Page 55 of The Lone Wolf Café
“Yes,” Rowena replied, though I noted there was no excitement or joy in her tone. She brushed past me, walked into the back kitchen, and returned with her black cloak shrouding her shoulders.
“We should get going,” she instructed, opening the front door and gesturing for me to follow her. “You first. I’ll lock up.”
As I stood out on the front porch, the autumn evening air chilling my heat-soaked skin, an anxiety-filled smile crept across my face. I’d done it. Rowena was coming to the festival with me.
But as I heard the faint shouts of other witches further down the road, dressed in their cloaks with pointy hats perched atop their heads, I began to wonder if this was a good idea.
Rowena had secrets, and I wanted to find out what they were.
But part of me was still afraid of the truth.
Chapter Thirteen
The number of witches walking the path into the village square increased as we got closer. The sun had already fallen below the horizon, and the sky was a dim shade of indigo with little remaining light. But as I walked next to Rowena, with our cloak-covered shoulders brushing and our hands nearly touching, I could tell the witches of Wisteria Grove were dressed differently than usual.
In the time I’d spent in the town, I’d noticed every witch had a different taste in clothing. Some of them, like Rowena, embraced their spooky nature all the time, with long black dresses, corsets, and dark makeup. Others, like Juniper, chose to adorn themselves in earthy, Bohemian tones, complete with lots of crystal jewelry. But many of the witches chose not to dress up at all. Other than a moon-shaped pendant or dangling earrings with little broomsticks, their outfits were no different than the humans that occupied Bar Harbor.
But tonight was a celebration, which meant the villagers’ witchy natures were on full display. The women wore beautiful, flowing dresses in shades of black, purple, or earthy browns. Their figures were heavily shrouded in cloaks of the same color, and their faces were decorated with dark makeup that accentuated their eyes and lips. Their arms and necks were heavy with jewelry, ranging from gold and silver to various rough and polished crystals.
And of course, to top it all off, every single witch wore a wide-brimmed, pointy-tipped hat.
Including me. I fussed with the lopsided hat atop my head, stretching out the inner band so it wasn’t so tight against my scalp. Rowena handed it to me once she finished locking upthe shop, saying that for festivals, they were a required item for witches to wear.
Rowena explained the dark and muddled history of the pointed hats as we wove through the neighboring cottages. About how what was once a symbol of ridicule and shame had become a source of pride amongst witches.
“My mother never took hers off,” Rowena commented, rubbing the brim of her own hat. “So I do the same.”
I smiled, readjusting my hat for the dozenth time. It was slightly too small for me, but somehow, it still felt comfortable. Like I was meant to wear it.
According to Rowena, I was. I had witch blood in me. But I still didn’t know why.
Once we were on the outskirts of the village square, the hum of music and the chatter of partying witches grew louder. Something thumped in a rhythmic pattern — likely a drum — and its pulsing sound vibrated through my whole body.
It also heightened my anxiety, and I pulled the witch hat down tighter on my head. I prayed it would be enough to cover my furry red ears if they popped out.
My eyes widened in awe as we rounded a corner, and the path turned to cobblestone. I could now see into the village square, and was amazed by how well-decorated it was compared to the night before.
A folksy-sounding band, led by Adrian on an acoustic guitar, was set up in the park area’s gazebo – strumming and beating and whistling out melodies that carried through the festival. Makeshift food stalls lined the sidewalk outside the town hall, and I saw several witches happily snacking on fall-themed treats as we walked. There were candied apples covered in almonds, skull-shaped breads, and giant cookies shaped like pumpkins and ghosts. One of the stalls had savory food – a sweet-and-saltysmelling stir fry that made the wolf within me ravenous with hunger.
My stomach grumbled, and Rowena chuckled.
“Want some food?” she asked, nudging me toward the vendor stalls.
I nodded eagerly.
While many of the sweet treats were enjoyed by guests as they walked around, there were also rows of long picnic tables for those who wanted to sit down and eat. It was crowded, so Rowena asked me to grab two seats while she stood in line for stir fry.
I squeezed into the picnic table closest to the food stalls, unbuttoning my cloak and placing it on the seat next to me. Thankfully, this picnic table was mostly empty, with several seats across from me and the seat next to me unoccupied. But the actual carving contest didn’t start until six thirty, meaning now was the best opportunity for the witches to get food. Rowena had been in line less than five minutes – I could see her dark-cloaked figure amidst the crowd – and there were already a dozen people behind her.
Before long, the tables would beverycrowded.
I crossed my arms, huddling into my long-sleeve shirt since I was no longer wearing my cloak, and studied the partygoers around me. There were several witches sprawled out in the grass near the pavilion, using their cloaks as blankets as they watched Adrian and his band play. In the distance, beyond the town square, was a large field littered with plump orange pumpkins. Adults and children alike wandered through the pumpkin patch, occasionally stopping to pick up and inspect one of the giant gourds. I knew the tradition from my life on Hollenboro – pumpkins that were blemish-free and slightly flat on one side were best for carving jack-o’-lanterns.
I couldn’t wait to go out and pick one. My usual simplistic designs wouldn’t win me any prizes, but pumpkin carving was still fun.
“Hey, Nettie!”
I froze, my limbs tensing. That wasn’t Rowena’s voice.
