Page 40 of Thistle Thorns

As if in answer, her words came tumbling back: “We obey one rule, child. The only rule that governs Nature itself: growth.”

“We’ve got sweet potato hash and French toast casserole this morning,” Aunt Peony sang out the next morning. “I didn’t know if we wanted sweet or savory, so I made both.”

Thistle thorns, I must’ve been so tired last night if I’d slept through the scent of cooking bacon and caramelizing sugar. I hadn’t even remembered to call Lilac, not that I knew how to use the flames for that purpose. Yet.

From the den, I heard what had to be Otter rolling out of the loveseat, his long legs no doubt cramped from being tucked up somewhere near his chin all night. “But aren’t those both sweet?” came his protest.

“Not when you cook the sweet potatoes in bacon grease and barbeque seasoning and top them with over-easy eggs.” At the bottom of the stairs, Aunt Peony wailed her wooden spoon on a pot lid like it was a cymbal. “Up and at ’em! A big foraging and potion-making day today!”

No sooner did I climb out of bed, taking the censer with me, did that very bed and its puffy mattress and pillow stuffed with cottonwood fluff vanish. I yelped, still half asleep and believing Sawyer to be with me and now trapped in the otherworld of spare beds. But the little cat was still at Grimalkin University, I assumed, learning all he could about legends and staying well away from Grandmother’s moonstone collar.

I missed him.

Stumbling into the kitchen with only one thought in my brain—latte—I was immediately deprived of the censer from Aunt Peony, a basket of fresh biscuits replacing it. “Then come back for the coffee pot,” she instructed, releasing the Hawthorne hearth ember into the hearth like she would a frog back into its pond.

This time, my farmhouse flames eagerly greeted it, scootching over so the sleepy Hawthorne ember could better devour the fresh wood.

Coffee pot was quite literally what Aunt Peony handed me next: the soup pot filled to the brim with coffee. And a ladle. We weren’t savages to dip our mugs or bowls or, in my case, a one-cup measuring cup, into the pot for refills.

As the family in various stages of dress and dryness—Aunt Eranthis was still toweling her hair—collected around the table, voices filled the air about who wanted French toast casserole or sweet potato hash, or both, and things like, “Would you please pass the maple syrup?” “I’ll be needing one of those biscuits to sop up the egg yolk, thank you.” “Where’s the milk for the coffee?” “Oh, is there any more of that apple butter left? It would go marvelously on this French toast.” “Is there any peppermint tea?” “Pass the butter! I’ve only asked for it three times now!”

It wasn’t much different from eating with the hobs.

The hobs!

As I launched out of my chair, Aunt Peony held up a hand. “I took care of it already, Meadow. Dale and that Roland fellow came by earlier for a whole sheet tray of bacon and scrambled eggs and more of those biscuits. Said they were going to make sandwiches. Oh! Speaking of. I’ve got the snacks all sorted out for your excursion into the woods today.”

Aunt Peony, Aunt Eranthis, and Mom would be staying home to man the hearth fire, protect the grimoire, and get prepped for all the potion-making and hearth witchery we would perform when we were finished at Cedar Haven. Grandmother was taking no chances: our coven was going to stay in multiples of three if we all couldn’t be together.

Relieved that the hobs had their breakfast, I sank back down and dug into mine. Hot, golden yolk oozed out over an orange hash of crispy sweet potato cubes, minced red onion that had been softened in bacon grease, chunks of that fried bacon, and diced avocado. Sliced scallion gave it that touch of green that enlivened any dish, and the barbeque seasoning that coated the potatoes gave it a fragrant kick of smoked paprika and garlic with just a hint of brown sugar goodness.

Oh my Green Mother, how I had missed Aunt Peony’s cooking.

When breakfast was finished, and at speed, too, we collected our foraging bags and stuffed Aunt Peony’s packed lunches inside. Then it was out to the cars and onward to Cedar Haven.

The sky was that bright deep blue that heralded cold weather, the trees completely bare against its cloudless expanse. The storm had stripped the remainder of their leaves, and they sloshed and slipped under our feet as we headed down the steep sawmill path to the river.

“Everyone in pairs,” Dad ordered when we were all safely gathered by the dormant sawmill. He was still in his battle leathers, though he wore a black trench coat instead of his robes. “This is a wild place, and we’ll not be taken unawares. We will be quick, we will be silent, and we will all be back to the farmhouse before suppertime. Move out.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Yesterday’s rain had turned the Cedar Haven forest into a bog. Or maybe it was a swamp. Shari would know.

We stuck to the higher ground as much as we could as we followed the swollen river downstream, but we were still splashed with mud up to our knees within minutes. Not that it truly bothered us green witches, but it made our passage slower than we wished. Every second counted to get Marten back, and the echo of Arcadis’s portal was disappearing steadily.

The jewelweed and giant ironweed, the yellow toadflax and field pansies, all the plants of the warmer months had bowed to the colder weather that settled a damp upon the earth as much as it seeped it into our bones. In their stead, the tangled barbed wire of wild blackberries, rambler roses, and autumn olives dominated the forest. Red-orange splotches of bittersweet vine provided the only contrast. With the deciduous foliage dead for the year, it increased visibility for sure, but it gave the woods a slightly sinister feel.

“And what is this?” Aunt Hyacinth gasped as the rejuvenated elm tree came into view.

I cringed as the ancient tree’s lively green leaves waved at us in the breeze. It was certainly impossible not to notice it, what with every other tree except the conifers having lost their leaves.

Grandmother pressed a glowing hand to the earth, and the ground rose into a narrow thoroughfare that sluiced the water off to each side. On this little pier, she strode out to better examine the tree. Uncle Badger followed after her.

“Is it a cache?” Dad asked before quickly turning to scan our surroundings. Only a handful of tufted titmice and chickadees fluttered about.

Grandmother craned back until I though her spine would pop, running her hands along the bark, but it was Uncle Badger who answered, “No.” He had his ear pressed against the furrowed bark like he was listening to the tree’s heartbeat, or whatever secrets it might be telling him.

“It’s wild magic. Primal,” Grandmother said thoughtfully. “It’s… waiting.”

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