Page 36 of The Woodsmoke Women's Book of Spells
He gives me a fleeting smile, then turns to go upstairs.
For the afternoon and into the evening, I choose to work downstairs while Matthieu finishes some painting in the main bedroom upstairs. I want to be honest with him, to tell him I went there. That I went to the cabin and it looked as though it hadn’t been lived in for months, perhaps even years. But maybe I got it wrong, maybe I imagined that air of neglect, the scent of damp and loam. I’ve let Woodsmoke get under my skin, let the old ways and the stories twine around reality until I’ve actually believed Matthieu might not be real. This isn’t down to him. It’s all me.
In these past few weeks, something has been planted between us, something new and green in this sea of winter, and I’m beginning to realize I want to nurture it. I don’t want it to fade before it’s even begun. I want to go for dinner with him and watch his mouth break into that happy smile. I want to see what it feels like to share more with him than old memories from our childhoods and mugs of tea.
“Carrie,” he says, and I turn to find him in the lounge, a smileon his face as he runs a hand over the back of his neck. “If dinner feels too serious or something, just say...”
“No, no,” I say quickly, shaking my head. He’s picked up on it, this cloud that’s formed between us. He thinks it’s because of him. I nearly tell him I went up to the cabin. Nearly ask outright, but then he steps toward me. Takes my hand in his and tiny sparks explode in my chest.
“I... I like you. But if it’s too much... I know coming back to Woodsmoke is a lot and you’re figuring things out—”
I squeeze his hand back and look up into his eyes. The sparks flitting through my chest spin out, filling me with warmth. With want. “It’s not too much. It really isn’t.”
“All right,” he says. “See you tomorrow, then.”
When he releases my hand and turns to head for the front door, I know this is the moment to ask. I need to know about the map, whether it’s about Henri, why he keeps disappearing, why he always disappears when the frost thaws... but the words die in my throat. I just... can’t. Not when asking could break this fragile thing between us. Not when it feels like the start of something more.
The front door closes, and I release a breath, scrubbing a hand down my face. I walk back and forth across the lounge, telling myself I should follow him, I should justask—
So when the door creaks open, when boots thump on the hallway floor, my breath hitches, catching on the hope that he’s returned, that he’s ready to share more with me, that he’s not full of secrets at all and he won’t cloud over when I ask him. That I won’t shatter what’s building between us.
“Look, I’m sorry, really—” My words stutter out as I reach the hallway. It’s not Matthieu standing there but a woman, chin lifted, a proud glint to her features. Dread pools in my stomach, and I hang back, eyeing her quietly.
“Expecting someone else?”
Chapter 29
Cora
Seventeen Years Ago
A Morgan girl was born under a full moon, as is the way of every Morgan, on the hottest night of the year, with the crickets singing their song.
—Cora Morgan, February 1, 1995
Cora set the final cake on the farmhouse table and stood back. A heap of meringues, cream and plump strawberries, a vanilla sponge with scattered white chocolate shavings, a peach pie, lemon meringue tarts, dark chocolate gateaux...
“You’ve outdone yourself,” Ivy says, plucking a strawberry from the heap of meringues and popping it in her mouth. “Lillian will be thrilled.”
“Is this a curse of early onset diabetes?” muses Ivy’s husband, Ralph, home for a rare long weekend in August.
Cora swats at them both, her cheeks flushed from the praise. “It’s a curse of gluttony,” she says with a sniff. “Now get in the garden and string up the bunting. Carrie will be here soon, and we want it to beperfect.”
They all troop outside, Howard squeezing Cora’s shoulder as he walks past. Ivy leans in, whispers, “Thank you,” and Cora sniffs again, blinking furiously, her throat thickening suddenly.
Lillian’s kitchen is all set for the best party of Carrie’s childhood, her eleventh birthday party, and half the town is invited.
Cora fusses around, setting out cake plates, turning the main three-tier chocolate cake so that Carrie can see theHappy Birthday Carriewritten in pale lilac icing when she walks in. Guests start arriving, and children rush out to the garden, mums and dads and grandparents pour glasses of Pimm’s and sparkling elderflower, fanning themselves and agreeing that it has to be the hottest August on record.
Cora smiles, greeting the women who in the past have secretly asked her for potions and spells, occasionally even curses. They all squeeze her hand, or wink, or pat her arm as they pass. Cora believes she has finally convinced this whole gossipy town that the magic threaded through it is truly wonderful, and she’s sure that the Morgans are finally accepted.
“She’s here!” Jess says, leaping into the kitchen with her mother close behind. “She’s getting out of the car, still doesn’t have a clue!”
“Quick, everyone!” Cora says, waving to Ivy in the garden. There’s a general rustling and commotion as everyone spills out the back door to find somewhere to stand under the wide bowl of the summer sky.
Lillian’s voice echoes from the front door, joined by Carrie’s, and Cora can hardly contain herself. Her heart gives a giant leap as Carrie walks in, gasps, and covers her mouth with her hands as all those gathered yell, “Surprise!” and then break out into the birthday song. Lillian grins, laughing, her eyes glistening with tears, and Cora finds herself sniffling, her cheeks growing wet.
Then Howard is at her side, pressing a handkerchief into her palm, murmuring, “Well done, love, well done,” as Carrie blows out all the candles and laughs and laughs.
