Page 103 of Which Witch is Willing?
Plus a few extra hillbillies because no one had thought to tell them to leave.
It had been surreal AF.
They introduced the babies to their familiars, and laughed and cooed at their antics. They fought about who made the best coffee. (Dru did) And they waited for the Apocalypse to start.
Because what else could they do?
But dread?
And hope?
Reports came in that several volcanoes around the globe blew around noon.
By three PM, the Amazon rain forest was on fire and Death Valley had flooded. Hail pelted the Sahara and the Alps were beginning to crumble. Locusts feasted on crops in South America and the entire South China Sea turned blood red. Great and ancient rivers like the Euphrates and the Rhine slowed to a trickle, leaving the skeletons of numerous ships stranded in their beds.
And the de Moray sisters knew that when the blood moon began to set over the standing stones at Siren’s cry, they would be there.
And so would the Devil.
They’d have this out once and for all.
Their horsemen had left as the shadows grew long to do whatever it was warriors did before such a battle. Ready the horses, shine the armor, sharpen the weapons, etc. The de Moray sisters each kissed Violet and Seraphine who, even at such a tender age, were ridiculously well behaved, as if they understood the gravitas of the day. Not wanting to bring infants to an apocalypse, they left them once again in Justine’s care.
Moira and Tierra helped each other up the stairs, both holding in hiccupping sobs as they retrieved their crowns and wands, and all four trudged toward the attic like women about to face their fates.
And so, they were.
As they spilled into Mirelle de Moray’s attic room, they stopped to breathe her in. To look at the bookshelves full of ancient tomes and rows of herbs hanging from hooks. Baubles sparkled beneath the skylight and with a flick of Claire’s finger, candles flared to life.
Their flames illuminated four ancient-looking trunks lined up in front of the portal that Aerin was certain hadn’t been in this room before.
Tierra went to them, throwing open the lid and staring down at the most vibrant scarlet material. Lifting it out of the trunk she unfurled a long robe stitched of the finest silk and softest velvet. “Look, Claire,” she said, fingering a note pinned to the long sleeve. “It’s for you.”
Claire allowed Tierra to slip the robe over her usual jeans and black tank, and then she unpinned the note and read it aloud. “These robes are woven from threads of fire and passion and stitched with cords of illumination and creativity. Though it seems the world is burning around you, know that the destruction is necessary for rebirth. You will win the day, so he can light the way. Signed, Kenna de Moray.” The robe fastened with tiger’s eye toggles that glinted in the candlelight as she fastened them.
“Ugh. They rhyme.” Aerin muttered. She thought Claire looked like a goddess and told her so. Noting how the robes shimmered with umber flames when she walked. “I remember reading about Kenna, she was Malcom de Moray’s sister. The fire druid.”
“That’s right,” Claire said as she bent to open another trunk. This one contained a robe of cobalt and azure, and she unfurled it to hold up to Moira. “For you.”
Tears still leaked from Moira’s eyes as she slid her arms into the robes. “How do you think these got here?” She sniffed, tucking her arm beneath her hair to pull it away from the collar.
Tierra put her finger to her chin in thought. “There are torpor spells that can hide things until they’re needed,” she reflected. “I’m sensing a bit of that sort of magic at work.”
“Makes sense,” Moira said as she caught at the note hanging from her robe. “These robes are woven with shifting threads of water and dreams and stitched with cords of vision and serenity.” she read. “Though floods rage and seas swell, the path of least resistance will serve him well. Signed, Morgana de Moray.”
“Aww,” Tierra said. “I love that you gave Seraphine her middle name.”
Moira fastened her toggles and tucked the note away. “She was there for me when I needed her. She will always be close to my heart.”
“Here’s yours, Tierra.” Aerin flapped a stunning robe of greens and golds underlaid with deep shades of bronze. She held it while Tierra slipped it on and waded around for the note she knew was there.
“These robes are woven from threads of soil and seed, stitched with cords of manifestation and abundance. Though the earth is in upheaval, know that she is the source of our strength, and will always nurture us. You will hold the ground. So his soul is no longer bound. Signed, Malcom de Moray.” She held the note to her chest. “I just love him. Do you think Malcolm is the ‘he’ referenced here?”
Malcom de Moray had once been king of the Picts and ruler of the druids and an earth druid, himself. He’d held such a burden on his shoulders, and a thousand years ago, he’d halted the apocalypse in Scotland. He was a grandfather who knew they’d be born one day, and he knew that they’d need his guidance. That they’d need these robes. Stitched with love and words of encouragement.
Tierra looked at Aerin a little sheepishly. “There’s only ever been a maximum of three de Moray siblings… until now. You didn’t have an air druid ancestor or anything to give you your wand so…your robe might not have a note.”
Aerin shrugged it off, having come to terms with the same idea. “That’s okay. Let’s get it on. We don’t have much time.”
