Page 70 of The Woodsmoke Women's Book of Spells
That grandchild isme.
“Oh, Cora,” I say, a sob catching in my throat. I read on. The bitter sister knows the mountains did not claim a price from her sister—they claimed it fromher.They robbed her of the chance to hold her own child, to ever have children. The bitter sister believed that the child who had stars for eyes and loved the mountains should have been hers, but was gifted to another. To the fair sister’s daughter, who had no lasting love for Woodsmoke.
My fingers stray to my throat, eyes growing wide as I read on.
When the bitter sister learns that the child plans to leave, she cannot stand it. She makes a new deal with the mountains, offers fresh blood in the moonlight. To cut the tie she had made with that love potion to the apple thief, to stop her from leaving Woodsmoke and her. But the bargain sours, turning into a curse, a curse that robs the child of all she loves, and all who love her. She leaves the apple thief, her home, the bitter sister, and the fair sister. She leaves every love of her life; she leaves the mountains...
I turn the page with shaking fingers.
Then the fair sister dies, and the child is beckoned back. But the mountains do not welcome her. Instead, they punish her for leaving. They curse her to fall in love with the man who appears with the frost... who disappears as the frost thaws.
I run a finger over these words, seeing the faint markings of a footnote, the reference at the end to the page where the frost tale begins. Cora believed it. She truly believed it.
“Matthieu,” I say, running my finger back over the words. “You mean Matthieu.”
I turn another page, expecting the tale to continue. But it’s blank. I turn the next page, the next, my fingers frenzied and trembling, searching for the ending. But there’s no ending to the story. Only empty space, dozens of blank pages. I laugh, tipping my head back, and wonder if she didn’t know.
But maybe she wanted me to find my story unfinished. To carry our collected stories and write my own. The story of the girl who finally found where she belonged. Who came home.
Epilogue
Carrie
The Following Autumn, as the Frost Forms...
She was easy to love, easy to laugh with. Her soul shone like that full moon under which she was born.
—Cora Morgan, February 1, 2013
Iget up with the dawn. The frost has formed overnight, weaving lace and ice over the fields. I throw on an extra jumper, pull my hair up into a bun, and stretch, feeling the spaces between my ribs fill with light. I walk downstairs, flick on the kettle in the kitchen, and eye the looming giants through the back window as Kep stirs at my feet. It feels as though they’re waiting.
I drink my tea quickly, after letting it cool just to a temperature that burns but doesn’t scald. I feel the hot liquid trickling down my throat, into my chest. Taking a breath, I welcome the winter. Remembering the winters that have gone before, I know that this winter will be all mine.
My breath fogs out before me as I walk, boots crunching, like treading on glass. I thrust my hands into my pockets, tip my head back, and breathe in the air. It’s cold and sweet like the first taste of winter. I drink and drink it in, smiling as the sun dances through the sky, as Kep barks, haring off into the grass to stretch her legs in all the frost.
There’s only one place I want to go this morning. Only oneplace I can go to greet the frost and the change in the season. I whistle to Kep and she stalks over, staying at my heels. The trail leading up the mountain is still overgrown with the remnants of summer. Autumn beat back a little of it, but only enough to change the color of the foliage. Bronze and gold and scarlet leaves litter the ground, leaving the limbs of the trees bare and expectant. Waiting for winter. Waiting for the snow and ice to cover their naked forms.
I walk slowly, swaying with each step as my feet get used to the new boots I’m breaking in. Once I decided to stay, I knew I had to match my wardrobe to the seasons. Dresses in the summer, and wide-brimmed straw hats. In autumn, layers of long-sleeved shirts and woolen jumpers, with boots sturdy enough for the mud coating the trails. I kept my old shirts to paint in. I’d set up an easel in the back room, just as I’d pictured. And now, at the beginning of winter, I’m wearing a coat that’s thick enough to turn away the cold. One I chose with Jess a couple of weeks ago as she cuddled the new baby into her chest.
Elodie has been the biggest surprise. When I look at her, all I see is springtime. She’s an unexpected anchor here, a tie I can’t just cut loose and sail away from. I pick her up from school so Jess can stay at home instead of bundling up the baby to make the school run twice a day. Elodie and I thread daisy chains and play hopscotch, and I carry a bag of penny sweets just for her. When I told Jess that I was definitely staying, that I had no plans to leave with the summer sun, she turned to Elodie and said, “Isn’t that wonderful? Auntie Carrie isn’t going anywhere.” And I had to turn away, sniffling as my eyes quickly misted with tears.
Auntie Carrie.
Just those two words, twined together. That is the greatest gift of all.
Pausing at the fork in the trail, I turn to the lookout. The viewsteals my breath, even now. The view over Woodsmoke, and beyond it, growing indistinct, the endless horizon. All the lives in those little houses, their chimneys freshly lit with the arrival of winter.
My gaze roves over the tapestry of houses, the market square, the cobblestone heart of the town, and lands on the crooked shop off the town center. Ivy’s shop.Myshop. Or rather, my art gallery. Cora left the property to me in her will, so all I have to do is pay the scant bills. It’s the perfect space to fill with my sketches and prints, with a couple of bolder pieces I’ve tentatively placed on the walls to sell. The tourists seemed to like them this summer. They flocked through Woodsmoke in their hikers’ boots, binoculars slung around their necks, and some came in to ask after Ivy. Finding no candles to purchase, they bought a print or a postcard instead. I couldn’t help thinking of Matthieu and his brother, though, when I saw those hikers and heard their plans.
Cora would have loved what the shop has become. Ivy would have snuck in after I turned the sign toclosedand stuffed her candles into every little bit of spare space. But they both would have handed me the old iron key, patted my hand, and wanted me to keep going. The fair sister and the bitter sister.
The Morgan women who came before me.
A whisper stirs at my back, and I close my eyes, imagining it’s him. Just for a moment, I picture his face, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners. The way last winter he tucked a smile away, just for me, as we grew to know each other. The way the trail of his kisses lit me on fire.I still love you, I whisper back, wondering if he’ll hear it, wherever he is now. Whether my words will carry across continents, a whisper on the wind in his ear.
I could make a bargain with the mountains. I could pull him to me, hand over pieces of myself as a trade. But I’ve seen the other side of that coin, experienced it for myself. The mountains maygive, but they ask so much in return. An eye for an eye. A life for a life.
A love... for a love.
