Witcha Gonna Do? (Witchington #1)(6)
Griselda’s house sits back from the street, the iron gate rising up six feet high with ornate scrollwork that curls and curves into a sign that reads “Madame G’s Tarot and Witchery, LLC.” Below that is a no-soliciting warning and a smidge below that is another line, underlined three times, that states “By Appointment Only!!!!!”
Yeah, well, an exception is about to be made.
I push open the heavy gate and march down the cracked cement path crowded by overgrown shrubs that seem to whisper and giggle as I storm up to the two-story house that looks like you could tear off a piece of the latticework for a quick snack.
Trust me, don’t try it. No, I won’t tell you how I know that bit of information. Don’t give me that look, I was eight and gullible.
The black cat door knocker hisses at me the moment I step foot on the front porch.
“Oh, deal with it,” I say, yanking on its tail and setting off the bings and bongs of Griselda’s doorbell.
“Go away,” comes the all too familiar baby-sweet voice.
“You did it again,” I holler through the thick door. “I want a refund.”
The door swings open and I lower my gaze and lower it some more to land on the old woman herself, with her wild white hair intermixed with strands of neon pink that she has twisted into two braids that go all the way down to the small of her back. Hands on her generous hips, she looks me up and down. Her top lip is curled up into a snarl that just might be her friendliest look—the kind she gives her favorite goddaughter, in other words, me. Even at nearly three hundred, the most respected sage in Virginia looks like she could take me in a bar fight armed with only a corkscrew and a bad attitude.
Griselda wipes her hands on her bright patchwork apron. “I didn’t even charge you.”
“But you keep setting me up with the same guy.” Was I whining? Yes. Did knowing that stop me? Hard no. “Something has to be wrong.”
“With my magic?” She straightens to her full five feet zero inches and lets out a little snarl. “Sherwood or not, you better watch yourself, girl.”
“Please,” I say, all but making puppy-dog eyes—fine, attempting to do sad puppy-dog eyes but the effort is limited because of my thick glasses. “I need your help. This will be the last time. After today’s disaster I am done with men. I just want to understand why it keeps being him.”
“The cards say what they say.” She floats up and pinches my cheeks like she does every time she sees me, because some women are stately and some of us have round baby faces. “You just may not want to hear it.”
I steel myself and go with one last effort. “You’re not telling me all they’re saying either.”
Griselda smiles. “As is my prerogative.”
No denial. No bait and switch. No changing the conversation. The woman is up to something—always—and has absolutely zero shame about the subterfuge.
I let my head fall back in near defeat before pulling it together again to say in as menacing a way as a woman with no magic, no power, no nothing to back it up can, “Griselda.”
The older woman just lifts a glittery silver eyebrow and shrugs a single shoulder, rolling it back as if she was doing double duty to both dismiss my annoyance and get in a little extra stretch work.
Why are the women in my family so maddening? Okay, fine. Griselda is a fourth or fifth cousin once removed or something, but she is my godmother, which in the Witchingdom means she is family. She has been a near-daily loving—if prickly—presence in my life since the day I was born. According to family legend, she arrived one minute before I did, stayed three to examine my aura, and left a minute later after giving my mother the look. That’s when they knew I wasn’t going to be like the other Sherwoods.
The reminder, along with my still-fresh kiss-me-Gil humiliation, propels me forward into the house and straight into the heart of the home—the kitchen.
Ninety-seven percent of all witchery work happens in the kitchen, as it is the best place to feed the stomach, feed the heart, and feed the soul, all of which are needed for magic to take place. As my mother always says, if you don’t heal yourself, you can’t heal the world.
Griselda has a cast-iron pot of piney-smelling green brew sending up copious amounts of white steam on the stovetop.
“Harvest spell?” I ask.
“Nah,” she says, totally unbothered by me barging into her house. “Soaking my socks.”
That I don’t believe at all, but I know better than to press Griselda about something she doesn’t want to talk about. The woman is a vault. Literally. That is her witching level designation and why she makes such a great living as the woman Wrightsville’s witches turn to with their heartbreaks and secrets.
I cross over the flagstone design in the floor and walk to her kitchen table in the middle of the room under the candlestick chandelier. Yes, it’s real candlesticks. When Griselda is really cooking up a spell, it is best to stick close to the walls to avoid the dripping hot wax. Believe me, it’s a lesson you only need to learn once.
“Gonna read them yourself, eh?” Griselda asks as she nimbly crosses the room, avoiding every crack in the stone floor.
“You did teach me how it’s done.” Every magical theory lesson I’ve ever gotten has been with her. Mentor, godmother, scourge of my dating life, that’s Griselda.