Page 8 of Muddled Magic

Well now I knew who to interrogate if needed, though Dad and Uncle Stag were notoriously tight-lipped about things like this. “Is this for the grimoire ceremony?” I pressed. “The one where it accepts Marten as the next robed elder?”

She swatted at the brim of her hat up so there would be nothing in her way as she peered into my face. “Who told you that?”

“Is it true? Is there another binding ceremony?”

Aunt Hyacinth thrust a finger towards the vegetable gardens. “Tomatoes. Now.”

There would be no reasoning with her now. With a huff, I snatched up a wicker basket and stormed off towards the cherry tomato varieties. Those rows allowed a better view of the long driveway that snaked between the gentle hills. Pairs of maple trees had been planted along its route at regular intervals, like mile markers, enchanted to change the colors of their leaves whenever a car passed by. If I was still out here when Grandmother came back, I’d see her approach, one way or another.

“She’ll be back later, so in the meantime, you’re going to pick tomatoes until your arms fall off,” my aunt hollered after me. “And then we’re going to make sauce with your aunt Peony. And then, if she has availability in her schedule, then you can talk to her.”

If she had availability in her schedule? I realized that while I’d put my apron on, I hadn’t tied it, so I yanked the strings tight like they were weeds I was ripping out of the ground. I would make Grandmother make time for me.

“What’s got you all in a tizzy?” Marten asked, strolling through the gap in the dead hedge and into the vegetable garden, still working on his morning cup of coffee. He took a large bite from one of Uncle Stag’s famous almond croissants and asked (with his mouth full, of course), “Still sore about yesterday?”

I’d be less sore if my brother was actually kind. If he saw me more as his sister and less as his rival. We hadn’t always been this way—sure, Marten had been a proud and boastful boy growing up, but he’d never been mean. Not until recently. Maybe it would’ve been easier to accept the outcome of the Circle ceremony if there’d been more to our relationship than just tolerance.

“What’s there to be sore about?” I fired back at him. “Nothing’s set in stone yet.”

“Nothing’s set in…” His handsome face twisted in anger, brown eyes flashing. “What are you talking about?”

“Marten!” Aunt Hyacinth shrilled. “You’re late. Get your fanny over here and start picking!”

He didn’t budge.

“Marten!” she shrilled again, outraged at his obstinance.

“Seems like there’s another ceremony with the spell book that makes it all official,” I said. “Yesterday was just for show. So if it’s not official yet…” I let him follow that train of thought to its terminal end without saying another word.

It dawned on him immediately, and he snarled, “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Dare what? Stand up for myself? Ask for something I want instead of just doing what I’m told all the time?”

“You won’t take this from me. I earned it! Grandmother picked me for a reason. If you were really what was best for the coven, it would’ve been you. But it’s not. It’s me.” He got in my face then, looming over me to intimidate me with his height. As if that would really work. I wore the iron cuffs, just like he did. Not every Hawthorne could—only those who were powerful enough. Worthy enough.

“For now,” I replied icily.

“What’s going on here?” a voice demanded sharply.

Under the pole bean arbor, Mom stood with a dozen children clustered around her. Her class. Apparently today’s morning lesson involved a field trip into the vegetable garden. Every eye was trained on us, and no one needed Dahlia’s levels of empathy to understand we were fighting and being nasty about it too.

“Nothing,” Marten said loudly. A warning not to interfere.

It was one I wasn’t going to heed. He might be my older brother, but he wasn’t my elder, and I was a grown woman who had her own dreams and aspirations I refused to give up on.

“Come along, class,” Mom said, ushering them inside. She paused just inside the garden, clearly debating whether or not to leave them for a moment to come over to us and demand to know what was going on.

Forsythia Hawthorne was equally logical and emotional, which meant she wanted her children to tell her everything (because she cared deeply, hence the emotional part) so she could then devise the best plan of action to fix it (because she was highly process-oriented as an academic and our resident spell expert). No doubt she’d want to discuss yesterday and this argument today—at length—before forcing us to make peace and hug it out.

That wasn’t going to happen, not when battle magic was singing its siren call to both of us. I could see it in the way Marten’s right eye twitched, the way the vein in his neck pulsed at an increased tempo. No doubt he saw similar tics in my own face and knew he had his work cut out for him if he chose to activate the runes on his cuffs.

“Marten,” Aunt Hyacinth prompted a third time.

My brother made a show of finishing the last bite of his croissant with a flash of his teeth, as clear an analogy for demolishing my dreams if I ever saw one, then stalked off with a beaming, simpering smile at my aunt. She wasn’t fooled in the slightest, scowling as she told him to hurry up and get dressed for the day’s labor.

Fuming, I turned back to trace the line of the driveway disappearing off into the distance—empty. Then I snatched up my basket and got to picking before Aunt Hyacinth decided she needed to yell at me too.

She was adamant that we not use magic to harvest tomatoes—for only our senses could be truly replied upon when determining ripeness—but we could use all the magic we wanted to weed the beds. And oh how I zapped them, imagining each dandelion head that burst into yellow petal confetti was Marten’s. But I remembered to be gentle with the tomatoes, inspecting and pinching and separating the ripe ones from the immature ones. There were no rotting tomatoes—they knew better than to rot in the garden of a green witch.

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