Page 4 of The Woodsmoke Women's Book of Spells
Cora opens her mouth, then closes it, as though conflicted. A sad frown appears in the grooves of her forehead before her gaze snags on mine. “You should have come sooner.”
Howard releases an exasperated sigh, darting her a look. “Coraline—”
“Well, she should have. Can’t all wait for a death to shake our lives up, can we?”
Cora folds her arms, knitting her lips together. Cora’s always been like this every time I see her: taciturn, frustrated, and elated in equal measure, like she could shake me and embrace me all atthe same time. Sighing again, Howard slides back into that slight smirk, just for me. He shrugs one shoulder, making sure she can’t see it, as if to say,You know how she is. I know I should have come sooner. I know ten years was far too long to stay away. But I can’t seem to admit it.
“The cottage—” I begin, attempting to change the subject, to shift the conversation from the past and my failings to the present.
“Howard will be along,” Cora says, not meeting my eyes. “No need to fret.”
I dart my eyes to his, and he raises his eyebrows. “Actually, I might try to find someone in Woodsmoke, or the next town over. Maybe you know of... I don’t know. An electrician? Just to get that going at least.”
Cora coughs. “There’s only Tom now in Woodsmoke.”
The coffee mug slips from my fingers. “Shit!” I say, leaping up as coffee drenches the lace tablecloth and splashes over Cora’s pink housecoat. “I’m sorry... Cora, I—”
“Don’tfret, girl.” She leaves the room, muttering about how I’ve gone and got clumsier.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, to no one in particular.
Howard sighs, sipping his coffee in that contained, quiet way of his. “You’ll have to ask in the next town. Or I can ask around for you. Tom, he—”
“I know,” I say quickly, as Cora bustles back in with a wad of tea towels. “I can’t ask him.”
Cora looks at me, those lips knitting even tighter. I wait for it, sure it’s coming. Then she looks at me, and I see it. All that frustration, all that love... She’s as blunt as a butter knife and justhasto speak her mind. She can’t bottle it all up any longer. “Five addresses, Carrie.Five. I sent that letter, and it kept coming back, took six weeks to chase you around Europe, and you never updated us, you never said aword—”
“I had to move around a lot, for work. There was the gallery opening, and then I got a lead on some design work, but that fell through—”
“That’s in one year! How many more addresses before that? Hmm? And are you even painting still? You haven’t updated that website of yours in an age.”
I sigh, the berating edge of her voice grating on me. She’s right. I don’t like admitting it, but it’s true. I haven’t painted in a year. The last images I uploaded onto my website were of the streets of Prague, the gray of them, the crowded squares littered with tiny tables, women sipping from espresso cups. I sold all of them. That kept me going on a backpacking trip around Croatia and Greece. Then I couldn’t bring myself to even pick up my sketchbook. I’ve been drifting, scraping by on a little graphic design work, some waitressing. Nothing substantial. “It was hard to find a landlord I liked, and sometimes I just needed a change. It’s just how I am, Cora.”
“It isnothow you are, my love. You can’t run forever!”
“Coraline...” Howard chips in, warning lacing his voice in a way I’ve seldom heard. “Let the girl eat some breakfast.”
“But the old ways, her heritage, the book—”
“Not the damn book. Not before the blessed sun’s fully up, woman.”
Cora clicks her tongue before disappearing with the tea towels. I shove some toast into my mouth, just for something to do, and eye the muddy coffee stain on the ivory white tablecloth. I wonder how many more things I’ll ruin before I’m done with Ivy’s cottage this winter.
“Does she still talk about the old ways... a lot?” I whisper to Howard, keeping an eye on the door. The book, as Cora calls it, is our history. TheMorgan Compendium. It’s the collected stories of every Morgan woman who’s carried it, going back generations.Tales of the mountains, of the seasons, warnings and curses and fables and recipes and spells, shared around the fire on winter nights. I can count on both hands the number of times I laid eyes on it before I left, a couple of times even turning the brittle pages. I fear it and yearn to read it again in equal measure, and that scares me. The magic of the mountains is a dark thing, demanding a price, demanding blood from a Morgan woman for every bargain made in its shadow, or so it’s whispered around the town. And Cora has carried all of that with her for many, many years.
One day the book will pass to me. It always skips a generation, passed from grandmother to granddaughter. I know my mother wouldn’t want it anyway. Any mention of spells and curses and she shrinks away or changes the subject entirely. She hasn’t been back in Woodsmoke for years, and if she can, she’ll avoid the place for the rest of her days. To her, our legacy is poison. But to me... I don’t know. I’m still a little curious. I haven’t figured out how I feel about the book and the old ways.
Howard chews his toast, then crosses his cutlery on his plate. Also eyeing the door before speaking. “Only every day, flower,” he finally responds. “Only every goddamn day.”
There are wildflowers on the doorstep when I return to the cottage. A bundle of them, tied with a length of twine. They’re the kind you only find growing on the side of the mountain, under trees, in clumps, where the wild things wander. I nudge the bundle with the toe of my boot, then turn, eyeing the wide expanse around me. All I can hear is the thump of my own heart, the curl of fear lighting it like a spark.
Wildflowers in October, with frost coating the ground. They can’t be from Tom... can they? I pull my arms around myself as I turn back to the door. No. They can’t be from him. But my arrival, the fact that I am back, will have caught light bynow. It will have burned through Woodsmoke like a wildfire, passed from tongue to tongue, exaggerated, lengthened into a story worth sharing. Could the flowers be from someone Mum and Dad knew? An old neighbor? A friend? I shake my head, picking up the bundle. There’s herb robert, red campion, a handful of speedwell. And no note. They’ll wilt in a few hours, hardly worth picking. Better to let them sleep in the loam and frost until springtime.
A twig snaps, and I whip around to find someone standing on the path leading up to the mountains. A man. My heart jolts, and we stare at each other, twenty feet apart on the frosted field. His dark hair and eyes stand out against the pallor of his skin. His lips are red, swollen from the cold, cheekbones sharp, jaw solid and chiseled. My breath catches in my throat as I regard him, and he me. He seems... wild. And not quite real.
“Did you... are these from you?” I call over, pointing to the flowers. But he just puts his hands in his pockets, eyes me quietly, then turns and walks away. Within a heartbeat, he’s vanished as if he was never there at all. I exhale heavily, then wonder if he heard me, if I should go after him, demand to know if he was the one who left these wildflowers. A breeze stirs around me, and I pull my arms around myself.
There are tales in the book. Tales of beautiful people who are not quite real, stories from the mountains of the people of Woodsmoke being lured into the wild depths and never coming home. Perhaps the mountains are vengeful, perhaps just playful, perhaps in love with us. But it’s been drummed into me to follow the paths and never stray from them. Most still follow the old ways here, even if they don’t admit it aloud. But the hikers, the visitors, they don’t know the rules. And some of them go missing. Some of them never leave the mountains.
