Amelia was where I’d left her, scanning the translations of the grimoire. Various versions of frowns and scowls were appearing and disappearing, her lips twisting into a moue. The translations read like riddles, like the one I’d used, and the reward for deciphering them was powerful spells.
“Why do so many of these spells require things I’ve never heard of?” she complained.
Sitting next to her, I looked at the open page. Pointing at one of the lines, I said, “I think that’s hair from a werewolf.”
She blew out an exasperated breath. “Yeah, things I’ve never heard of and items we’re unlikely to get. ‘Hey Terran, why don’tyou shift and let me yank out one of your hairs.’” She relaxed back in the chair.
I was highly unlikely to get anything from Terran. I shoved the thought away before I spiraled, again, over the sudden changes in my life and what that meant going forward.
“I’ve been through it twice, and from the titles, I don’t think any of these spells can unlock your magic. There are three reversal spells, do you think they would work?”
Shrugging, I had no idea.
“Why didn’t your parents initiate you going through the Spellrend?” she asked.
“You met them. They didn’t have magic worth them being invited into a coven. But apparently one of them had this great magic. I don’t understand why they would hide it. I’d never even heard of it until Cirrian.”
Amelia glanced in my direction but appeared not to want to look at me. Her jaw clenched like she was biting back words.
“Say it,” I urged.
Turning to me, she gave me a plastic smile and took several moments before she spoke. “I don’t believe there’s such a thing as bad magic, but there is magic that can direct witches in bad directions. Umbral magic is one. It’s diablerie, and to practice it, you have to tap into a darkness. Not everyone can handle it and would rather walk away than deal with it. A god locked your magic. Maybe your parents learned the true history of the magic and wanted it to end with them.”
Everything about my parents’ personalities supported her theory. But I needed my magic. If they had gone through Spellrend and opted out of using the magic, I should have been given that option, too.
“How did they stop using it?”
“If magic can be locked, I’m sure it can be blocked, too. Do you remember them wearing a charm, bracelet, or some type of jewelry every day? Or any markings or tattoos?”
Sitting in silence, I remembered my parents from a different perspective. Bereavement wiggled in, but I concentrated on our day-to-day life, them getting dressed, their favorite jewelry and watches. Other than their wedding rings, there wasn’t anything they wore daily, and I hadn’t seen any markings on the parts of their bodies I’d seen. Apparently, I was one of the few people in my social circle who hadn’t either seen their parents naked or walked in on them having sex.
“Other than their wedding rings?” I asked.
She nodded. “Bring them, too.”
Stopping at the door to my bedroom closet, I stared at the box where I’d placed my parents’ items, the day I’d fallen into an exhausted sleep with my mother’s favorite winter scarf wrapped around me, after a day of crying. Grief fell on me hard, and the keepsakes I had didn’t feel like memories but anchors that dragged me into depths of sadness that cost too much to pull out of.
Unable to relegate the items to my garage for storage, I’d purchased a box. My parents’ favorite colors covered the wings of the butterflies decorating it. Taking the box from the shelf, I sank to the floor and opened it, preparing for the influx of emotions. My chest tightened, breath stuttering as grief rose fast and sharp, uninvited.
I leaned into it, accepting the hollow ache their absence had carved into me. Tears blurred my vision and streamed down my face. I wallowed in the unfairness of losing them both at the same time. Then, opening the box, I took out the rings and placed the ill-fitting jewelry on my fingers, tears continuing to course down my face as their memories resurfaced.
I wrapped my mother’s favorite scarf around me, imagining a trace of her perfume on it that was long gone. The many times she’d pull me to her and wrap it around us, using it as an opportunity to give me the hugs I loved so much. Three tight pulsed squeezes, punctuated with the waft of the citrus-scent fragrances she loved. Then I picked up the basketball signed by the player my father swore was the greatest to ever touch the court. He didn’t play for Chicago. That part had always mattered. I remembered him holding it up like a trophy, grinning as if he’d won something by owning it. My mother had rolled her eyes, scolding him for betraying “his team,” and he’d argued back, loud and unapologetic, like loyalty to greatness was somehow different from loyalty to a city. They’d gone back and forth until laughter won.
Wrapped in my mother’s scarf and hugging my dad’s ball, I let the memories of them flood in, navigating the grief that accompanied remembering them.
The memories hit harder than I expected.
I blinked hard, trying to force the tears back, swallowing around the lump in my throat. Wiping away the tears that escaped, I took a long cleansing breath and returned everything to the box. I shared almost everything with Amelia, but my grief felt too personal.
Taking my time before returning to her, I wiped away all traces of tears before going downstairs. When I placed the box on the coffee table, Amelia’s eyes were kind as she gave my hand a gentle squeeze before turning her attention to it. She handled everything with care, as if the objects might shatter. As suspected, the scarf and hat and smaller trinkets were scrutinized but dismissed as being the source. She examined the rings closely.
“There’s nothing on the rings,” Amelia pronounced. She frowned. “I don’t feel magic anymore.” She inhaled a deepbreath, letting it out so slowly, I thought she was going to pass out. Slowly, a reassuring smile appeared. “It was the right thing to do.” She looked away and busied herself with returning the items to the box.
“Was it thebestthing to do?”
The nod came quickly. “Even if we can decipher the Riddles of the Sphinx in these pages, neither of us has the magic to invoke the spells.” She gathered the translated pages of the grimoire and stood.
“We’ll need the coven. There’s no better time to tell them about the thaumavore and the loss of my magic,” she announced.
