Page 27 of The Woodsmoke Women's Book of Spells
“Shall we?” he asks. He raises his eyebrows, and I look up into his eyes. All inky darkness below dark, thick brows, his hair a tousle of black. There’s a tiny piece of plaster dust above his left ear, but I refrain from mentioning it. It strikes me suddenly how very tall he is, and how when he’s not smiling his features appear haunted. It’s the swollen mouth, the deep-set eyes. He seems at once present, standing right beside me, and yet a thousand miles away. I wonder if this is what losing someone to the mountains does to a person. I don’t know how to tell him about the book, about all the stories pressed into it, all the warnings. Should I tell him? But then his mouth widens into a tentative smile, small crow’s feet appearing at the corners of his eyes, and my stomach does a little flip.
Despite the sting of my tears, as well as the sting of Tom’s words, I smile back. Matthieu is the only person in Woodsmoke I don’t have some kind of history with. Spending some time with him is like taking a break from the muddle of my thoughts. It’s the distraction I desperately need, and being near him feels like a balm. Like he’s the coolness I needed to calm my flames. Perhaps today is not the day to talk about the old ways and the stories. “Lead the way,” I say.
We take the path up the mountain. The one that winds up to the first lookout over Woodsmoke, the one I followed the night I arrived. Except, instead of gazing over the quiet, watchful town, as I did, Matthieu turns his back on it and heads west. We take a trail that’s seldom used in winter. Even the creatures that live on the mountain range are rarely seen on it.
“Mind the branches. If you knock one, you could upset a snowdrift,” Matthieu says over his shoulder. “I did it the other day. Feels horrible when the snow gets under your collar.”
I shiver, imagining the snow melting against my hot skin, water trickling down my spine. “Thanks for the warning.”
We continue in silence but for the sounds of the world aroundus. Slowly, inch by inch, I give in and stop looking inward. As we walk deeper into the secret heart of this mountain, I wake up. The scent of snow is different up here, colder and threaded with loam. Without the constant chug of cars and fumes, it tastes like a tall drink of water. I breathe it in, letting it pool on my tongue, trickle down my throat. And I feel more alive than I have in weeks. There are heavy snowdrifts packed in under the trees, marked only by the occasional scatter of bird tracks. The bright blue of the sky is piercing the thick pine trees around and above us and is so clear it feels like it goes on forever.
“We’re nearly there,” Matthieu says quietly. I notice he’s being more careful, treading only where his footfalls will make the least sound. I do the same, weaving under branches, hunching my hands up inside my jacket to protect my fingers from frost. It’s almost silent, in a heavy way that seems weighted and timeless. These mountains hold so many tales, so many secrets. It’s rare for them to give them up, rarer still for them to be recorded and passed down. I think of Cora and the book.
Matthieu stills suddenly, and I hold my breath. He looks back at me, a grin lighting his features, and points through the thicket to our left. “Just where I left it,” he says in a soft hush that almost carries his words away and past me, like the breeze itself. I look to where he is pointing, narrowing my eyes to search for anything that stands out in the world of white and pale wood.
“Amazing,” I breathe. I track the fluttering movement of the tiny bird, the bright plume of fiery feathers across its chest. When it flits to a higher branch, its wings stretch wide, the charcoal depths of them like ink against the snow. “How?”
Matthieu shrugs. “I got lucky, I guess. Looks like this chap is lost. Maybe he’ll be gone by morning? It’s a varied thrush. Rare here, usually seen on the Pacific Coast of the US. My—my brother was a birder. Loved researching different species.”
We hunker down to watch the bird as it moves between the branches. Then, in a flurry, it finds a higher branch, puffs up its tiny chest... and sings. It’s a haunting cry, as though the bird is searching, forever searching. My breath catches in my chest, leaving a dull ache. I reach out to steady myself and find Matthieu’s hand held out to steady me. My fingers, cold and small, flex within his warm grasp, his hand tightening around them as I regain my balance. I listen to the sad song of the little bird and let everything else fall away.
I dare not look at Matthieu. Dare not move in case he releases my hand. In this dead, white world, where this tiny bird is so lost and alone, I feel the heat from Matthieu’s skin. It reaches through me, around me, firmly burying the memories I’ve been restlessly circling. I am grounded. And somehow I belong in this moment. I am no longer alone.
Chapter 22
Cora
Twenty Years Ago
This is how it always starts. With tea and the night and nerves too close to the surface of a person. With someone placing their hand on the door, hoping Cora will open up and make one more bargain with the mountains for them. Just one more, whatever the cost.
Whatever the price.
Tonight it’s Brenda Haggerty, a woman who lost her baby last spring. She miscarried, as many do, but now she hears the baby’s cries at night. When the wind whispers from the east, when it flows past the mountain, all she can hear are the thin wails of a newborn.
She scratches at the door and Ivy lets her in. Cora notices her hands first. How they’re red and swollen, with small cuts in the skin between thumb and forefinger. Brenda catches Cora looking at her hands and balls them into fists.
“I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate,” she says to the two sisters.
“I’ll get the kettle on,” says Ivy, leaving Cora and Brenda to talk.
Cora leads her into the lounge, glad at least that Howard is out in the fields. Milly, their jersey, is calving, and Howard will check her every hour until dawn breaks. Her eyes slide to the kitchenas she ushers Brenda into the lounge, still wringing her hands. Cora’s and Ivy’s eyes meet, and Ivy turns away first. But not before Cora sees it, the disapproval. But what did she expect when she gave the book to Cora? That she would hide it in the attic?
“What can you give me for it?” Brenda asks as Ivy brings in the tea. She sets it down, adding a tot of brandy to Brenda’s, who sighs when she sips on it and briefly closes her eyes. “A potion? Maybe a spell?”
“Earwax,” Cora says firmly. She doesn’t touch the tea, since she can’t stand caffeine past eight in the evening. She likes to sleep as soon as she’s finished her twenty minutes of reading in bed. “Stopper your ears, don’t open your bedroom window tonight. Leave the rest to me.”
“Ear... what?” Brenda says, forehead wrinkling in confusion.
“It’ll be tonight, it’s a full moon,” Cora says firmly. “Drink your tea, there’s a love. Tonight, Brenda, you close your bedroom window and you stopper up your ears. Don’t follow the sounds, there’s no baby out there on those mountains waiting for you.”
“But what if there is, what if—”
“Earwax,” Cora says with a nod. “Stuff it in, you won’t hear that husband of yours snoring either. More brandy?”
After Brenda leaves, politely shutting the door behind her, Cora turns to Ivy. “Don’t start.”
“Is there any point?”
