Witches Get Stitches by Juliette Cross
Prologue
“Okay, Violet’s turn!” Clara squealed, bouncing excitedly beside me. Aunt Beryl had just done her reading using the divining bowl.
This was our 16th birthday present. My twin sister scooted over in the grass so that I could take the spot directly across from Aunt Beryl for my reading. I leaned forward to get a better look in the bowl, hemmed in with wild-growing flowers and herbs that had been manicured to look like an English garden in Aunt Beryl’s backyard.
“I’m a Seer, too, you know.” I swatted a piece of grass off my bare knee. “I could’ve done this myself.”
Aunt Beryl, our mother’s best friend who practically raised us alongside her, was one of my favorite people in the world. Not simply because she was cool as hell, but because she was outspoken enough to put people in their place and made no apologies for it.
“You’re only sixteen.” She arched a superior eyebrow. “Like a newborn babe in diapers when it comes to your magic.”
See what I mean? I smiled. “I’ve read Jules’s fortune with my new Tarot cards Mom gave me. Said she would be head of New Orleans one day. Mom said that was definitely true, so I’d say not too bad.”
She rolled her eyes and tilted her head, her long dreads sliding over one shoulder. “Or you have common sense and a lick of intelligence in that head of yours.” She reached over the divining bowl and tapped me on the forehead. “Anyone could tell you that Jules will lead the coven one day.” She put both palms on the outside of the wooden bowl filled with water from the first rain this spring. “Now, hush up and focus on your future. Never smart for a Seer to divine for herself anyway.”
Placing my palms on my bare kneecaps, I settled into a relaxed pose and closed my eyes. “Why not?”
“Too close to it. Some Seers, no matter how tight their psychic line is with others, can’t see properly when it comes to themselves.”
“But I—”
“Shh!” she snapped.
So I shushed. I felt Clara wriggling next to me, but she was better about obeying orders than I was, already quiet so Aunt Beryl could concentrate. The sharp snap of her magic swirled between us, tugging at my chest with a wash of sizzling energy. I loved Aunt Beryl’s magic. It felt like a cool, comforting breeze on a summer’s day.
“Hmm.” Aunt Beryl’s quiet contemplation sparked a little anxiety.
“What?” My eyes snapped open as I peered forward, unable to make out the blurry images of witch sign floating in the divining bowl.
Aunt Beryl’s hands glowed white where she hovered them over the water before she placed them in her lap and stared down, her brow pinched.
“What do you see?” I asked, more eager than I thought I’d be.
“Stark independence.”
“Shocking,” whispered Clara with a soft snort. I elbowed her sitting next to me.
Our styles were already diverging. Where I wore torn jeans and rock-n-roll T-shirts, she wore willowy dresses that accentuated our elfin features, looking like a fairy stepping into the world of humans.
“Your dream career will take some time, but it will come. I see success. Struggle there, but also success.”
“Awesome. Would love to know what that dream career is, by the way.”
She gave me a withering look. “That’s not how divination works.”
“And what about her one true love?” asked Clara excitedly, the only thing she was really interested in.
Aunt Beryl whispered something under her breath and waved a palm over the divining bowl, the water swirling faster at her verbal command. I tried to pretend I wasn’t that interested in knowing about my one true love as Clara liked to put it, but the truth was that I was a sappy romantic beneath my gruff exterior. I leaned forward anxiously.
“Oh.” Aunt Beryl sat back, frowning down at the bowl.
“Well, that doesn’t sound good. Can you elaborate please?”
She hit me with a sharp look. “Your true love is broken inside. Like all of his kin.” She glanced back down at the bowl.
Of all the men in the world, that’s the true love I would get. Still, my heart leaped at the realization Aunt Beryl saw anyone at all.
“But Violet can heal him?” Clara frowned down at the bowl.
“Maybe,” said Aunt Beryl. “Wait, yes. You can. If you think with your heart, not your head.”
Something more aligned to Clara, not me.
“How will I know him?” I asked, anxious about this new revelation in my future.
“By his eyes.”
“That doesn’t tell me anything, Aunt Beryl. What color will those eyes be? What is so special about them? Is he short? Tall? Blond or brown hair?” I scoffed in teenage frustration at her cryptic response.
She simply smiled in that knowing sort of way then used her maternal, hear-my-words-you-silly-child voice. “You’ll know by his eyes.”