“Late night?” whispered Clara St. James, coven treasurer, relentless gossip, and undefeated bake sale champion going on eight years.She was also the coven’s self-appointed ambassador to theyoung ones,a term she applied to anyone under fifty. Goldie, who was thirty-seven, found the label both flattering and absurd.
“Oh, you know how it is,” Goldie whispered with a shrug. “Ezra came over last night with wine, apologies, and those pecs of his, and, well, one thing led to another.”
Clara cackled softly, her eyes crinkling with delight. “You have itsogood with that one. My Peter thinks foreplay is buying the good hummus. It’s nice you’ve got someone with fire.”
Goldie winked and smirked quietly. “It does keep me limber.”
None of it was true, of course. She hadn’t heard from Ezra in two weeks outside of a few vague texts.
And, honestly? That was fine. He was fun, handsome, and almost as theatrical as she was. Their moods swung from smoking-hot to cold-as-ice, and whether things ended in undying devotion or operatic disdain was about as predictable as a coin flip.
At the beginning, the whole thing had felt mysterious and magnificent, but recently, it just felt like… work.
Sure, the occasional flare-up of drama still was attractive at times. But recently, Goldie’s stomach had started to sink, not flutter, when Ezra texted.
She wasn’t sure if that said something about him, or about her.
Across the room, the speaker finally droned to a halt, visibly relieved to reach the last bullet point in his presentation. Winona applauded enthusiastically, while the rest of the coven clapped with the polite enthusiasm of women who had survived far worse in school board hearings.
Someone let out a weak whistle of encouragement. Someone else muttered, “Goddess bless,” which was Bellwether for:please never bring him back.
“Thank you, Mr. Pettigrew,” Tamsin said, sweeping forward in a rust-red caftan printed with a pattern of foxes mid-pounce. “Wesoappreciate your insight into… all that. Witches, I’ll see our guest out, and we’ll close shortly.”
As she ushered the little man towards the door, murmuring platitudes, the room audibly exhaled.
“Forty-seven minutes,” Clara exclaimed. “That’s a new record. Do we give out badges for surviving magical bureaucracy now?”
“I thought he made some solid points,” huffed Maureen Murphy. “We can’t just go around glamoring people willy-nilly. That’s how you get lawsuits, or cults.”
Goldie leaned back in her chair and let herself bask in the comfortable, slightly catty, completely expected vibe of small jokes, sideways smiles, and the familiarity of a roomful of women who knew how to hold both magic and exhaustion in the same breath.
Tamsin returned, hands clasped and expression composed. “Witches,” she said, voice lilting in a way that immediatelyhushed every side conversation, “a few last announcements before we close.”
There was the expected collective sigh, accompanied by the stretch and shuffle of limbs preparing for freedom. But Tamsin’s announcements were sacred law: short, sharp, and impossible to escape.
“First,” the coven leader said, holding up a finger. “Beltane is next week, and it’s our year to tend the ceremonial bonfire. Goldie, how are we looking?”
Goldie sat up, blinking her eyes and a charming smile curling her lips. “Everything’s accounted for,” she chirped. “The enchanted hawthorn arrives Thursday morning, and I’ve already braided the ribbons into a spark-dampening ward. The charm committee met last week to put together the spell sachets—thank you, witches!”
A murmur rose from around the circle, and Goldie waved a hand, letting her carefully picked rings catch and scatter the light becomingly. “I know you’ve all been wondering, so we’ll give you this little tidbit: our sachets will burn green-gold, and the smoke should form into a semblance of this year’s logo.”
“That was my idea,” Clara said in a stage-whisper to Rosemary Pike, who gave an appraising nod.
Tamsin clapped her hands. “Excellent. Remember, witches: Let’s make it celebratory, festive, and safe. We are, after all, representing not just ourselves, but the long magical lineage we’re fortunate enough to carry. Now, let us rise.”
The coven stood, raised their hands, and hushed as Tamsin led them in the closing chant:“We close this circle in care, clarity, and community. May what we carry forward be lighter than what we brought in.”
Goldie followed the motion of the group, pressing her fingers to her heart and bowing her head just slightly. As the wordsfaded into the ether, the circle disbanded with the practiced ease of women who’d done this dozens of times before.
Hugs were exchanged, cheeks were kissed in overlapping patterns of affection, and the rustle of shawls and bags hummed through the air as witches reached for cell phones, keys, and any ritual charms they needed for their personal stash.
“Before everyone scatters,” called Lita Baines, “has anyone heard if Parks and Paranatural Resources are doing anything about the disturbances? I heard from a clerk in Zoning that they’ve had more reports out of the Grove Core this spring than in the past two years. My scrying bowl showed the Beltane flame bending sideways, like something was breathing against it. Is there anything we need to be doing to help contain it?”
Marlein Merrywether rolled her eyes. “Your scrying bowl always leans dramatic and doom-and-gloom,” she said, winking at Goldie as if to say,can you believe this old biddy?“Remember last year? And the year before that? No one said boo, and no one went up in flame. Same this year.”
“Except it isn’t,” muttered Ada Hawthorne. “Haven’t you heard? Ashenvale Ventures is circling the Green Holdings. They’re talking about buying up the whole parcel.”
“They can’t!” gasped Lita. “That’s sacred land! Selling it off would be a sacrilege.”
