Page 28 of The Woodsmoke Women's Book of Spells
“You think I shouldn’t interfere.”
“I think Brenda Haggerty needs to get ahold of herself.”
“You don’t believe her, then.”
“Cora...” Ivy sighs. “I do believe she’s hearing things, of course I do. You can’t live here and not believe it all, not when there’s proof every which way you turn. I know, if she follows the sounds, she could lose herself to the mountains tonight. But that’snot what... What I’m most afraid of, really, is you going up there tonight and doing a working to save her.”
Cora shifts past her sister to place the stone-cold mugs of tea on the tea tray. Ivy hasn’t drunk hers either. “If I don’t interfere, who will?”
“All I’m saying is... be careful.”
Cora fixes her sister with a look. “And all I’m saying is, at least one of us Morgans has to do what’s right.”
Ivy bites her lip. “We don’t know yet what you have to give up. What love you’ll lose—”
“Not now,” Cora says sharply. “Now, are you coming with me, or will you go home?”
Despite how Ivy feels, she still walks the old ways with her sister. They go up the mountain with the moon brimming and full, and in the silver haze Cora cuts her finger. She lets the blood well and drip, speaks a few words over it, kindly words, asking the mountains to forget about Brenda. Ivy is resigned to this casual, secretive horror. But she worries for Cora. She worries for her mind, for her soul. She stays in the shadows as her sister does the working, giving up a small piece of herself in exchange. As they walk back down the path, Cora sways and Ivy clamps an arm around her waist.
“What did it take to protect Brenda?” Ivy murmurs.
“Not sure yet...” Cora says and swallows carefully, as though it pains her. But she knows she’s done the right thing, the best thing. For a brief moment, the barest thump of a heartbeat, she could feel the magic, and touch it, like touching thread or wool, golden and silken, reaching for her. These flares of magic, these tiny glimpses into something other, something that seems almost absent from the world, are worth every piece of herself she gives.
The following morning Cora wakes and eyes her braid in themirror. Her twirling hair, once an ashy blond, has silvered overnight. She brushes her fingers down it, loosening the braid into waves over her shoulders. When she learns later that Brenda slept soundly, that she didn’t hear a single wail, she knows in her soul it was worth it.
Chapter 23
Carrie
“We need bags of plaster, a few buckets, and a hawk and trowel,” Matthieu says, tapping the end of a pencil against his mouth as he studies his small notebook. He’s in the passenger seat while I drive, and hot air from the engine is warming our faces and feet. As the road straightens out, I tune the radio to a station that doesn’t play dance music on repeat.
“Lengths of skirting?” I ask, glancing over at him. His face is all serious, pinched in concentration, and my blood heats just looking at him. I pull air down into my lungs and drag my gaze back to the road as I tell myself tostopchecking him out. He’s working with me on the cottage, that’s all. He liked Ivy, and he’s got some time this winter. He might have held my hand as we watched that bird—his touch sending flutters of lightning through my veins every time I think about it—but there was nothing in it. Nothing. Just two people sharing a moment on a mountain. And in his search for answers about his brother, he’s still stuck in the past. This is not the time for either of us.
“Carrie?”
I dart a look at him and see that he’s turned his whole body toward mine, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Wh-what?”
“I asked you twice if we could put it on the roof rack. You seem... distracted?”
I mumble something about concentrating on the road and out of the corner of my eye catch him turning back to his notebook,his smile growing slightly. He is a distraction, plain and simple. But the thing is... I kind of like being distracted by him.
“Take the next left, the builders’ merchant is next to a coffee shop and a tractor dealership,” Matthieu says, pocketing the pencil and notebook.
“Do you want to place the order,” I ask, “and I’ll pick up a couple of coffees? I fancy one that doesn’t require stirring in granules and a kettle.”
He chuckles. “Sure. I’ll have mine black, if that’s okay.”
I pull into the car park in front of the builders’ merchant, a squat building with stacks of blocks outside on pallets. The tractor dealership is surrounded by large, expensive farm equipment and the coffee shop is huddled in next to it.
“The Pit Stop. Cute,” I murmur, hopping out of the car. Snow has been shoveled away and piled up in the corners, and with the sun at full strength in a deep bowl of blue above us, I see it’s already melting slightly. There’s still snow and frost everywhere, coating the fields and hedges for miles around us, and the mountains, the looming backdrop, are capped in white.
I turn my back to them, call over my shoulder to Matthieu, “See you in a few,” and make a beeline for the terra-cotta brick building with the fogged-up display window. A bell jangles over the blue door to mark my entrance. Once inside, I find a whole display wall of ticking cuckoo clocks and, on the other side, a long counter accommodating a shuffle of men in lumberjack shirts. They’re taking coffee from a woman with thick plaited red hair, while a skinny man who moves like a spider brews cup after cup of coffee with a big, silver coffee machine.
There are a few tables, but most of them are empty. The customers seem to favor standing up while they talk, taking great gulps out of large takeaway cups or mugs. I go to the back of the line, eyeing the display of cakes and doughnuts on top of thecounter. I haven’t had a treat in... weeks? Not since Halloween, when I bought a couple of black-iced spider cakes from the bakery in Woodsmoke and inhaled them in my car. The doughnuts are pistachio cream, and when I get to the front of the line I order two with coffees to go.
“You want them in one bag?” the woman asks.
“Two bags, please.” I hope Matthieu likes doughnuts.
