Page 35 of Witches and Wine
I took the moment he looked away to exit to the sidewalk. There wasn’t an official label for what was happening between Dion and me, but considering recent events, it was enough that I didn’t need meddling with a hunky Norse god in the mix.
Considering how quaint the town was, it didn’t take long to wander into the outskirts and find Cressida’s hut nestled near a thick oak tree, as the instructions stated. I stood in front of the rounded, wooden door that looked like something out ofThe Shire inThe Hobbit, clutching my purse’s strap for dear life and willing the magical fritter to work harder. The relaxation I’d felt disappeared once a pane of wood stood between me and an ancient witch.
“You’ll get no questions answered out there, Chelsea Stewart,” an older woman’s voice said from inside.
My heart skipped a beat, and I gulped before finding the gumption to turn the knob and stick my head in. The space was smaller than it had appeared from outside. There was a small stone hearth with a crackling fire at the back wall, dozens of herbs hanging from hooks on the ceiling above it. On the right side, there was a narrow bed with a purple and black patch quilt, the bed post made entirely of thin tree trunks and branches. Several shelves lined the opposite wall, filled with books, jars, bowls, and stones. At the center was a round, gnarled table littered with scrolls, more bowls, fruits, and a glass decanter filled with amber liquid.
“Hello?” I hesitantly called out.
I could have sworn I heard a woman but saw no one here. Given the very few places to disappear in the tiny space, she couldn’t have hidden easily.
“There you are,” the woman said, appearing from a darkened corner like a traveling shadow.
I jolted, my purse swinging, nearly smacking me in the face, and I pressed a hand to my chest. “You startled me.”
“Spook that easily, do you?” The High Priestess came into full view, standing a foot shorter than me in billowing brown and olive-green robes, parts of the fabric twinkling with firefly light. Her hair was long and silver, falling in waves past her hips, feathers, and bone tied into several thin braids. The Crone’s face was older but still strikingly beautiful despite the patterned liver spots and wrinkles overtaking her features. “Hm,” she finished, hobbling past me to the hearth.
Ignoring that insult, I removed the purse from my shoulder and started to rest it on the table.
“Ah,” Cressida shouted, smacking a wooden spoon on the table. “You’ll not be mixing my effects with your own. You either hold it or set it on the floor at your feet.”
Considering the purse was the only Louis Vuitton anything that I owned, I opted to keep it on my shoulder. “If you know my name, then you know why I’ve come to see you?”
“Yes. You’re just a fledgling with no knowledge of how to use her magic because of your muddied head.” She crumbled an herb in her palm, sprinkling whatever it was into a small pot resting on an iron grate in the fire.
Sylvie wasn’t kidding.
“In a manner of speaking, yes. Can you help me?”
The Crone nodded, dusting her hands and resting them on her hips. “I can. But there’s a more important detail we should discuss first.”
More critical than manifesting my new power?
Fighting the urge to chew on my thumbnail, I flicked it against my purse strap instead. “Oh?”
The Priestess pressed her thin hands onto the table, pulling her face closer to me, the fire that dimly lit the room, casting ominous shadows over her face. “Be wary of the wine god with whom you share your bed.”
Her words lefta hollow pit in my stomach, and I pressed my hand there, my throat numbing. “I’m—sorry?”
The Priestess paused stirring to raise a grey brow at me. “Are you hard of hearing too?”
If this was what it took to get help with my powers, I might have preferred to figure it out on my own.
“No. I’m not. But could you elaborate on your empty warning?” Folding my arms, I struck my best power pose, rolling my shoulders back and widening my stance.
It didn’t go unnoticed by the ancient witch who panned my posture from my feet to my head. “Dionysus isn’t what he would seem. He’s a trickster god. Has mischief in his veins. And you, my dear, are falling head first into his snare.”
My nose twitched, followed by my cheek, and I dragged a hand over my face to still it. “He’s been around for a long time. You assume he’s the same man, the same god he was before?”
She shook her head, haughtily tossing the last remaining bit of herbs in her palm before turning to face me with a hand propped on her hip. “Gods do not change. Especially of the Greek variety. They adapt and learn how to put on facades, but at the end of the day, they are still who fate spun them to be.”
An unease plagued my mind, and a dull pain began to form in my temple. Still fighting the urge to reveal my nervous twitch by chewing on my thumbnail, I rubbed the pentagram charm between two fingers. “How do you know so much about the Greek gods?”
“I wouldn’t be the High Priestess of Arcane Cove—” The Crone started, grunting and wincing as she pulled a wooden chair out from the table to sit down. Her knees cracked and popped, and she let out a blissful sigh once her ass met with the seat. “—if I didn’t have full knowledge of all its inhabitants. And the Cove has plenty of meddling Greeks in its midst.”
A haze filled my vision, memories of how Dion talked and acted with me. He’d always been flirtatious, welcoming, and patient. What the Crone claimed didn’t make much sense. But she was the High Priestess. Surely, she couldn’t be entirely wrong, could she?
“I’d like to think I have good judgment when it comes to character. Dionysus has been nothing but kind and patient with me.” I forced myself to stop fidgeting and pressed my fingertips into the warped wood of the table, leaning over it.
