Spells for Forgetting(63)

It painted a picture in my mind—one that only I could see. I’d never laid eyes on my granddaughter, but I was sharply tuned to the things that people usually missed. I didn’t need to see her to know that she was upset. Swallowing down tears, I suspected.

“What is it, love?” I asked, patiently.

There was a silent second before her feet started moving toward me. In the next breath, she was tucking herself into my arms and I wrapped them around her tightly, squeezing. She smelled like the woods, but her skin was hot, like she’d been crying.

A small, broken sound muffled in my shoulder and I pressed my cheek to hers. I’d been doing that since she was tiny enough to fit into the crook of my elbow. But she wasn’t a child anymore.

“I need your help.” The words cracked as she said them.

“All right.” I waited.

Her warmth slowly slipped from my arms. The fire was roaring now, the heat bleeding into the corners of the room around us. There was a steadying intake of breath before she began.

“Once, you told me that an oath made beneath the blood moon is binding. Is that true?”

“If it was made in earnest”—I tilted my head to one side—“yes, it’s true.”

A pause. “Do you know how to break it?”

My mind flitted from one unspoken question to the next. But I wouldn’t ask them. This felt like before, when Emery was no more than a small bird, ready to take flight. One wrong step, and I’d lose her. “I do.”

A long, heavy breath escaped her lips. Relief. “Will you help me?”

I hesitated, considering. I could think of only two times that Emery had come to me for the book of spells. Once, for the nightmares, and the other, when we learned her mother’s sickness was not going to get better. I’d only opened the book for one of those requests.

I reached out into the air before me until her hand found mine and I gently wrapped my fingers around her wrist. Her pulse was racing. “August?”

Another broken breath. She pressed my hand to her face and she nodded, unable to speak.

I let it drop back into my lap, willing myself not to say what she didn’t need to hear. One day, the book of spells would be hers, and she would use it how she saw fit. But today, she was asking for this.

“There are spells for breaking and spells for mending. But there are no spells for forgetting,” I warned her.

She was quiet for a long moment. “I understand.”

I got to my feet, leaving her at the fire, and followed the wall to the kitchen. The little doors and drawers in the old pine hutch held everything from butterfly wings to hagstones to ash of driftwood. But for this spell, we needed only three cords and a blade.

My hands felt for the items in question. I sniffed the bundles of herbs until I found the mugwort, and the salt was next, followed by a fresh candle and a small bowl. When I had what we needed, I shuffled back into the living room, where Emery was waiting.

“A bit of rainwater, love,” I said, holding the bowl out in space until she took it from me.

My hand felt along the mantel for the book of spells as she went back to the door, but my fingers found the bound stone first. I stilled, picking it up and feeling its weight in my palm. The twine was wrapped tightly around the smooth, oval stone, unchanged from when I made it years ago.

There were also spells for binding, but I’d only ever had one occasion to use one.

I’d been able to smell the sick on Henry Salt before anyone else could see it. And it wasn’t the kind of natural sick that hung in the air around withering bodies. It had the distinct scent of spellwork and I’d known almost immediately where it had come from.

I’d never cared for Henry, or his son Calvin for that matter, but I’d saved the bastard’s life, like it or not. I also knew the cost of dark magic and was duty-bound to bind any witch on this island who used it. So I did.

Seven times I’d wrapped the stone, and with each one, I’d spoken the words. A few days later, Henry’s cough waned, the gurgle in his voice disappearing. But I’d kept the stone long after he was well. Even after he died. The island gave us the magic, but there were some whose hands couldn’t be trusted with the work.

Emery reemerged in the open doorway and I held a hand up to stop her. “Leave it open.”

The air would only do us good. And this magic would need somewhere to go once we were through.

I set the stone down and lifted the book of spells from its place. The heavy cover opened across my lap as I sat, feeling the pages to find the sixth folded corner at the bottom right. Tucked into the spine of the book was a sprig of dried mugwort.

Emery returned to the fire and guided my hand to the bowl so I could take it.

“Sit down,” I instructed, setting the water on the ledge before the fire.

She took the place opposite me and I gave her the candle to light while I poured the salt from the jar. The fine grains piled beside the bowl in a faint reverberation, and Emery placed the candle before it, waiting. The potent smell of mugwort filled the air as I twisted the bundle over the candle’s flame. The smoke moved over my skin in a whisper.

The bowl, water. The salt, earth. The smoke, air. The candle, fire. We were ready to begin.

“Take the cord and cut three matching lengths,” I said gently.

She took her time to measure each one carefully. When she was finished, she set down the knife. “All right. I have them.”