Page 89 of Fall Love

“Sounds sexual,” Fisk snorts, and we all laugh.

But as the sun finally peeks over the water, we stand in awe of its brilliance, and with the urgent orange and vibrant yellow, I’m reminded once more how much I love this area.

While the sun climbs upward, perfectly positioned between those two trees in our line of sight, we hear the distinct snap of a twig behind us. All three of us stand taller. Fisk slowly lowers his beer, like he’s a teenager caught underage drinking. Landon turns his head slightly to listen.

Another snap. The definitive crunch of leaves. Nearing footsteps.

“Bear?” I whisper out the side of my mouth.

“Stand very still,” Landon warns.

Fisk closes his eyes.

The cackle we hear behind us causes each of us to spin, because bears don’t laugh like that.

Aunt Charma does.

All three of us turn at her approach.

“Jesus,” Fisk mutters.

“Witches,” Aunt Charma responds, a twinkle in her eyes as she holds up an ancient lantern.

“What are you doing out here?” I ask.

“Celebrating Mabon.”

Giving Landon a look, I silently question: Am I expected to know who that is?

Landon shakes his head.

“Find the balance between light and dark,” Aunt Charma begins. “Give gratitude for all you’ve harvested. Reflect on all you’ve learned and release what no longer serves.”

She steps closer to us, as we’re all angled in some manner toward her.

“The answers you seek have always been around the next turn.”

I stiffen, like she’s been reading my mind.

Aunt Charma looks a little crazed with her wild silver hair and wrinkled face. She’s wearing a white nightgown with a long black coat over it.

She holds up her lantern, waving it subtly at each of us as she says, “Three sons from three sisters brought their wishes to fruition. Ask the well your questions, get the answers in tradition.”

She laughs, the sound lighter than the earlier cackle. Then she turns, retracing her steps back into the woods.

“She’s so strange,” Fisk mutters.

“She’s harmless,” Landon states, turning back for the sunrise.

She’s also right, and I continue to stare after her for another minute.

When Neve took us to the well on New Year’s Eve, and we sat in her chilly Bronco, waiting for midnight, I mentally asked the well a question.

And I think it gave me the answer.

Bloody hell.

“It’s Neve,” I blurt, then clear my throat, although swallowing does nothing to calm the sudden racing in my heart.