Love, Magic and Misfortune by Karla Nikole

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—”

“I think they prefer Wiccan. And Gram wasn’t an actual Wiccan. I feel like she was Wiccan-curious. Bi-Wiccan.”

“I might be offended by that. Find anything good in there? A monkey’s paw, or maybe a spell to permanently eliminate morning breath?”

Violet laughed. “No severed animal limbs just yet. I found great-grandmother’s journal, though.”

“Yikes. Ginger Ainsworth was a for-real for-real witch. Remember Gram told us about it once and Dad got mad at her? She never mentioned it again, but I couldn’t forget that image—Gram as a little girl and Ginger doing weird things in the woods behind the house. She made me think that magic was real.”

Violet had only flipped through the withered pages of the leather-bound journal. There were all kinds of intricate drawings, mathematical equations and words in Latin and other languages she couldn’t identify. She hadn’t looked at it for very long. It all felt foreign, like words and symbols from another time and place. “I think Gram just liked the idea of healing and treating people with remedies from the natural earth. She was more of a naturopath vigilante.”

“She was an herbalist, Vi.”

“Hm, I’d rather have ‘Naturopath Vigilante’ on a resume.”

“What are you going to do with all that illegal marijuana in the greenhouse?”

Violet sighed, rolling her eyes. “Oh, who knows. I don’t want to think about it.”

“You can quit the job you hate and become a full-time dealer. Turn the village into Mary Jane Poppinsville.”

“Stupid. Are you being funny right now? You didn’t even want me to move here, now you’re encouraging me to become a drug lord?”

“I don’t think selling sandwich bags of weed makes you a ‘drug lord.’ If you want to quit your stable job and live out some crazy fantasy life, might as well go full throttle.”

Violet frowned, holding the phone up to her ear with her shoulder hunched and using both hands to shuffle herb bags and books around in the chest. “Yeah, no. Anyway, I wonder if the local police know about this? They have to. How could they not? I’m going to ignore it for as long as possible. Nobody’s been knocking down the door about it so far—except Freddie Martin made a lewd reference to it last week at the grocery store.”

“Ugh, Freddie Martin. Objectively, and aside from being a dimwitted bully, he’s tall and quite good-looking. I swear he had a crush on you. That’s why he was such a jerk to you all the time. Misdirected schoolboy angst and all that.”

“Whatever.” Violet picked up another small, unlabeled bag that appeared to be filled with tiny tan-colored seeds. She held the bag to her nose, then cringed. It reminded her of sulfur. “This bag is like fart seeds.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Sorry. I’m still going through the chest.”

“Did Freddie ever try anything with you?”

Violet frowned. “Why are you still talking about him?”

“Because I’m convinced you’re special to him, somehow.”

Tossing the bag into the chest, Violet stood, rubbing a palm across her jeans to rid herself of dust and stinky herb debris. “Listen, between these fart seeds and you talking about Freddie, I’m going to throw up.”

“Ha. Alright, alright…” Rose paused for a moment before asking, “So did you go to Jasper’s again?”

Not wanting to talk about this, Violet pursed her lips, frowning. She knew very well how Rose felt about the entire Jasper situation, and it was a delicate thing for Violet, always. Especially right now, after years of nothing, suddenly having him around again. She took a breath. “Yes.”

“And?”

“Nothing. I delivered his groceries.”

After a distinct and awkward silence, Rose laughed. “Oh wow, she’s being tight-lipped about this. Ms. Outspoken is keeping this one close to the chest.”

Violet didn’t respond.

“Vi, c’mon. Am I that bad about this topic?”

“Yes. Yes, you are.”

“Okay, baby sis, I’m sorry. Did you see him this time? You’ve been wanting to see him since you were nine. May I ask if he opened the door?”

Violet rolled her shoulders, trying to ease the tension there. “He did.”

“How was he? Did he look sickly? Was he Jasper the Friendly Ghost?”

Violet snorted. “He said he’s fine. He looked alright. A little ghost-like but solid. Not frail at all.” She decided to keep the part about him appearing unkempt and living among the dust bunnies to herself.

“Do you finally feel a little better?” Rose asked, calm. “You stopped talking with me about it a long time ago, but I know that had been bothering you—not knowing anything about what happened to him.”

In truth, she still didn’t know what had happened. He’d shut down her questioning so fast that there was no space for any meaningful revelation or closure. But seeing him and verifying his well-being in person, at the very least had been satisfying. “I do, actually. I’m relieved.”

“Good. Maybe we can move forward now?”

Violet drew back. “Ah, see there? You ruined it. Move forward where, Rosie? Where am I going, exactly?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Rose chided. “It’s like Jasper is this standard in your head. This nine-year-old boy that captivated you with all his whimsy and curious wonder, dragging you around in the enchanted forest behind Gram’s house. You’ve been comparing every man you meet to that image ever since.”

Shaking her head, Violet smirked. “Wow, whimsy and ‘enchanted forests’? That’s some pretty bold conjecture. You should consider being a psychiatrist. I bet life is super great for Jillian existing under that kind of scrutiny—”

“Am I wrong?”

Violet turned to face the windows of the patio, basking in the warm light. She bent forward toward the luscious planter filled with mint and Roman chamomile. The puffy yellow centers of the small flowers seemed to glow in the bright stream of sunshine pouring through the glass. She loved this smell. On the opposite side of the porch, there was another solitary pot of chamomile. Jasper had served her chamomile tea. She suddenly wondered if Gram had dried it for him.

“It’s good to have standards.” Violet stood straight, staring out at the autumnal foliage framing the landscape. Gram’s greenhouse was set just before the thick grove of trees covered in red and golden leaves.

Rosie laughed. “Sure, but he was nine. Actually, I think this is good. You should spend time with him. Maybe he’ll say something really offensive to you and the whole thing will come crumbling down.”

“That’s… a terrible thing to hope for, Rosie.”

“Well, not morally offensive. Something light but important to you, like that he hates cake and thinks it’s gross.”

Violet scrunched her face in horror. “What monster doesn’t like cake?”

“See?”

“I’m hanging up.”

Violet ended the call in the middle of her sister’s loud cackle. She was deciding whether or not she should continue going through the poppy chest when there was a loud knock on the front door of the cottage. She wasn’t expecting anyone, so she kept her footfalls quiet while sneaking to the front room. She looked out the peephole. To her great disgust, Freddie Martin was on the other side.

She stood still. There was no way she was opening the door for him. Violet jumped when he knocked again, harder.

“Violet Ainsworth,” he called. “I know you’re here. Gloria’s dang car is in the drive. I just want to talk a little.”

Nope. Violet leaned with her back to the door and folded her arms. He knocked again.

“C’mon fancy-pants! I gotta open the store in twenty minutes. Why didn’t you come in to get groceries this week? I was lookin’ for you.”

Such a creep. Do not ever look for me.

Freddie mumbled to himself. “Maybe she’s in the bathroom or something.” He stomped away, down the gravel path and back toward his car. When she was sure he’d gone, she stood straight and walked back toward the sun porch.

Freddie had bullied her when they were younger: from the time she’d moved to Libellule Commune in first grade, and in every subsequent grade up until she’d finally left for college. He’d make rude comments about her curly, coily hair, or the peppery freckles across her nose. In high school he’d taken to calling her “turds for eyes” because he said the deep brown of her irises had reminded him of poop. Who said that kind of thing about someone with brown eyes? Statistically speaking, most people in the world had brown eyes.

The summer before she’d left for college, the whole town threw a big party for all the graduates at the local community center. It was there that Freddie had caught her off guard and grabbed her shoulder, declaring he wanted to talk. But the minute she’d felt his hand, she’d turned and shoved him, screaming. It had been quite the scene, but that was the absolute last straw. Words were bad enough, but when he’d physically accosted her, she swore she’d stab him if he ever did it again. She didn’t carry a knife, per se, but there were plenty of sharp objects lying around.

On the back porch, Violet’s brow furrowed with inherent worry. She sincerely hoped this wouldn’t be a problem with her moving back here. Having regular conflicts again with Freddie would be a nightmare.

Shaking her head, she looked back down into the large antique chest. There was another book stashed underneath a pile of herb pouches. She reached down, pushing the small bags aside and wrapping her fingers around the book’s thick binding. It was heavy and dark with a hard, worn cover—an unmistakable symbol etched in silver within the center. The pages were dusty and discolored along the edges, with frayed ribbons, tags and folded corners marking specific places.

She read the title, frowning as a certain discontent washed over her.

Salem Witchcraft and Sabbath Spells