Page 37 of Thistle Thorns

“Coming through,” Aunt Peony said, bustling forward with a Dutch oven. “Hot potion here!”

It looked like maple syrup and smelled like burnt fruit, but it painted on smooth enough.

There wasn’t much chatter as we all went about our jobs, Otter and Uncle Badger expertly cutting and carving out the wood, Dad, my three aunts, and me applying the potion to each piece with the olivewood spatulas like we were frosting cupcakes for someone’s birthday. These pieces would then be fused into a new frame around the mirror, the combination of wood and spells creating a magical doorway of sorts.

“You’ve outdone yourself with the rooting lacquer this time, Peony,” Aunt Eranthis mused, dabbing the potion into the nooks and crannies of a fresh-cut piece of cherrywood.

“It’s the jelly fungus out here. Marvelous stuff. Oh, and the honey,” my other aunt replied. “A fine quality, that. Too bad we had to use it all for this instead of on toast. Nice of the b—Arthur—to bring it over, yes?”

“It’s from his own bees,” I told her, a touch of pride in my voice.

“So that bear keeps bees, does he?” Aunt Hyacinth asked. “How obvious. It’s a wonder he has any honey left to share. Thought he would’ve eaten it all in preparation for hibernation.”

Only Aunts Hyacinth and Eranthis tittered. Aunt Peony actually winced at the joke. That bear had thoroughly enjoyed her cooking, devouring everything with gusto, and there was no faster way to a woman’s heart than appreciating her cooking.

Across the table, the knuckles on my hand blanched as I gripped the olivewood spatula. My aunts weren’t being malicious, at least, not on purpose. They’d been subjected to the same prejudices growing up as I had been. But they could learn. I certainly had.

“Surprising that a bear would have better manners than two witches,” I commented lightly. “You didn’t hear him quipping about black hats and pointy shoes and riding broomsticks at dinner, did you?”

“That’s because he was too busy eating all the food,” Aunt Hyacinth said flatly.

“I always make plenty,” Aunt Peony retorted. “And at least he doesn’t call it a ‘bowl of scrap’ behind my back!”

Aunt Hyacinth threw up her hands. “But that’s literally what it is! Just a bunch of this and that and gussied up with seasoning.”

“You make it sound like it’s garbage!”

“And all I’m saying is bears love garbage—”

“I don’t mind a leftover or two,” Aunt Eranthis interrupted, “but if you’ve been feeding us Garbage Stew all these years, Peony, instead of actual food, I’m going to—”

“Having a hard time concentrating on these cuts,” Otter ground out, sweat dappling his forehead.

“Meadow,” Dad said, his voice slicing through the conversation with the same efficiency as one of his blades, “take these dried pieces up to your mother.”

Lurching upright, I gladly did what I was told. Ever since coming to Redbud, all my family did was bicker. It was exhausting, and I was glad to be free of it for a moment.

My knock was soft on the attic’s trap door so as not to startle the women there, but they didn’t acknowledge my presence. They’d wedged open the door, however, which meant they weren’t opposed to interruptions or visitors. Cradling half a dozen large wood carvings to my chest, I eased open the door and finished the climb up the ladder.

Grandmother seemed to be in a trance, hands outstretched, palms out like she was telling someone to stop, green magic glowing from her eyes and wreathing around her hands. She was muttering something low and inaudible, and she didn’t blink when I stepped carefully around her towards my mother.

Mom was inside the protection barrier I’d layered, painting the surface of the full-length mirror with one of Aunt Peony’s potions. It had the opals from the Barn Market crushed up and mixed in, and it added the most wonderous glow to the mirror’s surface.

“Dad told me to bring you these,” I whispered to her, setting the wood carvings down carefully off to the side. When she nodded in acknowledgement, continuing to paint as Grandmother chanted, I asked softly, “What are you doing?”

“Mirrors can be gateways to the In-Between,” Mom replied just as softly. “Portals, just like the one Arc—the demon—conjured. This is creating a barrier so nothing can come through it when we make contact.”

“Like Arcadis himself?” Normally I would’ve used the term demon or Big Nasty to avoid attracting the attention of the one I was naming, except I wanted him to hear me if he could. That I knew of him. That I was coming for him. For my brother.

Mom gave me a warning sideways look at the sound of the demon’s name. “Or anything else. The In-Between is interconnected like one large void. Anyone might see the connection we make and try to use it as an escape.”

“Hence the pretty-shimmery-waterfall-wall-barrier-thing.”

For that’s what it indeed looked like, a waterfall of white and opalescent light trapped within the confines of the mirror’s frame. It was so bright there was no need for artificial light for Mom to see by as she continued to layer the potion onto the mirror.

“Yes,” Mom said succinctly, flicking me a look for my flippancy.

“You said there are ‘elses’ in the void,” I said. “How can that be? When I was in that portal, I felt something crushing me, suppressing my magic. How can anything live in there?”

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