I laugh, my heart already warming. I hope this means he’s planning to stop by for a cup one day.
He really has thought of everything.
I’m not a fan of the phraselady boner—I think we deserve our own expressive terminology that has nothing to do with a dude’s cock—but right now, there’s nothing else that encapsulates the feeling better.
I snap a picture on my phone, then text it to Jessa.
Doc Devane has just given me a huge LADY BONER.
There, I said it.
Jessa sends back a string of laughing emojis, and for the first time since the cops hauled me out of Kettle Black, I’m starting to feel—well, not exactly at home. But if I were the weather, my forecast would be mostly content with an eighty percent chance of happiness in the near future.
It’s the end of a long but good day, and the moment calls for decadence—my famous white chocolate raspberry bliss tea. I grab a canister of rooibos tea, a package of white chocolate shavings, some dried orange peel, raspberry essence, and honey, then I fill the single-use kettle with filtered water.
While I wait for it to boil, I get the tub started, then head into the bedroom to slip into my new bathrobe, already anticipating the luxurious bath that awaits me. But it seems the surprises aren’t done yet—on the end of my bed, there’s a black shoebox painted with silver stars and moons, a cream-colored envelope on top.
Inside, I find a notecard embossed with the Academy logo and Trello’s name and title.
Starla —
These items belonged to your mother. Now they belong to you. I hope you’re finding the suite to your liking. Dr. Devane has left some things for you, but please let me know if you require anything else, or if there's anything we can do to make your stay more comfortable.
— A. Trello
My hands are trembling. Other than the grimoire and the climbing gear I had to leave behind on the Grande, I never really had any of my mother’s personal belongings. She always said she was too practical for things like jewelry, or for buying books she could get from the library. She thought knick-knacks were useless dust collectors, and too many photos a sure way of staying stuck in the past.
So I’m struck dumb when I open the box and find just that: a treasure trove of photos and tchotchkes, some mundane, some magickal, all of it precious.
I start with the pictures—a pile of old-fashioned Polaroids with pinholes in the top, probably once stuck in a bulletin board. There are lots of Mom and various witches and mages—friends of hers, I’m guessing—hikes and camping trips, school dances, parties, goofy selfies. My father comes onto the scene eventually, with all the cute duck face photos and stolen kisses you’d expect. There’s even one of them dressed for some kind of formal event, Dad in a tux and Mom in a silver gown that pours over her body like liquid mercury. They’re both glowing and happy, so young, their entire future stretched out ahead of them.
But at some point, something changed, and the happy glow started to fade. When I put the photos in a rough timeline, the change is a lot easier to see. Her bright eyes become haunted, her smile tight, the lines deepening in her forehead. She’s losing weight, then gaining, then losing again. My father seems beside himself, and in every photo, they get further and further away, as if some invisible force is slowly wedging them apart. There’s a manic energy to the later photos, and then they just end. No graduation ceremony, no silver Academy pins.
Who are you,I wonder, tracing my fingers over their faces.What happened here?
I keep waiting for an answer, but no matter how hard I will it, photographs can’t speak.
Assembling them into a neat stack, I take the other objects out of the box, handling each one like the treasure that it is. There’s a silk pouch of small, brightly-colored crystals that look like jellybeans and give off a slight magickal buzz when I touch them. I find sage bundles tied with lavender ribbon, a collection of raven feathers, and a carabiner that saysGet Hung Up in Yosemite National Park!in bright pink script.There’s a chocolate-brown ceramic pig the size of a golf ball, with three legs and a chipped ear, and a half-melted white candle. And lastly, a necklace—an ornate Celtic cross fitted with dark silver stones. Hematite, I believe. The same stone Dr. Devane used to shield us from spying at the prison.
I fasten the necklace around my neck, it’s magick pulsing over my skin in soft, warm waves. The protective energy feels almost parental, and I touch my fingers to it, tears slipping down my cheeks.
I used to think Mom and Dad were just always Mom and Dad, you know? Like they were born that way. Adults. Parents. People Who Knew The Way Things Worked. Even after they died, sorting through their things didn’t really give me much more insight, because everything they owned was just practical stuff from our life in Tres Búhos—clothes and shoes, dishes, basic things like that. There were no childhood photos, no old yearbooks or favorite toys or mysterious objects with even more mysterious origins.
Until now.
This little stars-and-moon shoebox contains more about my parents’ history than our entire house once held.
Looking at the photos once more, I can’t help but wonder what their friends saw. Wonder who tried to help them, whether any of those smiling faces even noticed something unraveling.
So often, darkness lurks in the brightest places, a smile hiding an ugly secret, a fancy dress covering the pain that the heart bears in silence.
Bailing on the bath, I brew my tea, drain the cup, and fall asleep on top of the covers, surrounded by my mother’s history and a thousand questions floating into the night.
* * *
I’m not surprised when she comes to me tonight, here in the space between awake and asleep, the mist where all things are possible.
I’m standing at the lake again, my owl spirit soaring high above, the moon glinting off the soft ripples. My toes dip into the water on the shoreline, and from the center of the lake, something emerges.
