the Arctic globe thistle, Echinops .”
Rhian knelt beside her. “They’re beautiful, Frankie.” She touched the petals and then smelled her fingers.
“Mind the leaves, honey, they are very prickly.”
“The flowers seem to glow in the moonlight, like when you wear a white top in a club with ultraviolet lights.”
“You see that, do you, Rhian? That’s very interesting.”
Rhian looked up sharply. How could she not see something so obvious? Something about the tone of Frankie’s voice bothered her, but the woman’s face was in dark shadow, making her expression unreadable.
Frankie moved to a trellis where a climbing plant grew. She teased out a bud so that she could display it in the silver moonlight.
“This is the moonflower, what botanists call Ipomoea . One afternoon, these buds will open and the large white flowers will bloom all night under the Moon. A heavy scent will flow out of them, a scent that only a few can smell, filling my garden and attracting moths. With the moths will come bats, Hecate’s bats, and in the morning the flowers will die.”
“That’s a sad fate,” said Rhian. “To grow all year and have just one night to bloom.”
“We all have only a short time to bloom; it’s only the scale that differs. Not even the gods are immortal.”
“I still think it’s sad,” said Rhian.
“I’ll harvest the flowers with the Sun, saying the right ritual so that the dried petals, when burnt, will make incense suitable for divination.”
“Divination?” asked Rhian, doubtfully.
“Fortune telling, honey, I will inhale the vapor before sleeping, and in my dreams I will see the future. At least that’s the theory. Sometimes all I get is heartburn,” Frankie said. “You know, the spells today were almost too powerful, as if something else was pushing my magic along.”
“Such as what?” asked Rhian.
“It could be any one of a number of things,” Frankie replied. “For example, an artifact or haunting in the office that acted as a magical amplifier, but I think that unlikely, don’t you?”
“I don’t know,” Rhian replied, politely. Frankie was very weird. Harmlessly weird in an eccentric English sort of way, to be sure, but definitely not quite in phase with reality.
Frankie continued as if she had not spoken. “Or it could be another witch pushing my spell along, someone who could see the moon-glow of Arctic thistles, perhaps?” Frankie looked at Rhian and raised an eyebrow.
“You think that I’m a witch?” Rhian laughed. She knew that was impolite, but she couldn’t help it.
“Not consciously, honey, but you may have untrained powers. Do strange things happen to you?” Frankie asked.
“Like what?” Rhian replied, answering a question with a question, as this was tricky ground.
“Oh, it could be something quite trivial. Do you ever know who’s on a ringing phone before you pick it up? Can you predict the results of random events more often than not? Does your toast always land butter side up?”
Rhian shook her head, laughing. “No, nothing like that ever happens to me. I am just an ordinary girl from the valleys.”
“Do you mind if I tried a little experiment?” asked Frankie, clearly unconvinced.
“An experiment, that sounds fun,” replied Rhian, tolerantly.
Frankie cupped her hands together, as if she was holding something in them. She sang softly, too quiet for Rhian to hear the words. Then she blew on her hands and opened them.
A beautiful white sphere of light hung there, making Rhian gasp. This was magic—real magic. Maybe Frankie was a witch. Six months ago Rhian did not believe in magic, but that was before the wolf.
“You can see it, can’t you, Rhian?”
Rhian nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
“Put your hand into it so I can see the color of your aura. Let’s find out what sort of witch you are.”
Rhian tentatively reached out her finger to the ball of light and poked it. For a brief instant the ball resisted her
Rhian knelt beside her. “They’re beautiful, Frankie.” She touched the petals and then smelled her fingers.
“Mind the leaves, honey, they are very prickly.”
“The flowers seem to glow in the moonlight, like when you wear a white top in a club with ultraviolet lights.”
“You see that, do you, Rhian? That’s very interesting.”
Rhian looked up sharply. How could she not see something so obvious? Something about the tone of Frankie’s voice bothered her, but the woman’s face was in dark shadow, making her expression unreadable.
Frankie moved to a trellis where a climbing plant grew. She teased out a bud so that she could display it in the silver moonlight.
“This is the moonflower, what botanists call Ipomoea . One afternoon, these buds will open and the large white flowers will bloom all night under the Moon. A heavy scent will flow out of them, a scent that only a few can smell, filling my garden and attracting moths. With the moths will come bats, Hecate’s bats, and in the morning the flowers will die.”
“That’s a sad fate,” said Rhian. “To grow all year and have just one night to bloom.”
“We all have only a short time to bloom; it’s only the scale that differs. Not even the gods are immortal.”
“I still think it’s sad,” said Rhian.
“I’ll harvest the flowers with the Sun, saying the right ritual so that the dried petals, when burnt, will make incense suitable for divination.”
“Divination?” asked Rhian, doubtfully.
“Fortune telling, honey, I will inhale the vapor before sleeping, and in my dreams I will see the future. At least that’s the theory. Sometimes all I get is heartburn,” Frankie said. “You know, the spells today were almost too powerful, as if something else was pushing my magic along.”
“Such as what?” asked Rhian.
“It could be any one of a number of things,” Frankie replied. “For example, an artifact or haunting in the office that acted as a magical amplifier, but I think that unlikely, don’t you?”
“I don’t know,” Rhian replied, politely. Frankie was very weird. Harmlessly weird in an eccentric English sort of way, to be sure, but definitely not quite in phase with reality.
Frankie continued as if she had not spoken. “Or it could be another witch pushing my spell along, someone who could see the moon-glow of Arctic thistles, perhaps?” Frankie looked at Rhian and raised an eyebrow.
“You think that I’m a witch?” Rhian laughed. She knew that was impolite, but she couldn’t help it.
“Not consciously, honey, but you may have untrained powers. Do strange things happen to you?” Frankie asked.
“Like what?” Rhian replied, answering a question with a question, as this was tricky ground.
“Oh, it could be something quite trivial. Do you ever know who’s on a ringing phone before you pick it up? Can you predict the results of random events more often than not? Does your toast always land butter side up?”
Rhian shook her head, laughing. “No, nothing like that ever happens to me. I am just an ordinary girl from the valleys.”
“Do you mind if I tried a little experiment?” asked Frankie, clearly unconvinced.
“An experiment, that sounds fun,” replied Rhian, tolerantly.
Frankie cupped her hands together, as if she was holding something in them. She sang softly, too quiet for Rhian to hear the words. Then she blew on her hands and opened them.
A beautiful white sphere of light hung there, making Rhian gasp. This was magic—real magic. Maybe Frankie was a witch. Six months ago Rhian did not believe in magic, but that was before the wolf.
“You can see it, can’t you, Rhian?”
Rhian nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
“Put your hand into it so I can see the color of your aura. Let’s find out what sort of witch you are.”
Rhian tentatively reached out her finger to the ball of light and poked it. For a brief instant the ball resisted her
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