Back in a Spell (The Witches of Thistle Grove, #3)(8)
The “Halloween” costume was actually what I’d worn to the Beltane First Dew festivities two years ago: the Blackmoore onyx-and-gold ceremonial robes over a clinging yellow maxi dress, a peony-and-feather wreath perched on my head. Jessa had demanded that I include it in my pictures—she’d also been under the impression that the photo was from a “themed” event—because she thought I looked both beautiful and genuinely happy, which she insisted was important. I was holding a goblet of spring wine, head thrown back midlaugh, my balayaged blond curls pouring over my shoulders in honeyed waves. Teeth shining against rosy lipstick, cheeks flushed from the wine.
It wasn’t one of my favorite pictures of myself—I looked so unraveled—but maybe she did know a thing or two about crafting these profiles, after all.
As I typed back, my cheeks heating a little, I was surprised at how good it felt to be admired even in this small, chill way.
@AttyQueenNeens: Thanks! It was from a party by Lady’s Lake. Looks like you enjoy swimming up there!
@lowkeyloki: for sure. that water’s got some sweet zing to it, u know? idk why more folx don’t take advantage of it
@AttyQueenNeens: I agree! I spend a lot of time up there myself; it’s one of my favorite places in town.
@lowkeyloki: right? the view, the vibes, the whole deal. love takin my niece up there for picnics, too
Ellipses bubbles pulsed, appearing, then disappearing, then appearing again as he typed. I discovered, with an uncomfortable little jolt, that I didn’t want this conversation to end.
@lowkeyloki: hey, what do u think about grabbing a drink soon?
Oh. I leaned back into the cushions, feeling a pleasantly giddy lurch of surprise. So he was one to cut to the chase, then, rather than wasting everyone’s time by texting for days or weeks before we actually met up.
Efficient, and time-saving. This, I liked.
@AttyQueenNeens: Sure, I’d really like that! When/where were you thinking?
@lowkeyloki: u know the moon & scythe? how’s this sat at 8?
I sucked in a breath, gritting my teeth at the choice of venue. The Moon and Scythe was the closest thing Thistle Grove had to a dive bar—the kind of place one might unironically refer to as a “joint”—and therefore so far from my scene that it wasn’t even in the same zip code. I swiped out of the app and shot off a desperate text to Jessa, in dire need of guidance.
Nina: Soooo, I’m chatting with @lowkeyloki
Jessa: YASSSSSS ATTYQUEEEENNEEEEENS
Nina: Yeah, we’re gonna have some words about that handle, you and I. But, beside the point rn. First off, his name is MORTY, what. And he wants to go to the Moon and Scythe on Saturday Jess, do I have to?! Like, really have to?
Jessa: Bitch YESSSSS, bonus points for sticky beer floors, THIS IS PERFECT.
Nina: But but
Jessa: Remember the plan, soldier. Operation Doggy Paddle, full steam ahead
Nina:
Jessa: Just think of the pigs in blankets!!!
Who could argue with that logic, certainly not me. I texted DAMN YOU, FIEND to Jessa and swiped back into the dating app, steeling myself.
@AttyQueenNeens: Sure, sounds great, let’s do it!
@lowkeyloki: dope. c u then nina
@lowkeyloki: really lookin forward to meeting u
@AttyQueenNeens: Same! Have a lovely rest of the week, Morty
The weirdest part was, I kind of meant it. For the first time since I’d resumed my white-knuckled approach to dating, I actually was looking forward to this date.
Even if it meant an unfortunate foray to the Moon and Scythe.
* * *
I had to admit, the pressure-valve psychology of Jessa’s plan seemed to work, at least as far as getting ready went. On Saturday night, I managed not to triple-guess my outfit, my shoes, or my choice of perfume—already a minor miracle in itself—and just a single glass of malbec took the edge off what nerves I had. It felt like a marked enough change of pace from my previous attempts to fill me with a tentative swell of hope as I gave myself a final once-over in the mirror, feeling only the barest, creeping tendril of self-doubt.
Maybe this could work. Maybe I could be the old Nina again, sooner rather than later.
I’d given myself so much extra time to get ready that I wound up with more than half an hour before I needed to make an appearance at the pub. Sitting alone with my thoughts would only leave room for the doubt to claw its way back to the surface, wriggling through my cracks. So I did something I hadn’t done in almost a month, not since it had gotten properly cold.
I wound a scarf around my neck and shrugged into my warmest Moncler parka, then portaled up to Lady’s Lake.
Portal magic was some of the most demanding spellwork a witch could cast. It required finesse, a vast reservoir of magical strength, and an iron will; the kind of unflagging focus that didn’t falter even for a breath. In essence, it allowed you to craft a vessel of magic for your body, a spellbound capsule to whisk you through the fabric of reality itself, without letting all the opposing forces at play shred your flesh—and spirit—into its most minute component parts.
To pull it off, you had to be capable of holding two opposing convictions in your mind, cemented alongside each other—that you were a perfectly cohesive unit, unassailable and self-contained, and that you were made of the same fluid, malleable matter as the rest of the universe. Both wave form and particle at once.