Page 13 of Pushing Daisy
“Believe it or not, I know how.”
“Oh, I know all about your speaking abilities. After all, it was only the other night that you tried to trade me in like a stinky sock.”
“More like a rotting corpse, but I’ll accept the analogy.”
“Look, you don’t want to work together, but we have work that needs to be done. How do you propose we do this?” Sloan asks, swirling the straw in her ginger ale, frustration evident in her tone and the flare of her nostrils—not that Daisy cares enough to pay attention to how her nostrils flare.
Daisy wipes down the bar, using the task as an opportunity to think of a response. “I have some ideas already. How about I send them to you, and we can go from there? Maybe divide and conquer. That way, we don’t have to be together, but we can still get stuff done.” She has absolutely no intention of sending anything to Sloan. She also doesn’t have any ideas currently, but Sloan doesn’t need to know that either.
“That works,” Sloan says, picking up her phone. “I’ll text you my email.”
Daisy nods, feigning agreement.
“I look forward to working together,” Sloan says before standing up and collecting her things. “Have a good night, Daisy.”
“You too,” Daisy replies, watching Sloan’s hips sway to the door. Sloan looks back, wiggling her fingers like the prissy witch she is before leaving. It pains Daisy to smile back, but she does, keeping the pleasant facade while internally wishing she could hex Sloan where she stands. Once the door chimes behind her, Daisy moves to the door and locks it. She huffs a laugh to herself as she strolls back to the bar. Send Sloan her ideas. That’s funny.
As she continues to clean and complete her end-of-the-night duties, Daisy grumbles to herself about Sloan. Why is Sloan trying to be so pleasant? Daisy doesn’t buy the nice act one bit.
Daisy finishes her closing duties and heads home. Her home is her one safe place, where she doesn’t need to answer to anyone and can wallow or fester in her thoughts as she pleases.
The grimoire greets her at the door, laying open on the floor to the page with her family tree. Daisy removes her boots and then kneels before the book. Running her hand along the page, she feels years of history through the inscriptions of previous relatives who have added to the image over time. Moving her hand to the bottom of the page, she finds her parents, Norma and Levi, written in her mother’s writing, followed by an arrow down to her.
Seeing this stirs up too many emotions. Pain. Shame. Love. Loss. The toxic mixture floods her system, causing a river of tears to burst from within. Through her tears, she notices a glow emanating from the grimoire. It’s a call to her, for her to join with it. But her power remains latent. The grimoire doesn’t seem to care. Instead, it urges her to complete the joining ritual, flipping the page and displaying the necessary words to repeat.
Wiping her tears away with her sleeve, Daisy picks up the tome and carries it to her living room, where she sets it down on a dark coffee table. She sits down in front of the table, crossing her legs underneath. Picking up a lighter nearby, she lights the trio of candles at the corner of the table and wipes her unusually sweaty hands on her thighs.
Is she really about to do this?
Is this book telling her what to do?
Is she going to listen to it?
The answer is yes.
Taking a deep breath, she closes her eyes and feels a pulsing sensation along her arms. Slowly opening her eyes, she sees the glowing grimoire has begun to pulse, pulling her in. She leans in, reading through the passage before her. Her magic begins to spark within, answering the call of the grimoire. With a final deep breath to steady herself, she recites:
I, Daisy Hale, accept the grimoire as a part of me.
I ask that it accept my magic and meld its power with mine, forever as one.
I pledge to honor and protect my family grimoire with all that I am and all that I possess from this day forth.
May the goddess grant me this.
Violet-colored magic surges out of her as a current of golden power leaps from the grimoire. As the currents meet, a golden light bursts, making Daisy see spots. The connected stream moves toward her, mingling and twining together as it does, eventually flowing back into her. The two streams merge, twisting under her skin, placing barbs into her soul.
“Whoo,” Daisy breathes into the empty room. She looks down at the no longer glowing grimoire and senses its power, almost smiling within. The book pages flip wildly on the table, celebrating their joining.
“Evidently, you needed that,” Daisy says. “I did too.”
She calls forth her magic, willing it to light a candle on the fireplace mantle, and it responds without hesitation. The violet current fills the room, lighting not only the single candle but every other candle in the room, too.
“Okay, then. Little bit more power there. That will take some adjustment.”
Standing, Daisy picks up the grimoire and settles with it on the couch. Choosing to forego her standard reality TV watching, she spends the next few hours looking through the tome, becoming comfortable with it, and exploring the history of spells and potions through the eyes of her ancestors.
When her eyes can barely stay open for a moment longer, she places the book back on the table and lays on the couch while pulling a blanket on top of herself. Within seconds of laying her head, feeling more centered, she drifts off into the most peaceful sleep she has had in weeks.
