Page 39 of The Child of Rue Royale
In between the spell preparation, we take walks down to the boardwalk for funnel cake whenever we feel like it, and I remind Chantal about The Giant Dipper roller coaster, how that was the roller coaster Bastian and his brother Luc were riding the first time I went back into Bastian’s memory. How it was the catalyst for successfully creating the daywalking potion.
We drink coffee on Pacific Avenue, where tourists and locals wander, where the sun kisses our cheeks. Watching a man make balloon animals most days, lighting up the children’s cherub faces as the skateboarders flip tricks along the street.
Cassius has visited a few times but still hasn’t held Aven. “When he has some damn coordination, that’s when it will be best.” He grinned, staring at the baby like he was the hope diamond. In a way, he is our hope diamond, I guess.
And when we aren’t out, I’m home, being a new mother and working on the spell. Rose petals for love, bird bones for death, nettle for courage, comfrey for luck, saffron for success. Everything soaks and boils and sits and soaks and boils and sits all over again. This concoction simmers for six hours every single day. And every night, Chantal takes Aven for an hour while I sit at the fireplace, its glow my beacon of hope. That’s where I set the groundwork for the final night I bring Bastian back. I create the energy. I meditate over Winnie and the tincture I’m creating, Bastian’s ashes, and Aven’s blood. At first, it feels like two months is a millennium away. But each day passes, as days tend to do, until one night two months have gone by, and I’m packing up my things while Chantal enters the kitchen.
“Are you ready for this?” She shakes an empty jar in the air. The last ingredient we need, and it must be collected the evening before the spell.
“I’m ready.”
We pack up Aven, placing him in his car seat where he’ll be knocked out for a few more hours.
“You okay?” she asks, watching my knee bounce up and down in the passenger seat.
“What if it doesn’t work? What if I can’t bring him back?”
She blows out her cheeks, her beautiful curls plopped on top of her head in a messy bun. “We aren’t even thinking that way, okay? Not tonight.”
“You know that’s the only way I think most of the time. It drove Bastian nuts. Miss Logical. Miss Responsible.”
The corner of her mouth turns up. “It’s hard to believe that you two were so in love and I missed the whole thing.”
I grab her hand, bring it to my lips, and kiss it. “Since I can’t literally kiss your ass for what I did forever, I’ll just kiss your hand, okay?”
She smiles and nods.
“Do you think it’s irresponsible to take a baby to a graveyard at midnight?”
I ask.
She thinks about it for a moment. “I mean, we’re witches. Not bringing a baby to a graveyard at midnight is even more irresponsible, yes?”
“For sure,” I agree, and we laugh as she pulls into the cemetery parking lot. “This won’t take long,” I whisper as if anyone can hear us, grab the jar, and take off to collect dirt from a cemetery at midnight.
I wake the next morning feeling out of my body, my confidence draining like a bath that’s plug has been hastily pulled. In twelve hours, I will sit on the beach, and I will bring Bastian back. Once, I was so assured, but the worry has settled in, plaguing me.
I spend the day quiet as possible, pushing all my energy to the evening in front of me. I lay Aven on his play mat next to the fireplace, noticing how much he’s already changed in the two short months he’s been here. His eyes focus on me now as his legs stretch. I swear he’s ready to start giggling. All things Bastian missed.
My hands start to shake from the reality of what the night could bring. I look over everything, the tincture, the blood and ash, the dirt collected from the graveyard.
Then my phone rings.
“If there’s anyone that can do this, it’s you,” her voice says, and I break into tears, my forehead resting in my hand.
“I don’t know if that’s true this time, Mother.”
“Oh, baby. When will you see yourself how we all see you? When will you finallysee?”
I shake my head, suddenly wishing she were here. “I can’t see it. I just want it to work so much, but I’m so scared. And I’m worried that fear will block my magic.”
“Then don’t let it. Go in with the confidence I know is within you. You are Aster Wildes, the Royal Street Witch. You have fought vampires, invented potions never created before, birthed a son, and you can do this. I love you.”
My hand reaches my heart, her words grounding me, fueling me, inspiring me.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “I love you too, Mom. I love you so much.”
RESURRECTION REQUIRES THE FOURelements, and luckily, I have the earth, air, and water in my back yard. As for the fire, candles are lit in a giant circle near where the shore breaks, wicks burning bright, the flames moving like ghosts. Along the circle of candles lies a ring of aventurine, rose quartz, obsidian, and garnet. And in the middle, lying on the blanket that Aven was first wrapped in when he was born, is the drop of Aven’s blood in a vial, Winnie, Cassius’s book, the cemetery dirt, the tincture I’ve created over the last two months, and the ashes I held in my hand the night I lost him.
