An Unlikely Witch (3 page)

-o0o-

Ah, young girls giggling.  There was no better magic in the universe.

Moira rocked gently and watched Lizzie and Ginia try one more time to finish spelling their little jars of potion.  Lizzie, always fast but not always accurate, finished first.  And stared at her jar, eyes wide.

Sophie shook her head fractionally from the other side of the fireplace.

And then the jar burped, and most of the parlor audience joined their healer trainees in a puddle of laughter.  Thirteen-year-old Kevin recovered soonest, his hiccupping snickers sending his glasses sliding down his noise.  “I thought you said you were trying to make it fart.”

Lizzie tried a scowl, which would have been more effective if she hadn’t still been giggling.  “It’s harder than it looks.  You have earth magic—you try.”

Ginia grinned at their youngest healer.  “I bet Sean will like burping potions too.  You should keep that one.”

Lizzie had the village’s biggest troublemaker for her holiday gifting—and she’d come up with an idea that was a perfect storm of brilliance and insanity.  She was making the newly minted teenager a whole apothecary worth of magical potion gags and pranks.  Which Sean would adore and the rest of the village would live to seriously regret.

And yet, here they sat, with an old Irish granny walking eight-year-old hands through the tricky bits of a farting-jar spell.

Moira grinned.  She wasn’t the only one helping.  Marcus had contributed a tricky and very loud frog croak.  Sophie had come up with a lovely bit of magic that turned the wearer’s cheeks green and scaly, a prank that hadn’t been seen in these parts for a good twenty years—and if Moira remembered correctly, it hadn’t been young Sophie they’d blamed it on at the time.

At least with Sean, they’d be very sure who the culprit was.

“Having fun yet?”  Sophie got up to rescue a half-tipped jar, eyes bright with simple seasonal pleasure.

“Aye.”  And she was.  Pranks were the Irish national pastime.  “Wee Sean will be entirely delighted.”  And no longer wee—he’d taken advantage of a quiet fall to sprout up past almost everyone in the village.  His brain, however, hadn’t quite caught up with his newly larger feet.

And Moira was in no hurry to push him.  Sean would be a fine grown-up one day—and the more he got out of his system now, the less hard he’d have to work to put on the mantle of maturity when his time came. 

She nodded, content.  He would have a wonderful Solstice, and he wasn’t the only one.  “How is your gift for Aaron coming along?”  The innkeeper was a happy man with few demands—an interesting challenge, and one that Sophie had considered carefully for several days.

And then, in Moira’s humble opinion, walloped well out over the fence.

Sophie smiled, her eyes caught in a gentle, dreamy place.  “I got three more replies today.  One woman said his broccoli soup reminded her of when she and her husband were first married.  They were really poor students, and he insisted that his favorite food was broccoli right up until the day their first real paycheck came in.”

It was so easy to imagine a young couple just getting started.  “They stopped eating quite so much of it, did they?”

“Apparently.”  A grin of quiet delight.  “Aaron’s soup was the first time they’d had broccoli since.  She said it reminded them of how much love flowed back in those early days.  Now they have it every Friday for dinner.”

A whole scrapbook of such rememberings.  It would warm the soul of a man who was so very good at warming others.

“It’s amazing to read them, and to realize how deeply he touches lives with the food he puts on the table and the flowers he leaves by the bedside.”  Sophie paused, looking at the jar in her hands.  “I didn’t have any idea.  I thought I did, but I really didn’t.”

It was so easy as a healer to believe your life’s work mattered.  Others weren’t nearly so fortunate.  “He’ll know how much he matters on this earth.  It’s a truly lovely thing you do for him.” 

The younger healer smiled, eyes dancing in the firelight.  “I didn’t do it alone.  Thank you.”

It had truly been a pleasure. Moira had been tasked with temporarily borrowing the registration book for the inn and with dropping Sophie’s elegant, handwritten request letters in the mail.  “Anyone could have done as much.” 

Sophie chuckled as the jar in her hand farted.  “Maybe.  But so far, I think you’ve managed to keep it a secret.”  She glanced over.  “Are you any further along on a gift for Ginia?”

No.  And it was a weight on her shoulders, although not a heavy one.  “The flowers are murmuring of old things.”  Which wasn’t much of a clue when you were a musty old witch.

“You’ll think of something.  You always do.”

More than one jar in the room suddenly emitted rude noises.  Ginia high-fived Lizzie, eyes bright.  Moira listened to the sounds of laughter, treasuring them—and wondered exactly what of the old she was meant to give to that brightness.

-o0o-

Lauren carved a glob of frozen caramel out of her pint of ice cream and considered her bay window.  Somehow, the objects there had reorganized themselves over the last few months.  They looked now as if they were holding court for the orb, currently sound asleep on its glittery velvet pillow.

It was odd to think of a paperweight sleeping.  And this afternoon, it didn’t slumber alone.

Fuzzball yawned and stretched in his pool of sun—and caused one of Devin’s eyes to open.  “You’re awfully wiggly for a sleepy cat there, dude.”  His fingers scratched a fluffy gray head as he looked over at his wife.  “Sorry, didn’t hear you come home.  I must have dozed off.”

She smiled, enjoying his drowsy good humor.  “That’s what lazy Saturday afternoons are for.”  The two of them had been sound asleep when she’d gotten back from her last open house of the year.

“Hmmm.”  His eyes were waking up now.  “So how come you’re sitting over there eating ice cream instead of napping over here with me?”

Good question.  “I’m thinking.”  Strategizing, really.  “I need to have a chat with the orb.”

Devin didn’t move a muscle, but his whole being was suddenly on alert.  “Why?”

She sighed, so not wanting to disturb his lazy, cozy peace.  “I’m not sure staying quiet is the best course of action.  I need to see if it will give me more details.”  Some sort of clue that might help her with the timing of dropping a bomb onto her best friend’s life.

“Yeah.  That would be awfully damn useful.”  Dev’s voice was casual—only his mind hinted at menace. 

He read her far too well.  “I’m worried about Nat.”  That was a weak word for the turmoil in her insides.

“It’s picking on those you love best.”  He scowled in the direction of the paperweight. 

Still her knight in shining armor, even if he snored when he napped.  Lauren set her ice cream aside.  Comfort could wait—she was ready to do this.

He hadn’t moved, and yet she felt him wrap around her.  “I’ll be right here when you’re done.”

He would be.  Comfort came in a lot of forms. 

-o0o-

I need your help.

The orb slid into alertness, studying the feelings gathering outside its surface.  Stormy ones, messy.  Inexorably human, and backed by the power of the one who listened.  Dangerous ground.  It waited, hoping for something simple.  Within its power to deliver.

The feelings cleared and the image of the child with the snowman emerged, bright and clear.  She had much skill. 
I need to know if he comes soon.

She asked for the impossible.  It took care forming the words.
  Cannot say.

Surfaces pounded.  Fury, fear, so much feeling. 
That’s not good enough.

The orb collected itself, shaky.  So much power—even when she was trying to be gentle.  It shook foundations that weren’t supposed to shake.  It was not her fault.  She didn’t understand. 

The forces did not speak in human terms.  And they often didn’t let a tool of magic see or speak at all.  It thought, carefully. 
New question.
 Something it wasn’t so entirely forbidden to answer.  Or so uninformed as to what the answer might be.  On the subject of the child, the curtains were tightly drawn.

A mind reached into its center again. 
Okay.  Will the little boy—the one playing in the snow—will he exist?  Ever?

That it knew.  Yes.  And no.  And both.  The orb settled on a weak human word. 
Perhaps.

Frustration hammered its surfaces again. 
Is there something we need to do for him to live?  To be?

Yes.  And no.
 The orb flared, trying to make her see.  The universe was not simple, and the forces only passed on the parts they thought important. 
It is a journey that must begin. 
That was all it knew.
 
The words sounded imperious, even to destiny’s mouthpiece. 

The forces pressed in.  Demanding.  Implacable.  Shuddering, the orb passed on the last of what it understood. 
The journey matters.  The child is not important. 

Searing light exploded in its foundations. 
The child is all that matters.

The orb felt its essence melting.  Pushed out two desperate words. 
Stop.  Hurts.

The searing vanished, replaced by shock. 
What?

Light.  Hurts.  Voice.  Hurts.  Too hard.  No room. 
Human words were so infernally inadequate.  The orb pushed out a picture of itself, broken.
  Hurts.

I could do that?
 Guilt now, and no small helping of awe.
 I’m sorry.  I didn’t know.

The orb hadn’t known either.  None who had come before had held this power.

Something solid and warm coated its surface.  Steadied it. 
Does that help?

It felt like a cloak of fine velvet.  Soft, warm, luxurious. 
Yes.

Surprise.
 You barrier just like a human mind.

The orb felt oddly flattered. 

A long pause. 
You don’t know, do you.  If the child will be or not be.

Yes.  And no.  And this time, the orb was smart enough not to give that answer. 
Don’t.  Know. 
And one final word.  In gratitude for the cloak of velvet. 
Sorry.

Something warm, sneaking under the velvet. 
Thank you for trying.

The orb sat, exhausted and astonished.  In a thousand years and more—it had never been thanked for failure.

Chapter 3

Oh, dear.

Moira looked up into the eyes of her freshly landed visitor and felt her breath catch.  Such sadness.

Lauren gestured at the table.  “I’m sorry—I’m disturbing your work.”

“No, my dear.”  Moira stood from her careful filling of tiny jars of lemon balm.  “I’m just working on some wee gifts for the Solstice.  It’s no bother for them to sit a while.”  They were, however, covering every inch of her kitchen table.  And fresh and lemony wasn’t the right sensory wrapping for sorrow.  She reached for a tin on the counter.  “Come into the parlor with me and we’ll sit by the fire and have some of Aaron’s cookies.”  They were maple pecan and glorious, and perhaps would at least take the edge off her visitor’s sorrow.

Lauren reached out and cradled the tin and the old Irish hands that held it.  “I came without even thinking, seeking the comfort you always seem to have ready.”

Lovely words, even if the voice that said them wavered.  “If I’ve any magic left, it’s that of hearth and home.  And you, daughter of my heart, will always be welcome.”

A dark head curled down, finding a soft shoulder. 

Moira reached her hand to a cheek cold from the frosts of winter.  “You walked a bit before you came, then.”

“I did.”  Lauren’s breath lurched out.  “Berkeley’s my turf now.  My streets.  They help me think.”

Just as an old witch had her gardens.  Moira led the two of them into her cozy parlor, fire quietly burning in the hearth and the light smell of cinnamon dancing in the air.  She’d felt festive this morning.

But cinnamon also called to bravery.  Courage.

Perhaps her fingers, meandering along her spice jars in the dawn hours, had known.

Moira took her time, letting the fire and the coziness do their bits of magic.  She settled Lauren in a corner of the couch and draped a fuzzy green throw over her knees.  And then, finding her own seat, took two of Aaron’s cookie treasures out of the simple tin, still warm from his morning of baking. 

The man had infallible instincts, both as an innkeeper and as one of the witching community’s best caretakers.

Lauren’s fingers worried their way into the soft green yarn.  And ignored the cookie.

The old healer sitting three feet away worried.  There were degrees of sorrow—and a witch able to ignore a freshly baked cookie was pretty deep into them.  She took a breath and found the words to begin.  Love could go even where maple-pecan cookies couldn’t.  “Tell me what makes you so sad today, sweet girl.”

Another stuttering breath as one of Berkeley’s steadiest witches tried to right herself.  Lauren picked up the cookie, tracing its edges.  “The crystal ball is talking again.”