An Unlikely Witch (9 page)

Strength in embracing the flow of the universe instead of hating it.

At sixteen, just as now, there were powers and forces beyond her control.  But on the mat, she had choices.  Always.

Nat sank deeper into her movements, dancing gracefully through a sun salutation sequence she only threw at her most advanced students, and then only when she wanted the class to dissolve in giggles.

But as she flowed from warrior three into handstand, it wasn’t giggles that came.  It was power.  A body, mind, and spirit made for this.  For breathing and moving and bearing witness to whatever life asked.

She was no fragile, bereft teenager anymore.

Spiraling out of handstand, Nat arched back into reverse warrior.  Strong legs, open heart.  And dared to look at the cold, empty space tucked underneath her ribs.

At sixteen, the cold inside had been a wild, unending landscape.  Now it was an island, surrounded by beating warmth from a heart that knew love in every possible corner.

Witch Central had chased away icicles Nat hadn’t even known existed.  Taught her to add love to the power of the light.  Let her feel life without the cold spots and know that she was raising her daughter in a place where gray had no friends.

She wanted, so very much, for the small boy with the blazing grin to join them here—to be a brother to Kenna, another piece of Jamie walking free in the world.  To bring another child into the rich, soul-feeding wholeness of the family it had taken her so long to find.

Her blood revving now, Nat headed around the complicated sequence again, reveling in the speed and power.  Warrior to handstand, plank to downward dog, and back to handstand just because it was possible and there and fun.

And then back into warrior, reaching her heart to the sky.

Yoga wasn’t entirely about surrender, although that had been her first and deepest lesson.  It was also about openness.  And about seeking.

Last night, she had been grieving a child she’d lost.

Maybe it was time to go looking for him instead.

Thighs aching, every muscle stretched, Nat pulled up out of warrior and walked off her mat.  She knew where to begin.

-o0o-

Moira looked up as the door to Sophie’s apothecary blew open, caught by the crisp winter wind.

The hand holding it moved quickly to get the weathered wood back where it belonged, keeping the whirling December air out of the cozy room.  “Sorry about that—it’s feisty out there.”

Sophie was ignoring the fluttering of her herbs.  Her eyes studied their visitor, measuring.  Recording.  Wondering why this particular woman had come in this particular door.  And then shifted to Moira for a bare fraction of a second.

The old witch didn’t bother to confirm what the younger one already knew.  Need had arrived.  And she held in her own sorrow—the magical swim in the ocean clearly hadn’t done the work she’d hoped.

Nat smiled uncertainly from her post by the door.

That much, Moira could still help with.  “Hello, my dear.  Come sit a while—it’s lovely and warm in here and we’ve a fresh pot of tea brewing.”

“Thank you.”  Nat slid out of her jacket and found a handy hook behind the door.  “I took a walk on the beach before I came—the winds don’t rage like this in California.  It was beautiful.”

And it had likely fit the inner turmoil of the woman who had come to see them.  The two healers exchanged glances, cataloging the clues.  They’d both wandered a few stretches of sand over the years.

Sophie picked up a jar and held it out.  “Does this smell like something Nell wouldn’t laugh at?”

Nat’s eyebrow quirked, but she leaned over and sniffed.  “It’s simple and light.”  Then she frowned a little as the afternotes hit.  “Or maybe not.”  She eyed the holder of the jar, openly curious now.  “What exactly are you sneaking in there under the innocent scent of mint?”

Moira had been asking that for two weeks now.  Daniel had made a request of the younger healer, and various versions of this particular potion had been bubbling on the stove almost daily.

Sophie only grinned and stoppered the jar.  “Something I think she’ll like.”

Their visitor was relaxing now.  Judging the time right, Moira poured three cups of tea.  “And what do you have in mind for our young Trinity?”  That had been an interesting choice the triplets had made—as their father might say, they hadn’t tossed Auntie Nat an easy pitch.  Making the feisty woman from the streets happy without dampening her pride was going to be a delicate task.

“I’m not sure yet,” said Nat, smiling.  “I have a chance to listen a little tomorrow.  We’re going to Lizard’s castle to help out with a cooking lesson.”

Moira pushed over a cup of tea, wondering if Nell’s girls knew the real gift they’d given Witch Central.  “There’s nothing more wonderful than learning what a soul wants to become and giving it a little help.”  Meddling was its own lovely reward, and the triplets had just given dozens of people permission to stick their noses in many wonderful places.

Nat grinned.  “Aervyn’s been plotting for Jamie.  Nell tells me I should be very afraid.”

Sophie chuckled.  “You should be.  Sean and Kevin were filling his head full of ideas the other day.”

Indeed.  The favored idea when Moira had shooed them out of the inn to play in the crisp winter afternoon had been a broomstick rocket ride to the moon.  However, the hurt living in their serene mistress of yoga didn’t have any relation to boyhood imaginings.  Moira sat still and waited, keeping her sadness at the reason for the visit well under wraps.

Clearly the crystal ball was right.  This was going to be a journey.

Nat looked around Sophie’s cozy herbals room, eyes lighting with a touch of amusement—and something deeper.  “I wonder how many women through history have come to a room just like this one, asking what I’m about to ask.”

Too many.  But not all of them came with such courage—and not all of them got their heart’s wish met.  “The things that call to our souls haven’t changed so much through the ages.”

Sophie’s eyes were gentle.  “Well, they mostly came for love potions, but I don’t imagine that’s why you’re here.”

“No.”  Nat looked down into her tea.  Breathing.  Centering.

The two healers gave her the space to do so.  Very few patients were as capable of getting their own hearts ready as Nat Sullivan.  When she finally looked up, the entire room exhaled.  “We’ve been trying to have a baby, and it’s not working.  I’m hoping you can help.”

It was far more than just a baby—and yet, in so many ways, exactly and only that.  Moira kept still—she would cry tears in her garden later for a blessing that hadn’t found its time just yet.  It would take younger, more powerful hands to do the work now.

“We can try,” said Sophie quietly.  “You know your body well.  What have you done already?”

“Herbs,” said Nat promptly.  “Some teas.  Meditation and breathing, and some energy alignment work.  Some small changes in what I eat.”

All things they would have tried in the first few months.  Which made their job both easier and harder.

“Those are all smart.”  Sophie had slid on her calm-and-competent-healer persona.  “Keep doing them.  Have you tried taking your temperature in the mornings to track your cycle?”

Moira listened to the ebb and flow as a skilled and humble healer began the process of partnering with a patient who knew her energies, her body, and her needs extremely well.  It was a beautiful thing to hear, and it gave an old witch hope.  She waited until Sophie glanced her way, seeking anything that might have been missed.  And made her small offering.  “I’ve not got so much strength with my teas anymore, but young Ginia has a fine hand.  We could put our heads together and create a blend for you.”

“No.”  The word shot out of their visitor.

Sophie’s face stayed calm, but her hands had fairly leaped with surprise.  “She’s a skilled healer.”

“I know.”  Nat’s eyes were soft and pained, but her voice was crystal clear.  “It’s not that.  It’s just—I know this is anything but certain.  And she got my name.  For the holidays.  She’s looking to make a special wish come true for me.  I won’t have her feeling responsible for this one.”

Sophie’s breath caught on the same knife edge that sliced Moira’s heart.  Their young healer couldn’t possibly leave such a dream lying at the side of the road.  Not with the fighting, generous heart she had been born with. 

They would have to heal without her this time.

Moira prepared her own shoulders for the load instead.  An old witch still had a few tricks left.  And the image of a wee small boy in her heart, asking her to use them.

-o0o-

Lauren settled into a back booth at Romano’s, very happy to see Nat—and edgy, too.  They very rarely had secrets between them.  Stupid orb.

“They have a new salad for the Christmas season.  Lots of green and red stuff.”  Nat spoke without looking up from her menu. 

Crap.  Whatever had exploded yesterday was clearly still front and center.  Lauren stuck to the salad theme until she had a better idea.  “I don’t come here to eat rabbit food.”  And neither did her best friend, even if she did contemplate the menu every single time.  Not necessarily with this much focus, though.

Lauren waited.  Nat sometimes needed time.  And Witch Central knew it, which was why they were waiting as patiently as they could to find out what the hell was going on.

One realtor with a crystal ball in her living room was terribly afraid she knew.

“I just got back from Fisher’s Cove.”  The words were quiet, but her friend’s head had finally tipped up from the menu.  Eyes shuttered, mind a strange mix of lost and determined.

Damn.  They were going to need a lot of noodles for this.  “What’s going on, Nat?”

“A lot of stuff.  Let’s order, okay?”

It wasn’t deflection, exactly, just a plea to let this come out slowly.  Lauren traced the letters on the front of the embossed menu.  Not a problem—she could talk inanity with the best of them.  Core realtor skill.  “I know what I’m having.  Did you raid Aaron’s kitchen?”  That would cut down how many orders of noodles they needed.

“Yes.”  Nat smiled.  “But I brought it back for dinner, so I’m still ready to eat.”

“That’s some legendary self-control.”  Aaron’s culinary skills rivaled Romano’s.

“I’d be in big trouble if I ate it all.  He made tree soup for Kenna.”

The only witchling on either coast who voluntarily ate green things.  Lauren’s radar dinged louder.  If Aaron was going out of his way to make Nat’s little girl happy, something was definitely up—and Fisher’s Cove knew it.  “Well, nobody will arm wrestle her for that.”  Broccoli was a dirty word in most of Witch Central.

The waitress came and took their order.  Lauren gave hers on autopilot, still trying to feel her way into the mess brewing on the other side of the table.  She wrapped her arms around her ribs and squinted out the window at the warm rays of California sun.  So weird.  She was still wired for snow in December.

And dammit, snow wasn’t a safe conversation right now, either.

Something whacked into the glass right beside their heads.  Lauren jumped—and then goggled.  “Whoa.  That’s a really big… something.”  A humongous pole with a star on top.  Followed by a guy holding a statue of a dude in a turban.

Nat turned around, watching the odd procession making its way past the window.

The sheep probably should have clued them in—but it wasn’t until the shepherds that Lauren’s brain, short on noodles and long on coffee, finally got into gear.  “That is one monster nativity scene.”  The sheep were the size of small wooly mammoths.

The shepherds came next, and then something that looked like a horse with humps, but was probably meant to be a camel.  And then an angel with wings that put everyone in a ten-foot radius in jeopardy.

Lauren grinned at Nat, grateful for the nutty streets of Berkeley, especially when they cheered up her best friend.  “I wonder where they’re taking it.”  Witch Central loved field trips to the absurdly adorable.

Three kids came next, carrying a manger big enough for Paul Bunyan.  And then a little girl, holding a doll wrapped in swaddling clothes almost as big as she was.

Nat looked carefully back down at her menu, her mind blazing with sad grief.

Oh, hell.  Lauren reached across the table, feeling entirely helpless.  “Talk to me.”

“I peed on a stick yesterday.  I’m not pregnant.”

The hope that Lauren had been carrying around tightly since their magical swim in the ocean shattered.  “Oh, God.  I’m so freaking sorry.”  And those were such meaningless words.

“It happens every month.”  Nat looked up again, eyes shining with grief and frustration and something that almost looked like fury.  “I don’t know why this one’s tearing me up worse, but it is.”

A quiet, communal working of watery magic probably hadn’t helped any.  Guilt kicked Lauren hard in the ribs.  “It’s so unfair.”  And at this time of year, so damnably harsh.  She scrabbled around for something to say—and remembered where the conversation had started.  Grasping at straws, she latched onto the strength that lived in every breath of an old Irish witch.  “You went to see Moira?”

“And Sophie.” 

Healing.  Panic punched in under the guilt.  “You think there’s something wrong?”

“I don’t know.”  Nat’s eyes were steady now, and something far more sturdy was taking hold in her mind.  “But I’ve been as patient as I know how to be.  It’s time to try something different.”

Such insane strength.  As Lauren looked deep into her best friend, it was the raw courage that shone brightest.  And she knew it was time for the words she’d been holding back for several days.  Time to lay the orb’s infernal message down on hope’s side of the scale.  “My crystal ball’s gotten chatty again.”

Nat shook her head a little, confused.

Lauren ignored the grumpy thought that hadn’t been said.  “It showed me a picture of you.”  Her throat caught.  “And the little boy you’re waiting for.  The snowman scene from Jamie’s vision.”

Nat gaped—and all that came out was one sad, shaky word.  “Why?”

“I think it’s sending a message.”  Berkeley’s best negotiator leaned forward, determined to make her point.  And hoping fervently it was the right one.  “I don’t think this is over yet, Nat.”