Page 65 of Wooing the Wiccan
Jared
SUMMER SOLSTICE
When Raðulfr mentionedthat elves and dragons like to celebrate the solstice, I was thrilled that we would have this holiday in common. He joined me and some of my witch friends for Beltane, but it didn’t hold any special meaning for him—except that it was important to me. So it was an exciting thought that we’re both invested in the solstice.
This, though, is beyond my expectations.
I’m a solitary witch, but even when I’ve been with covens for celebrations, I’ve never experienced anything like this. Probably because all those witches were human and had no idea what kind of magic they could be capable of learning.
The dragons are hosting us, partly because they have this estate with lots of space and privacy, and partly because dragons love to throw a party. Steffen is the only one who doesn’t look happy about it, and even he seems more mellow than the last time I saw him. Not that it would be hard to achieve that—every encounter I have with him makes me grateful that Eoin isRaðulfr’s head of security, which is something I never thought I’d say.
Raðulfr and I have been here to visit the dragons before, at Brandt’s insistence, but there weren’t hundreds of people here then. It’s amazing. Since the moment we arrived this morning, it’s been a whirlwind of meeting new people, eating, saying hello to familiar faces, playing games with the children—the kind of games that include spellcraft and magic—and soaking in the joy of this stunning summer day.
And then, as the afternoon shifted toward evening, the rituals of gratitude began. For me, the solstice is a celebration of the sun and the energy and growth it brings to the world, but also of the change as the year begins to wane toward winter. The sun’s cycle—the seasons—is inexorable, and we mark that with the solstices.
For the elves and, to a lesser but still large degree, the dragons, those things hold true, but today is also the time when they’re most able to connect with nature. In winter, so many plants become dormant, but at midsummer, the world is alive and thriving. It’s their holiday to give thanks for life and the eternal cycle of energy that sustains it.
I stand with the onlookers, awed, as children toss handfuls of seeds into the gardens and across the lawn, and then energy hums through the air as teens and younger adults coax the seeds to life. At first, there’s nothing to see as roots are established, but then tiny shoots begin to unfurl, and those of us watching begin to cheer. From shoots to seedlings to healthy plants and saplings they grow, and joy eddies inside me. Raðulfr’s confident that I’ll be able to sustain my garden through the coming winter, and I can’t wait.
The annuals that were seeded burst into flower, marking the end of this particular ritual, and we all applaud the flushed and happy young people who took part. I met nearly all of themearlier, and more than one confided shyly that it was their first time and they were nervous. Seeing their smiles now, I nudge Raðulfr with my elbow.
“Go tell them what a great job they did.”
Chuckling, he loops his arm through mine. “I love how you care about their feelings. Come with me.”
Glowing—on the inside—from his praise, even though that wasn’t my motivation, I let him tug me along with him to where the teens are clustered together, excitedly recounting the details of their endeavor. One of them notices us coming and tells the rest, and then they’re turning toward us with bright smiles and expectant gazes. Nobody is glamoured today, their heritage proudly on display.
“Well done!” Raðulfr proclaims. “That was beautiful work, all of you.”
The smiles turn to wide grins and a chorus of thank-yous.
“We’re proud to be here, Your Majesty,” one girl says—Isla, if I’m remembering right. “Will you take one of the saplings?”
That’s another tradition that thrills my green thumb. The flowering annuals will stay where they are, a gift to the host, but the saplings and young shrubs will be taken by the guests and transplanted in their own gardens. This ritual is from a time when the winters were particularly long and hard and summers not that warm. The elves in the affected region came together on the solstice to boost the growth of their faltering crops in the hopes of getting a decent harvest. Later, when the climate stabilized, they decided they were unwilling to give up something that had brought them so much joy, and switched from crops to trees and the like—a gift of thanks to nature for allowing them those bountiful harvests when they were so needed. They grow the trees to a point where they’re strong enough to survive through winter, but still young enough to betransplanted with ease. Even now, people with shovels, plastic pots, and hessian bags are digging up the new saplings.
“We will,” Raðulfr assures her. “I’ve already promised Jared.”
The teens turn their attention to me, and one asks, “What did you think of the ritual, Consort Jared?”
I’m still surprised every time someone calls me that, but I no longer show it. Progress. The official title for Raðulfr’s partner took some getting used to, though. “It was wonderful,” I answer honestly. “I’m in awe of you all. Raðulfr is going to show me how it’s done so I can look after my garden better, and I only hope I manage half as well as you did.”
They fall over themselves telling me that I’ll be fine, pleased by my words and eager to reassure me. It’s sweet, and I’m not the only one who thinks so. There’s a group of parents hovering nearby looking proud as punch and smiling indulgently.
We chat with the teens for a few minutes more before Raðulfr excuses us and draws me toward a cluster of people I recognize. Nearly all of them work at the DEA.
“How are you enjoying the day?” Ari asks me. He’s one of my favorite members of Raðulfr’s security team.
“Loving it. I’ve never been to a solstice celebration that began so early, but I can see why you do. This is incredible.”
“We’ll light the bonfires soon,” Dáithí says. He’s standing beside Eoin, and they came together, but like always, there’s a tiny bit of distance between them—the emotional kind. I know why, but despite all my hints, neither of them seems willing to take a risk in closing it. “The littlest ones will go inside for a slumber party, and the rest of us will keep going until sunrise.”
That part of a solstice party is more familiar to me. Not all witches stay up the whole night—a small observance is really all that’s needed, if they’re so inclined—but usually when a bunchof us gather for a midsummer celebration, we bridge the sun’s energy from dusk to dawn.
Across the circle, Cecy extends her arms and leans toward me. “Jawed!” she demands, and Caolan, the elf holding her, chuckles and moves forward to hand her over. Cecylia took a liking to me the first time I met her, when I spent half an hour playing hide-and-seek with her, and I can’t say I’m mad about it. Though I got the shock of my life that day when I was holding her and she shifted into a tiny dragon.
Once she’s perched securely on my hip, she points to the flower tucked behind her ear and says, “Pwetty.” It’s more a demand than observation.
“It’s a beautiful flower,” I agree solemnly. “Almost as beautiful as you.” That gets me a big grin and a wet kiss on the cheek, before her attention is caught by a group of kids running past.
