Flint Lock (Witches of Karma #10) by Elizabeth A. Reeves Page A
Authors: Elizabeth A. Reeves
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next thing I saw, in my explorations, looked like a set of giant dandelions. The soft globes were about the size of my head, with the fluff still miraculously intact.
It wasn’t until I stepped closer, that I realized they were, in fact, artichokes—fully budded and ready to shed their fluffy interior. I brushed my fingers gently across the bristly surface, careful not to break off any of the fine fibers of thistledown.
The little room had no windows that I could see, which explained how the plants were in such good condition after all this time. I shouldn’t have been able to see anything at all, but the darkness was a friendly kind of cover—a protector, not a hunter.
I felt safe.
There was no evident glow, but my eyes grew used to the dim. The longer I stayed in the room, the easier it was for me to see my surroundings.
I crossed the room to finger through the books that the witch—or someone else—had left behind. The first two appeared to be farm diaries of some sort—long columns of what was planted where, and how many lambs had been born in April. I looked them over with mild curiosity.
The third book was written in a much different hand. The ink, despite being kept in this dark environment, was starting to turn brown. The paper was brittle and water-damaged.
The handwriting itself was narrow and hard to read. It reminded me of the way my grandmother wrote down her favorite recipes. It was handwriting from a different era—a time when neat cursive had been part of any educated person’s learning.
And this was a recipe book, too—well, of a sort. I was pretty sure that my Gran had never stirred up some ‘Moon Elixir’ containing a whole lot of herbs, and a good-sized portion of valerian. She might be a witch, but the most un-innocuous thing I’d ever seen her make was chamomile tea.
No, this narrow volume in my hands was obviously a Book of Shadows. I’d never had one of my own, though I knew several witches who kept their thoughts and ‘spells’, for lack of a better word, in the traditional book format. Some called them grimoires, some called them grammaries, some called them Books of Shadows. Whatever the name, they were all the same—personal spell books, usually bound to one person, or witch.
Maybe there was something to it. The Book of Shadows in my hands had the same warm, comforting presence as the rest of the room. I could almost see its maker, scented with herbs and mixing something in a mortar and pestle, pausing every once in a while to jot down notes with a quill pen.
It was a pretty fancy. I liked the idea that my farm might be haunted by the memory of a kind, gentle healer, like her Book of Shadows suggested she had been.
Books like this were usually handed down from generation to generation. What had happened here? Had the witch never had children or an apprentice that she could pass her work down to? What had happened to the woman who used to work here, that she had left everything in such a state of interruption?
I felt a shiver race up my spine.
Maybe it had been waiting all this time for me to find it. Maybe this room, and this book, were the reason why I had felt so drawn to the old farm in the first place.
“I’ll take good care of it,” I said out loud.
My voice was quiet, but I had a feeling that whoever was there—if there was anyone outside of my imagination—had heard me and was happy to pass the book’s legacy down to me.
I brushed the cobwebs off of my face as I sat down to peruse the pages more thoroughly. Some of the words appeared to be in Latin, or perhaps Gaelic, while others were difficult to pick out of the tight script.
Part of my marveled at my fascination with the book.
It had been so long since I had touched this part of my life. I had done so much, come so far, patting myself on the back for leaving that whole world behind. And here I was, reading a Book of Shadows, and feeling the cool tingle of my own magic under my skin.
I must have
It wasn’t until I stepped closer, that I realized they were, in fact, artichokes—fully budded and ready to shed their fluffy interior. I brushed my fingers gently across the bristly surface, careful not to break off any of the fine fibers of thistledown.
The little room had no windows that I could see, which explained how the plants were in such good condition after all this time. I shouldn’t have been able to see anything at all, but the darkness was a friendly kind of cover—a protector, not a hunter.
I felt safe.
There was no evident glow, but my eyes grew used to the dim. The longer I stayed in the room, the easier it was for me to see my surroundings.
I crossed the room to finger through the books that the witch—or someone else—had left behind. The first two appeared to be farm diaries of some sort—long columns of what was planted where, and how many lambs had been born in April. I looked them over with mild curiosity.
The third book was written in a much different hand. The ink, despite being kept in this dark environment, was starting to turn brown. The paper was brittle and water-damaged.
The handwriting itself was narrow and hard to read. It reminded me of the way my grandmother wrote down her favorite recipes. It was handwriting from a different era—a time when neat cursive had been part of any educated person’s learning.
And this was a recipe book, too—well, of a sort. I was pretty sure that my Gran had never stirred up some ‘Moon Elixir’ containing a whole lot of herbs, and a good-sized portion of valerian. She might be a witch, but the most un-innocuous thing I’d ever seen her make was chamomile tea.
No, this narrow volume in my hands was obviously a Book of Shadows. I’d never had one of my own, though I knew several witches who kept their thoughts and ‘spells’, for lack of a better word, in the traditional book format. Some called them grimoires, some called them grammaries, some called them Books of Shadows. Whatever the name, they were all the same—personal spell books, usually bound to one person, or witch.
Maybe there was something to it. The Book of Shadows in my hands had the same warm, comforting presence as the rest of the room. I could almost see its maker, scented with herbs and mixing something in a mortar and pestle, pausing every once in a while to jot down notes with a quill pen.
It was a pretty fancy. I liked the idea that my farm might be haunted by the memory of a kind, gentle healer, like her Book of Shadows suggested she had been.
Books like this were usually handed down from generation to generation. What had happened here? Had the witch never had children or an apprentice that she could pass her work down to? What had happened to the woman who used to work here, that she had left everything in such a state of interruption?
I felt a shiver race up my spine.
Maybe it had been waiting all this time for me to find it. Maybe this room, and this book, were the reason why I had felt so drawn to the old farm in the first place.
“I’ll take good care of it,” I said out loud.
My voice was quiet, but I had a feeling that whoever was there—if there was anyone outside of my imagination—had heard me and was happy to pass the book’s legacy down to me.
I brushed the cobwebs off of my face as I sat down to peruse the pages more thoroughly. Some of the words appeared to be in Latin, or perhaps Gaelic, while others were difficult to pick out of the tight script.
Part of my marveled at my fascination with the book.
It had been so long since I had touched this part of my life. I had done so much, come so far, patting myself on the back for leaving that whole world behind. And here I was, reading a Book of Shadows, and feeling the cool tingle of my own magic under my skin.
I must have
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