by Mindy Klasky
Teresa Alison Sidney took a deep breath, as if she were feeding from the eldritch power we had raised. Taking a moment to look at each of us, she finally nodded toward the couches. “Sit, sisters. Let us do the work of the Coven with fairness and with speed. Let us listen to our sisters with compassion and understanding. Let us join our powers together to gain strength from each, to lend strength to all.”
“So mote it be,” the witches whispered as they followed the Coven Mother’s lead. I moved a little more slowly than the others; they apparently had regular, expected seats around the room. For a moment, I felt like a child playing musical chairs—I was the odd man out. But then, Neko nudged my elbow and directed me toward a Chippendale chair that looked as if it had been dragged in from the dining room.
I wasn’t sure whether I should edge all the way back on the slick, upholstered seat, or whether I should remain at attention, pretending I was at a job interview. I brushed my fingers against my sodalite beads and settled for ramrod posture, but I let my spine touch the wooden back of the chair. Neko folded himself at my feet.
Glancing to my left to see if the nearest witch had observed my discomfort, I was surprised to discover Haylee James sitting there. Her Hecate’s Torch glittered at the base of her throat, silent reminder of her membership in the Coven.
My initial reaction was to bristle—after all, she was the one who had set me my specific task, the one who had demanded that I set the centerstone for the new safehold. She was the person who had criticized Gran and Clara’s powers, to my face. But she was also the first witch to reach out to me in friendship. I could still picture her right hand cupped around her Torch as she settled her left fingertips against my wrist, friendly, inclusive. Before I could smile at the memory, Teresa Alison Sidney called the meeting to order.
“Sisters, let us begin. Billie, why don’t you start with your Treasurer’s Report.”
Treasurer’s Report. Followed rapidly by the Building Fund Report, the Party Fund Report, and the Security Budget Report.
I was sitting in a shareholder’s meeting for a witches’ coven. I nearly fell out of my chair with surprise.
As my sister witches droned on and on about endless accounting details and the need for better management of time and money, I tried to figure out what I’d been expecting. A round-robin tournament of spell-casting, perhaps? A potluck of potions? Maybe an exchange of extra crystals, along with examples of how to use the magical stones?
A million hours into the meeting, Teresa Alison Sidney called on Haylee to make the report of the Gardening Committee.
Yes. The Gardening Committee. I felt that I should be dressed for Ascot, wearing colors like cerise and aqua. Haylee stood and cleared her throat.
“The Gardening Committee has been very busy,” she said. She ruffled her spiky hair with her perfectly manicured fingers, and I was shocked to realize that she seemed nervous. How bizarre. The steady, cutthroat witch that I’d met at the midnight Coven couldn’t possibly be upset by a report on rununcula.
She licked her lips and continued. “We’ve selected the plantings for the new safehold’s borders, and we’ve reserved space in the greenhouse so that we can grow everything over the winter. As soon as we’ve moved beyond the risk of frost next spring, we’ll be ready to give the new safehold complete herbal protection.”
“And what did you decide on for the borders?” Teresa Alison Sidney asked. There was true warmth behind the question; the Coven Mother even smiled—a courtesy that she had not extended to any of the other reporting witches. I was reminded once again that Teresa Alison Sidney—Teri—and Haylee were old friends.
“We’ll go with the traditional protective herbs—parsley, rosemary, an edging of houseleek.”
I fought the urge to look toward the front room, where all the warders were gathered in their manly retreat. I wanted to ask how David had known that we witches would discuss herbs tonight, how he had known to train me in the ways of floral defense just that afternoon.
Instead, I nearly yelped as Neko dug his fingernails into my leg, making me focus on the question that Teresa Alison Sidney had just asked. “Does anyone have other suggestions for Haylee? Anything else that should be worked into the border? We’re particularly interested in strengthening the power for the spring, when our new safehold will be most vulnerable.”
“Radishes.”
I heard my voice before I realized I had spoken. In fact, I was only certain that I’d said the word out loud when a score of witches turned to stare at me. I fought the urge to curl my fingers around my sodalite for comfort.
“Excuse me?” the Coven Mother said, and I squirmed like a schoolgirl.
Still, I caught Neko’s minute nod. I took as deep a breath as I could manage, and I repeated, louder this time, “Radishes.”
Teresa Alison Sidney’s eyes narrowed, but another woman actually spoke. “Radishes would be wonderful if we’re inviting people over for tea and watercress sandwiches.”
By the time I tore my gaze away from the Coven Mother’s smirking lips, I was unable to determine which of the women had been so sarcastic. I let my hand drift down to Neko; my fingers barely grazed his shoulder.
I don’t know if he twitched slightly, or if his focusing ability channeled my own unschooled powers. Suddenly, though, I knew which sister had spoken. I turned to face the witch squarely, meeting her almond-shaped eyes without blinking. Her lined face showed a long lifetime spent acquiring a tan, and I wondered if she exposed herself to ultraviolet rays or just baked on some Florida beach in the off-season. Her tawny coloring was the perfect complement to her silver hair, and the velvet-wrapped headband that swept back her bangs made her look like the worst type of suburban grande dame.
Her cheeks flushed as I stared. I kept my voice level and said, “If you’re wasting your radishes on sandwiches, then you’re ignoring the full herbal power we witches can harness.”
I put a slight emphasis on the word “we” and then thought about adding more. I considered saying that she might not have the ability to study herb-craft. I debated stating that only an idiot would be unaware of the powers of radishes.
But I remembered how often David had schooled me with a single apt sentence—not to mention the fact that I’d only learned about radishes that very evening. Despite Neko quivering beneath my fingertips, despite the pressure of all those eyes staring at me, despite my heart pounding against my rib cage so hard that I thought the warders in the front room might think I was an attacking warrior, I managed to say no more.
I could hear the pendulum swinging on the tall-case clock. I could hear Haylee James swallow beside me. I could hear Teresa Alison Sidney breathing.
At last, the Coven Mother said, “Where have you learned about radishes, Jane?”
“From Hannah Osgood’s collection. From the books in my safekeeping.” I set the words down carefully, trying not to boast about the materials, but conveying that I was in control of a great deal of witchy wealth. I tried not to think about the fact that all my wealth would pass from me if I failed to set the centerstone on Samhain.
Teresa Alison Sidney’s eyes were even more intimidating than the matron’s. But when she nodded, I knew I had won this round. “Radishes, then. We’ll use them for edging, to bolster our protection in the spring.
I exhaled slowly, trying not to let anyone see how stressed I’d been. The rest of the meeting crept by—there were more reports from more committees. Neko curled up against my chair and—for all I could tell—fell asleep.
At last, the Coven Mother asked if there were any other matters to discuss. When no one responded, she stood and led us through the closing ritual, walking in a great circle around the room, gathering up the energy that we had laid out to protect us. She sketched a spectacular pentagram in the air, tracing silver light with her fingertips, and then she intoned, “So we were met, Daughters of Hecate. Go forth from this circle with peace in your heart. Go forth with the power of your sisterhood.”
I waited until a thunderclap had echoed through the room and the silver light had faded before I dared to lean back in my chair, closing my eyes for just a moment. I wanted to rub my temples, to curl up and take a nap.
“Would you like some tea?” I heard from closer at hand than I expected. “No watercress sandwiches—with or without radishes—but there’s some killer crab dip.”
My eyes flew open, and I saw Haylee James, extending a cup and saucer like a formal peace offering. I took the caffeine gratefully but was unable to ignore Neko’s anxious glance toward the serving table. “Go,” I said to him. “But leave some for everyone else.” I turned back to Haylee as Neko darted away. “Thank you.”
“I’m sorry Kate was so nasty.” Kate. She must be the matron. Haylee shrugged. “You’ve stirred up a lot of the Coven. Many witches thought they’d be asked to set the centerstone.”
I smiled wanly. “I don’t suppose I could forfeit the responsibility?”
“You don’t mean that.” She flashed me a toothy smile. “You’ll do fine. Really.” She sipped her own tea. “And radishes are an…interesting idea. Quaint, actually. A throwback to the herb gardens where so many Wyrd Women got their original powers.”
“I know it sounds ridiculous—” I started to defend my knowledge, but another quick smile implied that Haylee thought no defense was necessary.
“Lots of plants have power.” She shrugged. “That’s why I like the Gardening Committee. There’s so much history in what we do. Have you ever looked at medieval paintings? Or Renaissance, with all those flowers and herbs? Each one was supposed to protect the subject—and the artwork itself—with magical power.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think I’d recognize half the plants I’ve read about. I’m pretty good at things in the colonial era, but going that far back…”
“We should go down to the National Gallery of Art some time. We could compare notes from your colonial collection with the paintings there.”
Her words were offhand, but I recognized the thrill that jolted through my belly. It was like being chosen for an elementary school kick-ball team. Or standing in the high school cafeteria, tray in hand, and seeing a friend wave toward a nearby seat. Or staying up until dawn, clutching pillows and eating nacho cheese Doritos and gossiping about all of the cute boys.
“I’d like that,” I said.
“Oh, God!” she said. “I shouldn’t have said anything! My schedule is insane for the next week, week and a half.”
“That’s right. You’re an interior decorator, aren’t you?”
“Yes, and I’m finishing up a kitchen renovation for a major client. Can you wait till a week from Sunday? We could get to the gallery at two and avoid the morning tourists?”
I nodded. “That would be wonderful.”
Haylee matched my shy grin with another one of her stunning smiles. Her fingers flickered to the Hecate’s Torch at her throat, as if she were grateful for my agreement. “Fantastic!”
Eager to continue the conversation, I nodded toward her Torch. “I can’t wait until I have one of my own. Just hearing about Gran’s the other day made me realize how much I want one. Need one. It was so hard not to accept Gran’s as a gift! As if that would work for me!”
“As if,” Haylee repeated, and she reached out to pat the back of my hand, making my fingers tingle as if she were sprinkling them with magical pixie dust. For just a moment, I thought that I must look ridiculous to her. I must seem petty, jealous of my weak witchy grandmother. What had even made me bring up Gran? There was no reason to dwell on the Coven’s dismissive attitude about my distaff relations.
“It’s normal for a witch to want a Torch,” Haylee said. “Almost as normal as getting hungry at one of these meetings. How about another cup of tea?”
I laughed and offered to fetch drinks for both of us. Maybe this Coven thing was going to work out after all.
13
“Have another muffin, dear.” Gran pushed the plate of lemon-poppyseed treats closer. I shifted a little on her kitchen chair, grateful that I hadn’t yet donned the whalebone corset that would keep me sitting straight for the rest of the day.
Corsets. Whalebone. We had come a long way, baby.
Consciously deciding to celebrate my liberated sisters’ battles, I helped myself to a second muffin. It was still warm from Gran’s oven.
I’d been skipping enough desserts (I’d still been too busy to wander over to Cake Walk) to justify the additional breakfast. I even thought I might have dropped a couple of pounds. Before I knew it, I might start to look like the svelte Teresa Alison Sidney. Well, at least I might have a touch more confidence the next time I met with the Coven for committee reports. What more could a girl ask?
I reached for the butter—it would be rude not to celebrate fresh-baked muffins, right? It wasn’t every day that I got invited over to someone’s house for a home-cooked meal.
Gran cleared her throat and said, “Your mother and I have been trying to figure out the best way to talk to you about something, and I’ve convinced Clara that we should just broach the topic instead of beating around the bush.”
So much for the loving care of a home-cooked breakfast.
I should have realized this was something big. Something major enough to make Gran actually leave a message on my answering machine. When I’d returned from work last night, the light was flashing. Instead of the usual “Jane Madison’s grandmother,” Gran had actually steeled herself to say that she was expecting me for breakfast the following morning, that she wouldn’t take no for an answer.
I pushed my plate back, ignoring an inviting trickle of melted butter over the crisp muffin crust. I tried to convince myself that I’d never been a big fan of lemon poppyseed—the seeds always got stuck in my teeth. My stomach growled, though, as restless as my mind had suddenly become.
“Yes,” I prompted, when no further confession seemed forthcoming.
“It’s just that we’ve been worried about you. About us. It’s been difficult enough for the three of us to get to know each other, and now…”
Irritation pricked at the back of my throat. I’d been a fool to think that Gran and I would chat like lighthearted friends. I should have realized I would end up sulking here like a sullen teenager. What was it about coming back to Gran’s house that pushed me into this long-abandoned role?
“What have I done to upset Clara now?” I heard the obnoxious tone beneath my words, but I felt no need to modify it.
“Now, you shouldn’t automatically blame your mother. I’ve been concerned, too.”
“So, what? The two of you get together to talk about me when you don’t have anything else to manipulate? Did you bake for Clara also? Set out the fine china, so that both of you could figure out exactly what I’m doing wrong, and how you want me to change?”
Okay. The vehemence of my tirade even surprised me. I mean, I’d come to realize during the past year that Clara was my grandmother’s daughter. Gran was going to do everything that she could to help Clara on her quest to return to the normal world. Clara herself was trying—she had moved back to the D.C. area, leaving behind her meditation group and the Vortex near Sedona, and all the strange New Age concepts where she’d learned to express her true witchy nature.
But I really didn’t want to feel any sympathy for Clara. Not now. Not this morning, when Gran was practically admitting that the two of them had been plotting against me.
Gran tsked and lifted the tea cozy to top off her cup of Earl Grey. She settled the quilted cover back over the china teapot before she met my eyes. “Make me a promise, Jane.”
Gran and her promises. Over the years, I’d promised any number of outrageous things to ease her ever-more-bizarre fears. I’d sworn not to eat fugu the first time I’d gone to a sushi restaurant; Gran apparently thought that poisonous Japanese blowfish would be the only thing on
the menu. I’d vowed not to go ice-skating on the Potomac during one of the rare winters when the river had frozen over—as if I’d ever consider taking my weak ankles out on the ice. I’d promised not to sneak into the National Zoo at night, and I’d even offered up a special, auxiliary oath not to try feeding the pandas—because they only looked like people in panda suits, and they were actually dangerous wild animals with claws and a temper to match Tyrannosaurus rex. And just last year I’d promised not to lick any toads—an oath that proved surprisingly challenging, in light of my more obscure witchcraft paraphernalia.
Gran had perfected her promise extraction, making each one seem simple and straightforward and logical, even as I rolled my eyes and gritted my teeth at the absurdity of her disaster scenarios. In all the years that Gran had raised me, she had never made me promise to refrain from doing one single thing that I was even remotely inclined to do. (Yes, there was that one unwelcome promise that she’d successfully extracted—my affirmative agreement to meet my mother—but when it came to prohibiting behavior, I’d always been secretly proud to have an unbroken record of control.)
So, I should just go ahead and agree. Forget to fight. Move on with my life.
I dug in my heels.
“What are you asking, Gran?”
She stopped fiddling and looked me straight in the eye. Uhoh. This was going to be a doozy. “Stop seeing the Coven.”
“What?”
“Don’t see those women anymore. Clara and I don’t think that they have your best interests at heart.”
“Of course they don’t have my best interests at heart!” I sighed in exasperation. “They’re witches, Gran. They’re a Coven. They’re a sisterhood, banded together to protect the magical group, not the best interests of any single individual. And definitely not the interests of someone who is still an outsider, like me.”
Gran blinked. I don’t think she had expected me to agree with her. “Then why are you so intent on meeting them? On working with them?”