“Faster, Abigail,” I yelled.
Back and forth she ran. “Ohwhatas, illygoo, siam.”
“Say the words faster.”
“Ohwhatasill—” Abigail stopped dead and then said, “Oh, what a silly goose I am.”
Pixel fell off the railing again. Abigail snapped the broom in two over her knee and stormed into the house.
Pixel inhaled deeply. “Me hungry?” He could smell what I did—Mrs. Twiggs’s cauldron boiling with a concoction for which I had given her the recipe. He scurried into the cabin with Tracker and me close behind.
“Oh dear, Terra, I don’t think I’m doing this right.” The new Mrs. Twiggs, light on her feet Mrs. Twiggs, filled her wooden ladle from the iron cauldron hanging above the fire in the big stone fireplace and breathed in. Since her transformation to a Wiccan, Mrs. Twiggs had turned into a much younger woman. Not so much that the humans could tell but enough that those close to her could. “I followed every step in Agatha’s recipe. I know I did.” She shook her head.
Pixel tiptoed up to the cauldron, stood on his hind paws, and sniffed. “Me like.” He grinned at me, his smile resembling that of the Cheshire cat from Alice in Wonderland. Pixel’s days were full of new discoveries, and his delight in them never ceased to delight me.
Over the past few months, Mrs. Twiggs had spent most of her time at the cabin, helping me with Abigail’s schooling. She understood we needed Abigail to become who she was meant to be—a powerful witch in a long line of powerful witches. The Leaf & Page, her cozy tea and vintage bookshop in downtown Biltmore Village, had been shuttered. She felt it best left in the good hands of her deceased, beloved husband, Albert.
“It takes time, Mrs. Twiggs. Magic is a study of patience and repetition. Just the slightest wrong turn of the spoon or a pinch too much of this or that and any potion can turn bad.” I said with authority. I had learned this firsthand from Elizabeth, who I studied under in Salem. “All magic is chemistry. The chemistry of combining herbs and ingredients but also the chemistry of the witch who brews them.”
“I don’t know why this isn’t working, Terra. You said Agatha used this potion to bring on visions.”
As Mrs. Twiggs talked, Pixel leaped up and reached with his paw to bring the spoon to his mouth. He lapped the potion up before we could stop him. “Mmm, good. Pixel like. Pixel like.” I knocked the spoon away from him. He stopped in his tracks, shaking his tail ferociously. His eyes dilated. “Feel funny, Terra. Pixel feel funny. Pixel no like.” Pixel’s eyes rolled back into his head. He whispered in my ear, “They come. The hunters come.” His eyes rolled back, and he pounced on me. “Me hungry. Me hungry.”
“What just happened?” Mrs. Twiggs asked. “I tried the potion and had no visions.”
I had no response. Pixel was an ordinary cat—no, I do him injustice, he’s an extraordinary cat, fearless and brave but a cat all the same.
Mrs. Twiggs scooped the ladle again and brought it down so I could lap from it. The potion tasted gritty against my tongue. I waited for the explosion of light but nothing. I didn’t have any traces of the gift of vision. I never had even when I was a girl. Mrs. Twiggs on the other hand didn’t need any potion to peer into the future. Her gifts included prophecy, but we had yet to determine her Wiccan ancestry. I had her make the recipe, hoping her bloodline would be revealed.
Abigail sulked in the corner, guitar in her hand.
“I have dinner on the stove,” Mrs. Twiggs said.
We all sat down at the small kitchen table. Mrs. Twiggs served up the honey ham, sweet potatoes, and fresh biscuits. Pixel gobbled his up, making slurping noises. I ate more slowly, skipping the potatoes.
“Terra, I’ve invited the ladies over. They are still recovering from the events of Halloween, and I think we need to ease their minds.” Mrs. Twiggs referred to the Ladies of the Biltmore Society, our local group of Wiccans. Before transforming into their true Wiccan selves, the ladies had been a garden club devoted to maintaining the legacy of Frederick Law Olmsted, the master gardener who created the gardens at the Biltmore Estate. The ladies had recently defeated a darkness that had settled over Asheville, the town nestled in the Blue Ridge Mountains where we had made our home.
“It’s because of those events that we need to continue their training,” I said.
“I thought that was all over. That we’re safe now,” Abigail said.
I didn’t want to let the others know yet that we’ll never be truly safe. The magic we had woken in Asheville was a beacon shining out to the rest of the world and beyond. Creatures following that beacon would come. I hoped that Mrs. Twiggs’s powers or a premonition enhanced by Agatha Hollows’s potion would give us sufficient warning to prepare for the battle to come. “We must always be ready and keep our skills sharp, Abigail. For now, let us enjoy our meal.”
Tracker sat patiently by Abigail’s side. He was now a full-grown dog, nearly sixty pounds. He waited on any movement of her hand signaling treats from the table. Pixel had finished and was now hovering over Mrs. Twiggs, purring and nudging against her, seeking seconds and thirds.
I finished my meal with relish, washing it down with the saucer of cream Mrs. Twiggs shared with Pixel and me.
“I’ll clear the table. We’ll have dessert when the ladies come. I’ve made peach tarts.” Mrs. Twiggs bustled around the table, clearing the dishes, humming softly to herself.
Abigail sat by the fire, strumming her guitar. It was her most prized possession. I leaped onto the stool next to her. “Terra, why am I wasting my time with these spell books? I’ve read everything you’ve given me, memorized every potion, every incantation.”
“You’re not ready for your great-grandmother’s book.”
“You told me I’m the only one who can wield it. I’m not afraid of it.”
“Because you’re not afraid that means you’re not ready to open it.” Abigail and I had this argument constantly.
“All these spells you have me practicing are useless. This spell right here.” Abigail reached down and picked up a book called Spellbound. She read out loud. “Tied by knots of thread, held by hands of dead, bound by earth, covered by dirt, lie eternal by woods.”
I knew that spell well. Agatha had used it often with the folk who lived in the nearby cabins. “Appalachians believe the dead would come back to life if not put to rest. Agatha used that spell not only to calm their fears but as a precaution against dark spirits that preyed on the newly dead.”
“Did it work?”
“Not really.”
“Why am I practicing it?”
“Because Agatha believed it would work. While the occasion never arose that a dark spirit brought a body back to life doesn’t mean it couldn’t happen. More importantly, you have to understand the history of the power you wield. Your family oak is the center of that power, and like the rings of its trunk that power radiates throughout these Western North Carolina woods. Agatha’s magic was also part of these woods, so understand your history first.”
Abigail shut the book with a snap and put it down. She went back to her guitar. She did not have the patience yet for what I needed to teach her. And I did not have the experience to be a teacher. I was Elizabeth’s apprentice; Abigail’s great-grandmother had been my mentor. I felt a bit of a fraud trying to teach magic to a witch who would grow to be more powerful than I would ever be.
“They here. They here,” Pixel singsonged from his perch on the windowsill. I glanced out the window and saw the cars pulling up to the cabin. The ladies were here, all of them wearing their black ceremonial cloaks and pointed hats. The hats were not necessary, but the ladies insisted on wearing them. One by one, they filed up the cabin steps. Doris Stickman first, tall and thin as a rail, her ebony skin glistening in the moonlight. She was followed by the much smaller Nupur Bartlett, her red Bindi on her forehead representing her strength. The smallest of all the ladies, she was our most powerful warrior. Next came the wide Jean Branchworthy, with her moon-pie face. She stopped and smiled at me with her smoky eyes. Then Gwendolyn Birchbark, who stopped and politely bowed, a dichotomy of her proper Chinese heritage and her Southern warmth and hospitality. Following her was the freckle-faced Caroline Bowers. I bowed politely. Her bloodline was royal, dating back to Rhiannon the queen of witches. In the previous weeks, she had been conversing with me in my dreams. Wanda Raintree almost skipped up the steps, her hair tied in a single braid, wrapped in Cherokee turquoise and silver. Then the youngest of them all, June Loblolly, our Viking princess. She carried her hat, her hair flowed free, a silver carved circlet on the crown of her head. She walked with poise, demonstrating her former modeling career. Since turning, all the ladies walked purposely in contrast to their outward human appearance of old age. These ladies were our coven.