“Tea anyone?” Mrs. Twiggs carried a tea service to the table and began pouring, releasing a sweet fragrance similar to apple blossoms.
“Is this part of the ceremony?” Mrs. Bartlett asked, accepting the cup from Mrs. Twiggs.
“No, just something to soothe our nerves. A little chamomile.”
“To understand the power of the silver pendants, you must first understand the woman who enchanted it,” I said. “Agatha Hollows trained as a Cherokee medicine woman, yet she wasn’t Cherokee. Agatha befriended the Cherokee during the time of the Trail of Tears as the Cherokee were forced to leave their homes. She was summoned by their cries.”
“Summoned?” Mrs. Raintree asked. “My people believed the winds were alive with spirits and could call to them.”
I stared at her. She stopped herself from asking the unspoken question, instead saying, “Terra, I’ve been catching some very disturbing dreams in my dream catcher. Nightmares, really. Being chased through the woods, hunted. The faster I try to run, the slower I advance. The ground swallows me up.”
“Wanda, I’ve had that dream too,” Mrs. Bowers said. “Except I’m not running through the woods, I’m in town shopping. It’s a beautiful day. I’m strolling along the shop fronts in Pack Square, but I feel someone watching me. I quicken my pace, and then suddenly the noisy street is quiet and I’m the only one around. The street opens up, engulfing me.”
I saw by their expressions that all the ladies of the Biltmore Society were sharing the same or similar nightmare. Its meaning eluded me. Wiccans’ dreams can be more real than reality. Their waking hours are veiled by the humans they walk among. As the ladies’ bloodline has thinned through the centuries by mixing with mortal blood, the human world has become more real than the Wiccan world. They cannot see the magic that surrounds them. The wonder that this world and the next hold for them. In their dreams the true world awakens.
“Terra, what about the ninth Wiccan we need to complete our circle? You said a true coven has nine,” Mrs. Stickman said.
“The ninth will find us when it’s time,” I told her. “While we wait, we will concentrate on strengthening your individual powers. Study your notebooks, learn your potions and incantations.”
Mrs. Twiggs brought out a three-tier tray of homemade butter cookies. Pixel swiped his paw and knocked one off onto the floor and then moaned when Tracker gobbled it up. “Bad Tracker. Bad Tracker,” Pixel scolded, swatting the puppy with a paw. Tracker’s ghost violet eyes did not blink. Even though Pixel and Tracker had become great companions, lines were drawn when it came to table scraps, especially baked goods.
“I’ll stop by each of your homes to help you with your training,” I said.
Mrs. Twiggs continued stirring her cauldron in the fire. “I just can’t get this right.” She turned to the ladies.
I leaped off the table and ran to the cauldron. Standing on my back paws, I took a deep breath. “It’s missing hogweed.”
“Hogweed?” Mrs. Twiggs repeated. “There’s no mention of hogweed in the recipe.”
“These recipes have changed throughout the centuries. They need tweaking, or sometimes the person writing them down might have left off an ingredient. I can smell hogweed is missing, and it feels to me as if that is what is needed,” I said.
“Where do I find hogweed?”
“The hogweed we need is not found in North Carolina. What we need was originally from Asia and then brought to Ontario as an ornamental plant. We’re going to have to visit Karen Owen.”
Mrs. Twiggs returned to the kitchen. Instead of more tea, she brought out sherry glasses and a decanter. As the women talked and cackled into the night, I sat by the fire with Abigail, who held Pixel on her lap. I thought about what Pixel had said and how the potion had awoken something in him even though I knew it had no strength.
“What wrong, Terra, what wrong? Why you look at me? Pixel bad?” Pixel leaped off Abigail’s lap, tackling me and biting my ear. “Sorry about cookie.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. The whole world could be crumbling down around us, and Pixel would still be worried about a cookie crumb. His bravery and his appetite had no bounds.
Abigail smiled, watching us tumble and wrestle. Pixel made me feel more cat than witch. I gave into my feline urges when he was around.
Abigail and I waited on the front porch as Mrs. Twiggs said good night to the ladies and walked them out to their cars. Abigail sat on the rocking chair with Tracker at her feet. I sat on the railing, watching as the ladies drove into the night, my tail slashing like a metronome keeping time. In the distance I could hear the cracking of the oaks, thorn, and ash as the enchanted trees opened the road, allowing the ladies to pass. As quickly as they went by, the trees closed back over the road.
“Double, double toil and trouble.” Abigail glanced up as she stirred her tea. “Fire burn and cauldron bubble.”
I turned to stare at her. “Anne Hathaway was a witch. Her family name was Hawthorne. You don’t think Shakespeare came up with that line himself, do you? His wife was more than his muse. Many of the great women in history were witches.”
“I was kidding. I didn’t mean anything.”
“Be careful what words you speak, Abigail Oakhaven. For a witch as powerful as you, words hold great magic.”
Abigail shrugged and retreated into the cabin, leaving me in the darkness.
Chapter 2
The Gold Spoon
October 31, 1862,
Agatha Hollows’s cabin,
Black Mountain, North Carolina
“Take what you need, but leave me enough for the winter,” Agatha gasped out, her words cutting through her pain. Blood stained her sleeve. I huddled in the corner, waiting to pounce.
The Confederate lieutenant examined her wound, his hand lingering. She winced as he squeezed her arm. “It’s just a nick. I’ll be fine,” she said, pushing his hand away.
“We’ve come to commandeer supplies for the effort,” he said, opening a large grain sack, then walking cautiously toward Agatha. I feared it wasn’t food he sought. We heard a noise. The lieutenant turned to a young private, standing in the doorway.
The private spoke. “Sir, we have to leave her something.”
The lieutenant raised his whip, and the private cringed, lowering his eyes before leaving. From across the yard, I heard the heavy door of the storehouse opening.
The lieutenant sat down across from Agatha. She drew back from him, cringing. There was something about him, more than the deformity that he wore with pleasure. He seemed to enjoy the terror. He smiled. “Mrs. Hollows, ma’am, it’s not safe for you to be out here on your own.” His soft Southern drawl held a grit to it.
Agatha shifted in her rocking chair next to the blazing fire.
“I'm going to bring you back to Asheville.” The lieutenant bent down next to her chair. I could smell the foul stench of gangrene.
Agatha stirred the fire. “Can I get you some tea?” Not waiting for an answer, she poured cups of nettle tea. Then she reached in the dry sink, pulling out a small gold teaspoon given to her by a wealthy Ashevillian she had healed. The only item she had of value. With a slow hand, she placed the teacups on the table. “Sugar,” she asked. The lieutenant didn’t answer. She scooped sugar into his teacup, stirring it with the gold spoon.
He stared at Agatha as she stirred his teacup with the gold spoon. Then he pushed himself away from the table and stood. “We’ll be back,” he said, stepping toward the door.