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Two seconds after being called, Roman came fluttering into the room. “Be a dear and bring me my things,” she ordered him. He disappeared back into the hall.
Abigail stood, her tight dress straining against the pressure of the movement. “Come,” she told them.
Gwen glanced nervously up at the mage as she stood to follow. “Don’t worry, darling,” Levian whispered. “It’s just a bit of scrying. There’s nothing to it.”
Gwen doubted anything with Abigail was simple, least of all her magick, but it felt a little late to run for the hills now. With an anxious sigh, Gwen shuffled after Levian.
The stark scent of roses from the garden didn’t bring her any comfort as Abigail patted the spot next to her at the small table near the terrace doors. Levian nudged her, and the knot in her stomach tightened.
“What are you going to do?” she asked, slowly working her way over to the seat.
“There are many different techniques for scrying,” Abigail explained, flattening out some invisible wrinkles in the gaudy floral tablecloth with her palms. “Some witches prefer mirrors—others stones or crystals. I prefer water.”
Roman came hurrying into the room, a large, well-polished wooden box balanced on one hand and an old leather suitcase in the other. He set the case down at his feet before he bent over, opened the latch to the box, and presented it to the witch.
Nestled in the center of dark red velvet padding was a thick-sided gray stone bowl, about the size of a cantaloupe cut in half. Abigail reached in and hauled it out. With a heavy thud, she set it in front of Gwen’s chair.
“This bowl has been passed down in my family for generations,” Abigail explained. “It was carved by a druid.”
Gwen cocked a skeptical brow. It looked just like those bowls they made table-side guacamole in at Mexican restaurants. It didn’t even have any markings on it. Some of Levian’s magickal items at least felt strange. This bowl seemed—well, like a bowl.
Gwen finally slid into her seat as Roman closed the box and placed it down at his feet. He hauled up the suitcase and held it open for Abigail to peruse. It was filled to the brim with hundreds of vials from tiny to large, each one nestled into its own little cubby. Abigail pulled out several and placed them on the table. Many contained dried leaves, or bits of plants and oils, but there were strange ones too. One with little teeth; another with dried beetles; a silvery, thick powder; blood-red feathers. She glanced nervously at Levian, who was watching the selection process with extreme focus.
“The water,” the witch ordered Roman when she was through with her selection. He set the case down and came back a moment later with a pitcher of water. He leaned in over Gwendolyn’s shoulder and filled the bowl to the very edge.
“Prepare another bottle of champagne for after,” she told him, rubbing his forearm affectionately. He nodded, gathered the box and suitcase, and vanished once more.
“What does all that do?” she asked anxiously.
“Elements to help spark a reaction.” Abigail opened several vials and dumped their contents into the bowl, until it was a weird swirl of dried plant bits, shimmery silver powder, and oil blotches. It smelled oddly pleasant. Like clove with a hint of tree and dirt. It reminded her of Sirus. Honestly, could she not think about him for at least five minutes?
“What happens now?” Gwen asked, trying to push thoughts of Sirus out of her head along with the warm feeling the scent spread through her.
“We scry,” Abigail huffed, tapping a vial so that exactly three of those little beetles fell into the bowl.
Gwen’s stomach churned looking at their sad, lifeless forms floating around on the surface. She glanced over to Levian, who was as mesmerized as a kid watching candy being made through a shop window.
“But how?” she pressed the witch. “Do you just look into the bowl and read the stuff in it, like tea leaves or something?”
“Not exactly,” Abigail replied with a wry smile. She slid a small pocketknife inlaid with mother-of-pearl next to Gwen. “Cut your finger.”
Gwen blinked back her shock. “What?”
“We don’t need much blood. A few drops will do,” the witch said, pointing impatiently to the little knife.
Blood? Nobody had said anything about blood! “Seriously?”
Levian at least had the decency to look a little sheepish. “Sorry, darling. Just a prick is all you need. Blood magick will be the most potent, and we do want to find out anything we can.”
It was official. She hated magick. Gwen looked back at the knife on the table and the bowl that smelled too much like Sirus. Her insides twisted like a pretzel. Of course it required blood magick, because of course it damn did.
Gwen was frustrated for so many reasons she couldn’t filter through them. It was her inability to shove Sirus from her thoughts that led her to snatch up the knife from the table. She’d come this far. “What the hell.”
She stuck the tip of the knife to the end of her thumb. It was only a brief sting, but she winced all the same. A small blot of blood pooled on the pad of her finger.
“Over the bowl,” Abigail ordered, pointing to the bowl.
“R-right,” Gwen stuttered as she set the knife down and held her thumb over.
