Page 11 of Bewitched By the Pumpkin Queen

Chapter 4

Delia

Grief makes the world small and loud. I pace my workshop in tight, frantic circuits, every turn dragging another constellation of footprints into the sawdust scattered on the floor. Flickering candles sputter in the updraft of my movement, painting the rough-hewn beams with stuttering shadows.

It’s only noon, but the blackout curtains shut out the day, forcing everything to exist in the glow of beeswax and the pulse of my own headache. I keep Jasper’s wedding ring gripped so tight in my left fist, it’s practically welding itself into my skin. Every so often, I catch myself twisting the band, thumb stroking the tiny inscription on the inside, ‘Until the stars go dark’, the words worn half smooth from years of him never taking it off.

Now the stars have gone out, one by one, leaving nothing but this metal circle and the void it frames.

I haven’t slept since…well. Since. My eyes are so raw I could sand furniture with them, and my hair has become a copper corona of knots and flyaways. I want to scream or sleep or dig up the goddamn earth, but instead I just pace and pace and pace.

On my sixth or seventh lap, a tiny voice interrupts, "“If you keep walking in circles, you’ll wear a fosse into the floor." Whiskers is draped across the highest shelf, tucked between jars of sage and a dusty bust of Medusa. His red eyes are glossy with concern, but he masks it with sarcasm because that’s how we do things in this house. "You know what you're thinking is forbidden magic, right?" he continues, licking a paw with calculated indifference. "The kind that gets witches exiled to Ohio. Or, more likely, burned at the stake?"

I roll my eyes, the gesture feeling mechanical and stiff. "Don't lecture me on witch law, Whiskers. I know exactly what I'm doing."

"Do you?" He hops down from shelf to shelf like a furry parkour artist, landing on my workbench with a soft thud. He yawns, exposing teeth so small and sharp they look manufactured. "Just pointing out that you haven’t even bothered with step one of the Five Stages of Grief. You skipped straight to Necromancy."

I turn away from Whiskers, my fingernails digging half-moons into my palms as I stare at the wedding band, its gold catching candlelight. "Necromancy isn't a stage of grief," I mutter, tracing the band's smooth curve. "It's a solution."

Jasper wasn't supposed to be a headline, a whispered tragedy between neighbors over garden fences, or worse—a sad-face emoji in the town's gossip threads. He was supposed to be beside me, warm and solid and mine. The universe doesn't get to snatch him away and expect me to nod and accept its terms.

Fuck that.

The locked drawer of my workbench groans as I wrench it open, my fingers pushing past safety pamphlets and everyday spell books until they brush against something ancient. The Nightshade Grimoire. My family's darkest heirloom. Petrified lilac bark crackles beneath my touch, and the veined vellum pages release their centuries-old breath of wormwood and smoke. This book doesn't just break rules…it's the reason the rules exist. Since Salem, it has been passed down for thirteen generations, however, the last eight generations of matriarchs have kept it hidden, understanding that its magic demands payment in blood and sanity. My mother made me swear on my power never to open it. Her mother extracted the same promise from her. But vows, it seems, have expiration dates.

I open the Grimoire to the middle, the spine crackling protest. The ink shimmers and twitches like it’s made of live spiders. The page headings writhe until one resolves itself, SANGUINEM ANIMATIO: Restoration of a Soul Vessel.

Whiskers shakes his head, "You’re really going to do this," he says, voice hushed now. "Not even going to try moving on? Netflix and wine? Online dating?"

“I can’t just let him stay dead, Whiskers. He’s my husband, and I don’t want a replacement. I want Jasper.”

The list of ingredients is short and cruel:

1. Vessel for the soul. (Fresh or no more than seventy-two hours past time of death)

2. Personal belonging of soul meant to revive.

3. Wart from a Moon Toad.

4. Rainwater blessed under a full moon.

5. Blood of a sacrifice.

6. Candles.

My eyes dart down the yellowed page, ignoring the cramped script detailing all the ways this spell could go catastrophically wrong, the tedious lunar timing requirements, until I find what I'm looking for; instructions for when death hasn't left you with an intact body to work with.

The margin note makes my stomach lurch.

The missing organ or limb must be substituted with a compatible replacement. Of course, the universe wouldn't make this easy.

I need to find him a new heart.

Whiskers jumps onto my shoulder and leans into my ear, so close I can smell the vanilla residue of the last treat I bribed him with. “You going to murder someone, Delia?” His voice is a tiny hiss, almost sympathetic. “Because that’s a line you can’t uncross.”

I swallow, fighting down the bile rising in my throat. "I'm not crossing that line. There's…alternative methods." My fingers trace the grimoire's margin notes, finding the loophole I need. "There! A pig's heart. Close enough anatomically to work as a substitute, plus the blood sacrifice is built right in.”

Taking a life has never been on my resume. But then again, neither has resurrecting my murdered husband.