Page 52 of Witches of Honeysuckle House
A few hours before dawn, Violet slipped from beneath the sheets and donned a robe over her striped pajamas. The door opened without a sound, and the floorboards kept quiet as she snuck out of the house and into the night.
When she reached the workshop, she kept the lights off, letting the soft glow from the burner guide her work, afraid her sister might look out the windows and come to investigate. While she waited for the wax to melt, she opened the cabinets, unable to see much in the dark.
“I need wormwood, basil, and oregano,” she whispered.
The jars inside shuffled around each other until three moved to the front. She gave the cabinet a gentle pat and said, “Thank you.”
She set to grinding a teaspoon of each with a mortar and pestle. She rolled her shoulders back and wiggled her fingers, but before she could start to work, the door creaked open behind her. Violet jumped up, surprised the house hadn’t warned her. When she turned around, it was to see Tillie silhouetted by the moon, and she breathed a sigh of relief.
“I thought I might find you here,” Tillie said.
“I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t want to wake you.”
Tillie crossed the space between them and wrapped her arms around Violet’s waist.
“We’re in this together.” She looked around Violet’s side at her setup. “I don’t know what I can do to help, but I’m here.”
“That’s more than enough.” Violet pressed her lips to Tillie’s and lingered in the soft quiet of the moment. She wouldn’t let anything come between their love, and she knew Tillie wouldn’t either.
“Sit with me,” Violet said as she made room on the bench. Though they’d been together for seven years, Violet had only brought Tillie into the workshop a handful of times—mostly to pick up candles to take back to the store. She’d never had a reason to show her the process.
“You can help me make them,” Violet said.
“Will that work?” Tillie asked.
“If anything, it will make the spell stronger,” Violet said. “I’ve never experienced more magic than when I’m with you.”
Tillie leaned her head against Violet’s shoulder and whispered, “That may be the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Imagine what I’ll be saying thirty years from now,” Violet said.
They kissed once more. Then, they got to work.
Violet gathered two sets of string, four weights, and black dye. If Regina really had used her magic against Violet, then Violet didn’t doubt she’d do it again. She hoped four candles would be enough. If she lit one daily, her sister would find her magic useless against Violet’s, and she’d give up. If she didn’t, then Violet would simply make more.
Once the wax melted down, she handed one set of weighted wicks to Tillie and held her own above the boiler. Tillie mirrored her. With her free hand, Violet threaded her fingers through Tillie’s.
“May our love be protected,” Violet said.
“May our love be protected,” Tillie repeated.
Violet felt that first stirring of power in her heart. The heat built in her chest, and she and Tillie dipped their strings at the same time. Wax dripped from the wicks as they lifted them from the boiler. Violet released her grip on Tillie and sprinkled the first layer with herbs.Then, she rejoined hands, and they held the wicks aloft for a few moments to let them dry.
“May our love be protected,” Violet said again. And, again, Tillie repeated her, the fire inside Violet growing stronger as it worked its way from her heart to her shoulders to her arms, and clear down to the tips of her fingers.
As they lowered the candles into the wax, the magic flowed from Violet’s fingertips brighter than she’d ever seen it. Instead of the usual soft glow, the early layers of wax looked almost orange beneath its light, as if the candles were already burning.
“It’s beautiful,” Tillie breathed.
“It’s never been like this before,” Violet said, pulling up on the string.
“What’s different?”
Violet rubbed her thumb along the side of Tillie’s hand. “You’re here.”
They continued that way in companionable silence. Dipping and pausing and dipping until the candles had formed and dawn waited at the doorstep. When they’d finished, she hung the candles from her hooks. She emptied the boiler of the wax, scooping what little remained into a small jar should she need to pull from it later. Then she filled the inner pot once more, this time mixing sun-bleached wax with pink dye.
“More?” Tillie asked.
