hippie movement, and it was easy to believe. It carried the resonance of creativity and music in its tall wainscoting and multipaned windows of wavy glass. Harmony emanated from its bones.
Bronwyn had painted a border of cheerful daisies right above the wainscoting, leading all the way up to her bright purple door at the top of the stairs. A hemp doormat read: Welcome, all ye who enter here. And a hand-painted, flower-bedecked sign on the door held a line from the amiable creed of her Wiccan faith: An it harm none, do what ye will.
Bronwyn was a wide-open, smiling, rosewater- and patchouli-scented soul, the type who would as soon hug you as look at you. Normally. But not today.
In response to my loud knock, she opened the door just a crack. It didn’t take supernatural sensitivity to know she wasn’t particularly happy to see me.
“Bronwyn? What’s wrong?” I stuck my foot in the door, just in case.
“I . . . this isn’t the best time, Lily.” She looked behind her, whispered something, then turned back to me. “I don’t suppose you’ll go away, let me call you later?”
I shook my head.
“Lily . . .”
“Bronwyn, you know how stubborn I can be.”
“Really, I’ll call you—”
I started humming and looking at my fingernails. I did not remove my foot from the door.
Bronwyn sighed, stepped back, and swung the door wide.
She wore a typical Bronwyn-style dress: purple gauze over a tie-dyed slip. Her brown hair was as fuzzy as ever, but lacked the floral decorations with which she usually adorned herself. Her feet were bare, her shoulders uncharacteristically slumped.
Bronwyn’s apartment, like mine, was filled with herbal sachets, crystals, and charm bags hanging above windows and doors. Mirrors were set up opposite the front door and several windows to deflect bad energy. But unlike me, Bronwyn felt no reason to hide her wannabe witchy ways: On the walls hung numerous rainbow-hued goddess paintings, and every horizontal space was graced with stones, herbs, candles, books on Wicca, a crystal ball, a pentacle.
And today, two young children were sitting at a low coffee table in the living room amid scattered markers and recycled paper scraps.
“Lily!” the girl said as she jumped up and ran to give me a hug.
Eight-year-old Imogen reminded me of her grandmother Bronwyn. She had soft brown eyes and unruly hair, an open heart, and an innate sense of joy. I hugged her back, savoring her pure, straightforward vibrations.
Her fair-haired brother James, a studious six-year-old, looked up, mumbled a shy “Hi, Lily,” and went back to his coloring book.
A three-legged calico cat ran up to greet me right after Imogen, rubbing against my legs. I sneezed.
“I don’t suppose you’d like another cat? I have a very sweet one looking for a home. It even has all its limbs,” I teased. Bronwyn took in the rejects from the pound—the ones slated for death.
“Oh, I can’t, Lily. My landlord would kill me. He barely agreed to the last two, and that was only after I cast a spell of cooperation on him. I know I shouldn’t have, but it was for the sake of the animals.”
“I want a cat!” said Imogen. “Mom! Could we take Lily’s cat?”
“No. Cats are dirty,” came the voice of Bronwyn’s grown daughter, Rebecca, from the direction of the kitchen.
Imogen smiled up at Bronwyn and rolled her eyes at her grandma, while Bronwyn beamed at her and winked.
I took a minute to admire the children’s artwork; Imogen’s drawing depicted a woman with a tall hat and a veil up in a castle tower, like a princess of yore. James was fond of cars and monsters, and thus was designing a series of monster-cars.
“Go on back to your coloring now,” I said. “Grownups need to talk.”
Intoning a charm under my breath, I kissed my thumb and touched each child’s forehead in turn, casting a cocooning spell over them. No need for them to hear what we were talking about. I remembered learning too many things I
Bronwyn had painted a border of cheerful daisies right above the wainscoting, leading all the way up to her bright purple door at the top of the stairs. A hemp doormat read: Welcome, all ye who enter here. And a hand-painted, flower-bedecked sign on the door held a line from the amiable creed of her Wiccan faith: An it harm none, do what ye will.
Bronwyn was a wide-open, smiling, rosewater- and patchouli-scented soul, the type who would as soon hug you as look at you. Normally. But not today.
In response to my loud knock, she opened the door just a crack. It didn’t take supernatural sensitivity to know she wasn’t particularly happy to see me.
“Bronwyn? What’s wrong?” I stuck my foot in the door, just in case.
“I . . . this isn’t the best time, Lily.” She looked behind her, whispered something, then turned back to me. “I don’t suppose you’ll go away, let me call you later?”
I shook my head.
“Lily . . .”
“Bronwyn, you know how stubborn I can be.”
“Really, I’ll call you—”
I started humming and looking at my fingernails. I did not remove my foot from the door.
Bronwyn sighed, stepped back, and swung the door wide.
She wore a typical Bronwyn-style dress: purple gauze over a tie-dyed slip. Her brown hair was as fuzzy as ever, but lacked the floral decorations with which she usually adorned herself. Her feet were bare, her shoulders uncharacteristically slumped.
Bronwyn’s apartment, like mine, was filled with herbal sachets, crystals, and charm bags hanging above windows and doors. Mirrors were set up opposite the front door and several windows to deflect bad energy. But unlike me, Bronwyn felt no reason to hide her wannabe witchy ways: On the walls hung numerous rainbow-hued goddess paintings, and every horizontal space was graced with stones, herbs, candles, books on Wicca, a crystal ball, a pentacle.
And today, two young children were sitting at a low coffee table in the living room amid scattered markers and recycled paper scraps.
“Lily!” the girl said as she jumped up and ran to give me a hug.
Eight-year-old Imogen reminded me of her grandmother Bronwyn. She had soft brown eyes and unruly hair, an open heart, and an innate sense of joy. I hugged her back, savoring her pure, straightforward vibrations.
Her fair-haired brother James, a studious six-year-old, looked up, mumbled a shy “Hi, Lily,” and went back to his coloring book.
A three-legged calico cat ran up to greet me right after Imogen, rubbing against my legs. I sneezed.
“I don’t suppose you’d like another cat? I have a very sweet one looking for a home. It even has all its limbs,” I teased. Bronwyn took in the rejects from the pound—the ones slated for death.
“Oh, I can’t, Lily. My landlord would kill me. He barely agreed to the last two, and that was only after I cast a spell of cooperation on him. I know I shouldn’t have, but it was for the sake of the animals.”
“I want a cat!” said Imogen. “Mom! Could we take Lily’s cat?”
“No. Cats are dirty,” came the voice of Bronwyn’s grown daughter, Rebecca, from the direction of the kitchen.
Imogen smiled up at Bronwyn and rolled her eyes at her grandma, while Bronwyn beamed at her and winked.
I took a minute to admire the children’s artwork; Imogen’s drawing depicted a woman with a tall hat and a veil up in a castle tower, like a princess of yore. James was fond of cars and monsters, and thus was designing a series of monster-cars.
“Go on back to your coloring now,” I said. “Grownups need to talk.”
Intoning a charm under my breath, I kissed my thumb and touched each child’s forehead in turn, casting a cocooning spell over them. No need for them to hear what we were talking about. I remembered learning too many things I
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