The Magick of Dark Root (Daughters of Dark Root) (3 page)

“I do thank you for the help,” I said, trying to hide the sarcasm as I removed a pair of denim overalls from my bureau. Perfect. They were roomy in the hips and waist and if my nipples happened to leak I could cover them up with the straps.
 

Eve snatched them away from me and tossed them into the wastebasket.
 

“All I know,” Eve said, still scrutinizing my wardrobe. “Is that I’m glad it’s you and not me. No way would I want to be saddled down with a kiddo right now. You can’t do anything when you have a kid.” Eve looked at me, catching my worried expression. “Don’t worry, Maggie. You don’t do much now anyways.”

I pulled out a dress, a sage, rectangular piece I had sewn myself at Woodhaven during one of the required home economics classes, a class I failed twice.
 

Once again Eve grabbed it away. “You’re not wearing that pillow case either.”

“Well, I don’t know what to wear,” I said.
 

We were going to our mother’s house today––
summoned
, as Eve put it––to resume our training in
the craft.
It had been so long since I had practiced that I wasn’t sure what the proper dress code was anymore. In our youth, we had worn sunbonnets and floral dresses for daytime spells and velvet gowns with lace-up boots for nighttime rituals. Mother and her Council usually donned robes that covered their entire bodies and most of their faces.
 

I didn’t have any of those items. Nor would I be purchasing any. If Mother wanted me to take over as Council Elder she was going to have to accept that a few things would need to change, starting with the freaky ‘70s wardrobe.

At last I found a dark gray dress with a drawstring waist and held it up for Eve’s approval.

“If you’re going for the sad nun look, you’ve nailed it” she said, puckering up her pink-glossed lips. “But I guess that’s as good as we’re going to get until we take you maternity clothes shopping. At least it looks like it will fit.”
 

She left the room while I put on the dress, and returned with a pair of ribbed tights and a strand of mulberry colored beads.
 

“These will keep you from looking like you’re in mourning,” she said. “Put on those new brown boots of yours, too.”

I dressed as instructed, trying not to think about the fact that the last time I had worn my
new brown boots
was a week ago. Shane Doler had driven me home after The Haunted Dark Root Festival and we had spent the night curled up in the back of his pickup truck, talking and holding hands until the sun came up. There was a moment when we almost kissed, when our lips were so close I could almost taste him, but neither of us made the move.
 

Still, it had been one of the most romantic nights of my life.
 

Of course, the next day I found out I was carrying Michael’s baby and everything changed.

I couldn’t face Shane and hid myself away in the house, ignoring his calls and his frequent visits. Dark Root’s a small town and I knew I would have to tell him eventually, but for now, avoiding him was easier. I wanted to keep the fantasy of that night alive as long as I could before reality shattered it like one of my light bulbs.

“You look better already,” Eve said, stepping back to view me. After a quick once-over she removed her hoop earrings and handed them over with a look that said,
you need these more than I do.

“Remember when you pierced our ears?” I asked, flinching at the memory. “Mother had a fit.”

Eve raised and lowered her shoulders. “I had watched her shove enough needles into dolls and doves. It didn’t seem that hard.”

“Merry’s poor ears were infected for a week.”

“How was I supposed to know you were supposed to use clean needles? I was only nine.”

“I’m not sure how I feel wearing jewelry. Michael didn’t let us wear these things in Woodhaven. He said it made us vain.”

“Michael’s not here, is he?” Eve gave me a coy look. “Don’t worry, Maggie. You’re not going to hell for wearing jewelry. If that were true, there’d be no women in Heaven, and what fun would that be for the men there?” She turned me towards the mirror that hung over the bedroom door. “You look great.”

I grimaced, not so sure. “What happened to the beautiful glow of pregnancy I’d heard about?” My already-pale skin had turned a tombstone white, my once-red hair now looked a lackluster brown, and I had developed a second chin, with a third in queue.
 

“If you think it’s bad now, just wait,” Eve said, flopping onto the bed and crossing her right leg over her left as she straightened her back. Her round, surgically-enhanced bosom pulled against her sweater. “I’ve had friends whose boobs swing like jungle vines after breastfeeding. It ain’t pretty.”

I clutched my small breasts, ready to save them if they started to plunge. “Why do you keep telling me these things? You’re supposed to be supportive.”

“Hey, if my boobs were going to fall like broken elevators, I’d want to know. That’s why I had preemptive surgery.” She thrust out her chest, once again revealing the small snow globes beneath the fabric. “You can always get a lift afterwards, but you’ll never be the same.”

I left the mirror and slumped down next to her.

She wrapped an arm around me, resting her head on my shoulder. Her normal earthy smell was replaced by the scents of cinnamon and vanilla, evidence that she’d been baking.
 

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice taking on an unexpected note of sincerity. “This whole
being supportive
thing is new to me. But I’ll learn.” She planted a soft kiss on my cheek and squeezed me tighter.
 

We sat there, sister-to-sister, comfortable in the silence. We’d made great strides in our relationship over the last two months, growing from rivals into friends. She was doing her best and I loved her for it, horror stories and all.

“Are you scared?” she finally asked, placing her hand back on my abdomen.

“Terrified,” I answered, setting my hand over hers.
 

Our hands rose and fell with each breath I took.
 

“Whatever happens, I’m here for you,” she said.

“I know.”

We were startled by a knock on the door. Paul’s dark blond pompadour peeked inside. “Sorry to interrupt you ladies,” he said. “Eve, the Explorer’s loaded up and ready to go. And I’ve got a huge surprise for you!” He disappeared as suddenly as he had arrived, the chains around his tight dark jeans jingling down the hallway.

“I’m coming,” she called after him, rising. Then to me she added, “Cheer up. Merry makes motherhood look easy. You will too.”

“Thanks. Evie. I appreciate it. Give me five minutes to go to the bathroom and then I’m ready, too.” The last week I had spent a considerable amount of time in the bathroom, either peeing or puking or a crazy combination of both.
 

“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” Eve grinned from behind her black bangs. “I’ve arranged alternate transportation for you.”

“What?”

“Yes. Sir Shane Doler shall come for his lady fair at around ten this fine morning.”

“You didn’t!”

“Oh, yes I did.” She tossed her hair, shutting it before I could catch her.
 

Great.
 

I rubbed the sides of my temples as I caught sight of a book sitting on an upholstered chair in the corner of the bedroom. With all the new developments in my life, I had almost forgotten Mother’s spell book. I opened it to a page entitled
How to Call the Rain.
 

If there was a spell to change the weather, I reasoned, perhaps there was one that could change time.
 

I tucked the book into my tote bag and headed downstairs to question Aunt Dora.
 

The shutters rattled and knocked, rapping against Harvest Home like a new convert selling door-to-door religion.
 

I grabbed my alpaca sweater and hurried down the winding staircase that creaked and moaned with every step. It was cold in the old house, the only source of heat emanating from the parlor fireplace on the lower floor. Aunt Dora would fire up the furnace on the first day of December, and not one day sooner.

I passed the formal dining room where Mother and The Council had once gathered around the massive oak table as they discussed coven business. I stopped in the formal living room with its stiff, Victorian furniture and wall-to-wall bookshelves to check the weather on Aunt Dora’s massive, flat screen TV.
 

The weatherman said it would rain all day. I grimaced. I hadn’t expected much else in Dark Root in November, but I had
hoped
for a nice day, after my week-long hibernation. I thought of all the sunny days in my life that I had squandered sitting in dark rooms watching television or taking a nap. I wished I could take them all back.

The smell of nutmeg lured me into the heart of Harvest Home: the kitchen.
 

“Good mornin’, lass!” Aunt Dora’s lilty voice called to me. She smiled over her shoulder as she pulled a tray of muffins out of the oven. “It’s good ta see ya up an’ about.” Her ample bottom fluttered beneath her blue-checkered house dress, cut from the same cloth as the kitchen curtains. She set the tin on the stove, then poked a toothpick into the center muffin.
 

“Perfect,” she declared, wiping her hands on her bleached white apron.

“Morning,” I said, suddenly embarrassed.
 

Preferring to wallow alone in my misery, I hadn’t made an appearance in the kitchen for several days. Luckily, Aunt Dora and Eve had taken turns delivering trays to my room so that I wouldn’t
waste away
.
 

“Mmm,” I said, sniffing the air. “Blueberry?”

“Aye. Good nose. Still peein’ on Popsicle sticks?” she asked, her eyes twinkling as she slathered a muffin in butter. She set the muffin on a white China plate and handed it to me.

“No. I gave up,” I sighed.
 

I had taken so many pregnancy tests I could be a shareholder in the company by now. With each test I took, I closed my eyes and focused my energy, trying to change the outcome. But witchery was no match for the little pink cross.

I opened the relic that served as a refrigerator, one of those iceboxes that kids used to crawl into and never come out of. When Aunt Dora turned away, I took a long swill of orange juice straight from the container, then quickly put it back.
 

Thirst quenched, I plopped myself onto one of the wooden chairs around the small kitchen table.

“We really need to get these things fixed,” I said, rocking back and forth on the unsteady seat. The chair was probably older than Aunt Dora.

“If it can stand my weight, it can stand yers!” Aunt Dora patted her hips and laughed. “Besides, we don’t get rid of things just because they get old. Understand?”

I nodded obediently.
 

“Goin’ ta see yer mother?”
 

“I have to,” I said, taking a tentative bite of my muffin. When my stomach didn’t object I took a larger bite. “When Sasha Shantay summons you by name, you’d best answer the call.”

Aunt Dora hooted, slapping her thigh so hard I could see the flesh ripple beneath her nightgown. “Maggie. Since when do ya answer anyone’s call? I remember a girl who liked ta stay out way past dark just ta give her mother fits.” She smiled at the memory and gave me a wink.