Page 12 of Love, Magic and Misfortune
“But you don’t even know what I was about to say.”
“You were about to ask if you could visit when you drop off groceries. But you don’t need to do that, alright? You… You are a vibrant, exciting young woman—full of life. You shouldn’t be sitting around in a dusty house with an invalid.Pleasedon’t.”
Despite herself, Violet grinned. “You think I’m exciting?”
“Is that the only thing you heard?”
“No, I heard the rest.” She snickered, reveling in the growing ease of their banter. It was similar to when they were little, but different somehow. Enthralling in a way she didn’t quite yet understand. “If you think these things about me, why wouldn’t you want to have tea together?”
“Because bad things might happen.”
Violet’s expression dropped, the dark nuance of his statement utterly sobering her. “What… what kinds of bad things?’
A loudsnapmade them both jump in their seats. They turned, looking over at the hearth and watching the fire whip and lash the log like a clawed monster devouring its prey. Jasper laughed, standing and grabbing a poker to move the logs. “Bad things like that.”
“That’s not so bad.” Violet adjusted against the sofa, calming herself from the shock of the unexpected sound. “I was thinking more like a gang of debt collectors banging down your door and threatening to break my knees, or a house falling out of the sky and onto my head.”
He turned, his eyes full of amusement. “I don’t have any debt. The other option also feels improbable, but I can’t promise you anything.”
“It happened in the movieThe Wizard of Oz—the house thing, not the knee-breaking debt collectors.” They both snickered as Jasper returned to his seat. He exhaled, his expression softened and relaxed from their moment of laughter. He looked up, only briefly meeting her gaze before glancing away again.
“About having tea, Violet, I… Well…” He rubbed his palm against his face.
She leaned forward slightly at the waist, catching his downcast stare and making him meet her eyes. “Just tea. Sometimes?” she prodded, smiling. “Once a week when I drop off the groceries. I don’t pity you, and it’s not just because Gram asked me. I’m enjoying this—seeing you again. Is that alright?”
Dropping his hand, he shifted his head to look at her from beneath dark lashes. The innocent movement caught the narrow stream of light from the window, making his haunting eyes shine like silver. He nodded. “Once a week. Okay.”
Violet nodded too, grinning and feeling whimsical, as if she’d invoked her preadolescent self. The version of herself that spun around in floaty dresses and was overjoyed at the sight of a Monarch butterfly drifting across a field of radiant flowers.
She bit back her silly smile, then took a breath to calm her racing pulse.
6
Now
The Herbalist’s Almanac
Magic All Around Us: A Practical Guide to Healing Herbs
The Wind in the Trees and the Power in You
Holistic Herbalism: Harnessing Your Own Magical Garden
Afew days later, Violet set all four books on the floor beside her, then pulled a small bag filled with dried herbs from the large chest. This chest—painted with the most vivid, gaudy pattern of oversized red poppies—had originally belonged to her great-grandmother. The bright crimson petals and little black centers were like beady eyes looking out in every direction. On the porch, it came across as charming and eccentric. Anywhere else it might have been an eyesore.
The artist responsible for the flamboyant illustration was Violet herself: the ten-year-old version who’d been experimenting with art styles and colors. Before that, the chest had been a warm brown color. Completely unimaginative.
With a little encouragement from her gram—likely an effort to help cheer Violet up and distract her from asking about her missing best friend—the chest had been reimagined. Transformed so that the outside justly represented the eccentricities therein.
Raising the herb bag to her nose, Violet inhaled. The contents were not something she could easily recognize. She flipped the package and read the small sticker in the bottom-right corner. “Saint John's wort. What on earth?” She set it aside, reached into the chest and grabbed another. She didn’t smell this one but instead turned it over. She drew back. “Valerian, oh no… Don’t killers always use this in cozy murder mysteries? Wait, maybe I’m confusing this with hemlock.” Violet’s knowledge of herbs and flowers was basic. She was by no means the gardening aficionado and forager that Gloria had been, and could only remember a few arbitrary tidbits from her childhood: ripened blackberries only lasted a day after being picked—so eating and using those was always a high priority under Gram’s watch—and that mint is a ‘garden bully’ and should always be grown in its own pot.
Violet’s phone rang on the floor beside her. Thankfully, it was her personal mobile. “Hey, sis.”
“Happy Saturday. What are you up to in Mary Poppinsville?”
“Going through Gram’s chest.”
“Ooooh, where she keeps her mother’s creepy witchy things—”
