfully. “It’s a little unpredictable just yet. But you should see what Marion made last night.”
“Mmmm. It’s yummy.” Jodi tickled Sam and, carrying him away from the irresistible spinning things, reached into a brown paper bag on the table. “She spun a rainbow.”
The skein that landed in Hannah’s hands was pure magic. Reds and oranges making their vivid, dancing way over to greens and blues and violets.
And not a floof in sight. Tightly spun coils of color. Made for a loom.
“Figured you could maybe weave with it,” said Marion gruffly. “I know you like the bright colors.”
Hannah looked at the yarn. And the bright spots of color on Marion’s cheeks and the small smile Caro was hiding in her knitting.
She’d crashed to the floor in their midst yesterday. And this was their reply.
Trying very hard not to sniffle, she held up a basket. A small reply of her own. “I made rolls. Not as good as Caro’s, but I think they’re edible.”
“Perfect timing,” said Retha merrily, walking in the door.
Hanna felt her insides seize up. She wasn’t nearly ready to let go of this blissful moment of normal.
I’m here to knit. Retha patted her bag. And maybe eat a roll or two and see if I can talk Helga out of a few of her spangles.
Hannah wanted, desperately, to believe her.
Belief is an action, my dear. Retha settled onto a stool and tapped the counter. “You can set those rolls down right here.”
“Ha.” Helga nabbed the basket out of Hannah’s hands. “I’ve seen you Sullivans eat.”
Marion stood in the middle of the floor, still holding her rainbow skein.
And Hannah realized she wasn’t the only person feeling a bit strange this morning. She smiled and held out her hand. “Come. I’ll show you how to weave that into a headband.”
“I’m no weaver.” Marion’s frown traveled the well-worn furrows of her face.
Yet. Hannah smiled down at the vibrant palette in her hands. “It’ll cost you. Another skein, about this size.” She closed her eyes for a minute, imagining. “In red, please.”
“Pfft.” Marion scowled at the loom and reclaimed her yarn. “I’ll have you spinning your own by dinnertime.”
Hannah grinned. She was so winning this war. “A woman can never have too much bright yarn.”
Marion’s face still furrowed, but her eyes began to twinkle. “Deal.”
Hannah followed her new student over to the loom—and felt the steady approval of the watching audience behind them.
Celebrating two women who had just grabbed hold of a tiny thread of their lives.
It felt insanely good to be one of them.
-o0o-
They’d been so silly.
Retha watched the two heads tipped together over the loom, the way they’d been for the past hour. And when Marion got up for a stretch and a cookie, seized her moment. She wandered over and reached out toward the weaving, very sure it was the compass they sought. She just wasn’t precisely sure where it pointed yet. “Tell me why you do this.”
“To pass the time.” Hannah frowned, tracing the threads of her loom. “Or that’s how I got started, at least. Dr. Max brought me the small loom and a book and told me to do something useful so I didn’t go crazy.”
Carefully chosen words by a very smart man. “It seems you learned rather well.”
“Sixteen hours a day.” Hannah looked down at her hands. “That’s how long I was awake. When you’re crazy, there’s just not that much to do.”
And the courageous, determined soul in front of her had walked those sixteen hours every day for over a decade. Retha stared at the weaving. There had to be a key here. Something. It was such a part of the woman they all wanted to help. “Tell me about the process of setting it up.”
Blue eyes looked at her, incredulous. “You want a weaving lesson too?”
Maybe so. “The beginnings of one. I want to hear you talk about it.” Guerrilla tactics. Not all fighters attacked from the front.
“Okay.” Fingers tracked the vertical threads, highlighting their glimmering orange order. “The first thing you do is set up the warp, which is the foundation for your weaving.”
Something tickled Retha’s mind. “What makes a good warp?”
“Something strong. Dense and smooth, with lots of twist, so the weft—the yarn you weave with—can pass by it easily.” Hannah held up the skein that Marion had spun. “This will make wonderful warp. See this one?” She held up some fluffy yellow wool. “Soft and poofy. I’ll use it for the weft so this pillow ends up nice and squishy.” Hannah patted the orange. “But it’s the warp that matters most. Without that, nothing holds together.”
Holding together. Strong and dense. Smooth and twisty. Those were fighter words—or they could be. Retha touched the lines of striking orange, tugging on the mental bit of string she’d found. “I think that’s what we need to do with your magic.”
Hannah’s eyebrows shot to the sky. “Make it twistier?”
Retha felt all the circuits connecting at once. Motherboard overload. “No. Exactly the opposite. We’ve been trying to work with your magic. To weave who you are around it.” She reached for the ball of sunny yellow fluff. “To make you better weft.” Soft and floofy and yielding.
Confusion clouded her student’s mind.
The first rule of a fight was to hold it on your own turf. Retha wrapped the younger witch’s fingers around the taut orange threads. “You’re the warp, Hannah. We need to help you hold firm and strong so your magic knows exactly where to go.” And how much. And how fast. “To make you smooth and dense and twisty.”
Silent hands stroked bold threads. Thinking. Brain absorbing what her fingers already knew.
And Retha knew that they’d finally found the beginning.
-o0o-
Hannah stared, trying to figure out what her weaving could teach.
She was the warp.
Sometimes hidden, always strong and straight and true. A singular job to do, unlike the weft that got to dance and wander and nothing too terrible happened if it took a detour or had a weak spot.
Good warp like Oma’s could hang on a loom for fifty years and still make a solid foundation.
Again,
more slowly this time, Hannah ran her fingers up and down the threads of the old, sturdy warp. Seeking the lessons of its history.
The best weavers knew that all designs, all function, all beauty began there. Even the most unruly of wefts could be tamed by the good strong threads of the warp.
Precog was hella unruly.
Hannah swallowed. She wasn’t weaver enough for this.
I believe you began yesterday, sent Retha quietly. You chose something that you wanted to see.
Guilt slicked Hannah’s soul. “I’m so sorry.” She hadn’t thought—hadn’t considered the cost of her little fairytale wish. Opening her eyes to five people passed out cold on the floor of Knit a Spell had dumped an avalanche of remorse onto that little oversight.
Retha raised an eyebrow. “Missed the laying down of your first weft thread, did you?”
Hannah stared. And considered. She’d made a choice. Just like a weaver sitting at a loom.
Ah, yes. I’d missed that. Warp and weaver too. Retha fingered the bottom edge of the work on the loom. “I see the bottom edges aren’t as perfectly straight as the rest.”
“Selvage. Those will get removed later.” Hannah’s fingers moved up an inch. “See, these are nice and straight.”
“But for now, those first rows do their job just fine, unevenness and all, do they?”
Hannah shook her head, wry humor kicking in. “Are all your innocent questions quite so loaded?”
Retha batted her eyelashes, eyes sparkling. “Why, my dear, whatever do you mean?”
Marion snorted from the counter. “Are you done monopolizing my teacher yet?”
“Yes.” Retha smiled. “I do believe I am.”
“Thank you.” Hannah reached out on pure instinct, touching Retha’s hand. “I have a lot to think about now.”
“We missed all the signs.” The older woman patted the loom. “You’ve already picked your place to stand and fight.”
Nothing she’d done, even yesterday, felt remotely like a fair fight. “I always lose.”
A Lost Witch (A Modern Witch Series: Book 7) Page 16