just two nights before. I looked at Clara and said, “I’ll keep that in mind.”
My mother beamed, and I silently saluted David for his detente formula.
In fact, David and I were thinking of Mabon for another reason, one I wouldn’t share with Clara and Gran. The equinox meant that day and night were exactly the same length. David and I needed that equality in our relationship, in our lives. If forced to make an honest admission, he would certainly say I was the most headstrong witch he’d ever known, and I’d counter that he was an overbearing warder. For the rest of our lives together, we’d be able to remember at least one time when we’d been in perfect, harmonious balance.
“And have you chosen a place, dear?” Gran asked around a mouthful of bacon.
I had. But I needed to get her permission. And I was surprised by how nervous the thought made me. “The Farm,” I said.
“That makes sense,” Clara chimed in readily. “It’s always easiest to plan something where you’re already living.”
I shook my head. “Not that farm. Gran’s property. Up in Connecticut.”
Clara’s lips pursed into a surprised O. The Farm had been in Gran’s family for centuries. I’d visited for family gatherings throughout my childhood. Clara, of course, had missed decades of trips to the Farm, when she’d been living her own life, far from responsibility and tradition.
But I hadn’t chosen the Farm because I wanted to rub Clara’s nose in her absence. I’d chosen it because I’d always loved the place. Now that I understood my magical heritage, I knew I’d been primed for witchcraft on the Connecticut property. I’d learned to pour power into the marble stone on the ancient farmhouse’s threshold, reciting a “tradition” (not a spell, never a spell) that Gran had taught me when I was just a little girl. I’d absorbed the placement of the woods, the planting of protective herbs and flowers—all the details that made the Farm a perfect refuge for witches, even when I hadn’t known I was one.
“But, dear, you haven’t been up there since…” Gran trailed off, apparently deciding it might not be a good idea to remind me about one of my famously disastrous romantic relationships. But I was prepared for that argument.
“That’s exactly why I do want to go back. I’ve loved the Farm since I was a little girl. I want to build new memories there, good ones. And I want David to understand more about our family.”
Gran rushed to reassure me. “That’s sounds perfect, dear. How many people are you thinking of inviting? We can host a lot at the house, and there are always bed and breakfasts nearby for overflow.”
“I haven’t added up the list yet. Between family, and people from the Peabridge, and now the magicarium…”
“Just make sure it’s a prime number,” Clara asserted, reaching across to spear one of Gran’s sausage patties.
“A prime?” Even as I asked the question, I knew I’d regret the answer.
“Absolutely. Everyone knows that a prime number of guests reflects the unique nature of your relationship. If you get married with a prime, then you’ll never get divorced.”
I wanted to know how many guests had attended Clara’s wedding to my long-fled father, but I knew that would only open an entire cargo ship of worms. Nevertheless, I couldn’t keep from asking a single honeyed question. “Is it the number of people you invite that matters? Or the number of people who actually show up?”
I must have hit the perfect pitch of curiosity and respect, because neither my mother nor my grandmother bristled. Instead, Clara said with absolute certainty, “The number of people who show up, of course. What matters is who witnesses the actual union.”
Great. According to Clara’s batty concept of magic, I should keep a cadre of second-tier guests in reserve, in case I needed people to round out the ranks to a sacred prime number at the last moment. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I
My mother beamed, and I silently saluted David for his detente formula.
In fact, David and I were thinking of Mabon for another reason, one I wouldn’t share with Clara and Gran. The equinox meant that day and night were exactly the same length. David and I needed that equality in our relationship, in our lives. If forced to make an honest admission, he would certainly say I was the most headstrong witch he’d ever known, and I’d counter that he was an overbearing warder. For the rest of our lives together, we’d be able to remember at least one time when we’d been in perfect, harmonious balance.
“And have you chosen a place, dear?” Gran asked around a mouthful of bacon.
I had. But I needed to get her permission. And I was surprised by how nervous the thought made me. “The Farm,” I said.
“That makes sense,” Clara chimed in readily. “It’s always easiest to plan something where you’re already living.”
I shook my head. “Not that farm. Gran’s property. Up in Connecticut.”
Clara’s lips pursed into a surprised O. The Farm had been in Gran’s family for centuries. I’d visited for family gatherings throughout my childhood. Clara, of course, had missed decades of trips to the Farm, when she’d been living her own life, far from responsibility and tradition.
But I hadn’t chosen the Farm because I wanted to rub Clara’s nose in her absence. I’d chosen it because I’d always loved the place. Now that I understood my magical heritage, I knew I’d been primed for witchcraft on the Connecticut property. I’d learned to pour power into the marble stone on the ancient farmhouse’s threshold, reciting a “tradition” (not a spell, never a spell) that Gran had taught me when I was just a little girl. I’d absorbed the placement of the woods, the planting of protective herbs and flowers—all the details that made the Farm a perfect refuge for witches, even when I hadn’t known I was one.
“But, dear, you haven’t been up there since…” Gran trailed off, apparently deciding it might not be a good idea to remind me about one of my famously disastrous romantic relationships. But I was prepared for that argument.
“That’s exactly why I do want to go back. I’ve loved the Farm since I was a little girl. I want to build new memories there, good ones. And I want David to understand more about our family.”
Gran rushed to reassure me. “That’s sounds perfect, dear. How many people are you thinking of inviting? We can host a lot at the house, and there are always bed and breakfasts nearby for overflow.”
“I haven’t added up the list yet. Between family, and people from the Peabridge, and now the magicarium…”
“Just make sure it’s a prime number,” Clara asserted, reaching across to spear one of Gran’s sausage patties.
“A prime?” Even as I asked the question, I knew I’d regret the answer.
“Absolutely. Everyone knows that a prime number of guests reflects the unique nature of your relationship. If you get married with a prime, then you’ll never get divorced.”
I wanted to know how many guests had attended Clara’s wedding to my long-fled father, but I knew that would only open an entire cargo ship of worms. Nevertheless, I couldn’t keep from asking a single honeyed question. “Is it the number of people you invite that matters? Or the number of people who actually show up?”
I must have hit the perfect pitch of curiosity and respect, because neither my mother nor my grandmother bristled. Instead, Clara said with absolute certainty, “The number of people who show up, of course. What matters is who witnesses the actual union.”
Great. According to Clara’s batty concept of magic, I should keep a cadre of second-tier guests in reserve, in case I needed people to round out the ranks to a sacred prime number at the last moment. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I
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