Page 1 of Muddled Magic

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

~ Four months ago ~

Darkness dominated the old forest beyond the manor’s stone walls. Though the summertime sunlight was strong, even at this early hour, it couldn’t penetrate through the needles of the thickly clustered pines nor the dense leaves of the ancient oaks and beeches. So the forest floor was dark, yet beckoning, a vault of secrets calling my name. I’d heard its siren song since I was a child, its lure growing with every year. Maybe, someday soon, I finally pluck up the courage to risk Grandmother’s wrath and slip over the wall and into that ancient wood, a bottle of Riesling in hand.

“Meadow.”

That was my father’s voice, pitched low so he wouldn’t startle me. After marrying into the Hawthorne family, he’d been renamed Tod, after the fox, and he certainly was as silent and sneaky as his new namesake.

“Of all days, this is one you should be spending looking inward, not outward,” he chastised lightly, coming even with me to look over the wall.

It was chest-high and thick enough to sit on comfortably, but no one ever did that. While the boxwood hedge surrounding the Hawthorne estate was imbued with enough wards to protect an emperor’s palace, here, along the southern edge that faced the forest, was a secondary barrier of enchanted stone.

Uncle Hare, a former archeologist and the historian of our family, had often told us youngsters that the stones had been carefully portioned off old henges or taken from Faerie itself—the realm of the Fair Folk. Apparently such measures had been needed to protect us womenfolk from the fabled Stag Man.

Beware the Stag Man who hunts in the forest deep.

His arrows never miss a maiden’s heart to keep.

“You’ve been in there,” I said, finally tearing my attention away from the forest to look at him. Dad had thick black hair, light brown eyes, and olive-toned skin that neither my brother nor I had inherited, the Hawthorne line asserting its dominance in each generation regardless of outside influence. His coloring did, however, provide a type of all-natural camouflage when he and Cousin Boar disappeared into those trees twice a week to hunt, almost always returning with venison. “What’s it like?”

He was staring at the forest like he would a prey animal, or a threat. “It’s like any other wood, Meadow. Full of trees and brush and birds and annoying gnats in May.” His fingers whispered up my neck to tickle around my ear and ruffle the hair there, simulating the same pesterings of a swarm of little insects.

I swatted his fingers away with a short giggle.

Chuckling, he slid his arm around my shoulder and gently, yet firmly, guided me away. “The others will be waiting if we don’t hurry. And you know how patience isn’t exactly one of your grandmother’s stronger suits.”

“Unless it’s for Aunt Peony’s apple pie.”

“There is always an exception to the rule.”

We walked back over the rolling fields and lawns and through the copses of trees that were actually allowed to grow within the estate to the gardens thick with all manner of flowers that pollinators like hummingbirds, bees, and butterflies preferred. Purple coneflower, orange butterfly weed, calendula, borage, and zinnias in every color imaginable sprang from beds mulched thick with wood chips.

It was here on the paved patio in the center of these wonderous gardens that the family was assembled, the large trestle table and its benches where we ate our evening meal when the weather was fine having been moved out of the way.

The elders of the coven, my father included, were all in their dress robes—emerald green velvet edged in gold with pearl accents—and the women had flowers woven into their hair. The men wore floral garlands around their necks, each one composed to reflect the preferences of the wearer. Except Dad’s. He was happy to wear whatever Mom made for him.

Us youngsters—anyone under thirty-ish years old—were dressed in our finest, whether those were sundresses or pressed shirts and trousers, though we were all barefoot. Even baby Stoat in his father Buck’s arms sported a tie. Though she wasn’t very good with a needle and thread, Olearia had sewn her son’s tie out of a scrap of ribbon herself. But it was my niece Clover, who her parents Alyssum and Jay had dressed up to resemble a blooming rose, who outclassed us all. Layered red skirts formed petals over her legs that swayed when she scampered here and there, and a rosebud headband kept her curly brown locks from springing into her eyes and ruining her fun.

As we approached the crowd, Dad squeezed my shoulder, drawing me in close to whisper in my ear, “I’m proud of you,” before releasing me to join my mother and the other robed elders of our coven. I wandered over to my cousins, adventurous Rose and promiscuous Lilac, discovering my older brother Marten making a face at me that immediately had me sticking my tongue out at him like a very mature twenty-five-year-old.

Handsome, brash, and oftentimes impulsive, Marten was still a skilled witch, his natural talent ensuring he was successful in anything he set his mind to. His looks got him everything else magic couldn’t. Except a shred of humility, which often put him at odds with our father, who favored the way of quiet leadership. A family of powerful witches required its members to be humble, lest their boasts breed envy in those members with lesser gifts.

Linking hands, the robed elders formed a circle, Grandmother Iris in the northmost position—our guiding star.

“Today, Brother Hare retires from a life of honor, dedication, and sacrifice to the Hawthorne family,” Grandmother said.

At her pause, her brother Hare opened his hands to release the family member on either side of him, and the circle condensed to link hands behind him as he moved to the center of the patio. His bare feet, tougher than leather after his many decades, rasped against the stone pavers. Knobby-knuckled fingers shook slightly as he began to unbutton his dress robe, revealing a pale shirt and khaki linen pants beneath. They didn’t shake because he was nervous or angry; these tremors had been happening for a while now despite many remedies, affecting not just his body, but his mind too.

“Such as a flower blooms, seeds, and bows down to the earth from which it came so another might rise in its place,” Grandmother continued, “so shall Hare now choose his successor.”

Announce would be a more appropriate term, since it was the coven of nine who collectively assessed every spare witch, though Grandmother Iris had the final vote on who should be the next robed elder. It probably wouldn’t be anyone from Hare’s line—not his weak son Robin, nor Robin’s twins Olearia and Jay—since the strongest magic always followed the direct female descendants. And Hare’s daughter, my spinster aunt Eranthis, who was of the strong belief that she needed to sew new clothes for everyone every yuletide, whether they needed them or not, was already a robed elder with no descendant to follow in her footsteps.

There were other branches of the Hawthorne family tree present, second and third cousins and their families, but a robed elder hadn’t been selected from them in generations. All told, there were close to forty of us all gathered, but only one would be chosen.

Me.

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