"I know you do." She sighed, looking sad for reasons I couldn't fathom. She pointed down at the nightstand. "I need the wooden box inside there. Last drawer."
I pushed the rocker back and knelt on the floor, opening the drawer she indicated. Inside, I found a wooden box with a pentagram carved on its top.
The pentagram was a sacred witch symbol witches used for nearly everything. It was a touchstone of magic. When carved into materials, such as this box, it was used as a protection ward. Only the witch who warded the object could open it.
I gently put the box on Mrs. Moore's lap.
She opened it and withdrew three silver necklaces with silver pentagram medallions.
On each point of the star was a gemstone I recognized as obsidian. It was used for protection against sorcery and ill fortune.
Mrs. Moore handed me one. As I studied it, I felt the power of its magic vibrate against my fingertips. It looked hand-forged.
A lot of witches made their own metal amulets so they could imbue it with magic as they created the talismans. In the middle of the pentagram were three stones: a multicolored blue, a dark blue with brown veins, and a gray-green.
"I recognize the obsidian on the star's points." I touched the two blue stones in the middle of the pentagram. "This is fluorite and kyanite. But I don't recognize the third one."
"Labradorite," said Mrs. Moore. "The stones are melded into the pentagram with pure silver. The fluorite protects against sorcery attacks. The kyanite strengthens your mind against those who would manipulate you with magic or psychology. Labradorite shields against psychic intrusions." She handed me the other two necklaces. "My magic talents lie with stone and metal work. I made these for you and your sisters not long after your father died."
I felt my breath catch. "You made these for us? Mrs. Moore, it must've taken you forever."
"More than a month," she said. "Delia refused to give them to you. But I hope you and your sisters will accept these gifts now."
"It would be our honor," I said, blown away by her thoughtfulness. "But why did you make them? Who were you trying to protect us from?"
She hesitated. Then she offered a sorrowful smile. "From your mother."
"What?" I exclaimed. "Why?"
"After your father died, Delia thought only of her own heartache. I suppose her grief stole her sanity for a while. I worried about you girls." Mrs. Moore closed the box and folded her hands on top of it. "You three were all she had left, but to your mother, you were dolls—there when she wanted or needed you. And when she didn't, you didn't exist. Delia couldn't cope with your anguish, so she ignored it. You were just a child, Cassie. And your sisters were only two years old."
I remembered too well those dark days after Dad died. I'd learned to do adult tasks, especially when it came to the twins.
Mom would get overwhelmed with caring for them and escape into the gardens. Or take a day trip. Or visit a lover.
I had no choice but to become a surrogate parent. And cook. And housekeeper. And accountant.
"Why did Mom stop speaking to you, Mrs. Moore?"
She tapped her nails against the box. "I suppose it doesn't hurt to tell you now. I offered to take care of you and your sisters. I thought Delia would be relieved, but she was furious. She accused me of trying to take you all away from her. She told me to never speak to her and her children again. And then she warded the Willowstone property against me."
"That seems… extreme." Mom had driven Mrs. Moore away from us? Had she really been that selfish to deny us the comfort of a family friend? "I didn't know."
"Neither did we." April and May stood in the doorway, their expressions pensive. April carried a tray with a bowl of soup, a pile of saltines, and a cup of tea on it. May held a small ceramic bowl.
April looked at Mrs. Moore. "We made you chicken soup. And don't fuss, either. You need to eat something."
Harold popped up onto his little stick legs and shook his fur. He looked at my sisters and barked.
"Yeah, we made something for you, too, you little rat," said May.
I got up and pushed the rocking chair back to make room for my sisters. I took the box from Mrs. Moore and returned it to the drawer. May put the bowl she carried onto the bed and Harold immediately stuck his face into it. I saw that it was filled with cut up chicken and vegetables.
While May fluffed pillows and helped the elderly witch to sit up better, April put the tray across her lap. She unfurled a cloth napkin and tucked it into Mrs. Moore's nightgown.
"I'm not a baby," she complained.
"You sure act like one," said May, but her voice held no rancor.
I wondered how much of the conversation my sisters had heard. I lifted the necklaces. "Look what Mrs. Moore made for us."
April and May each took a necklace.
"Beautiful," said April.
"And powerful," added May.
We put on our necklaces, and I have to admit that I felt better for having the protection.
I wouldn't admit it to the twins or Mrs. Moore that I was nervous about confronting the coven this evening. The last face I wanted to see was Dorianna's. I hoped that the letter would wipe the usual smirk off her lips.
"We don't think…" said April.
"…you should go tonight," finished May.
"Listen to your sisters," admonished Mrs. Moore. "At least they have some sense."
"I'm going." My tone brooked no argument. Nothing would stop me from attending that meeting tonight. End of story. "I need to find and clean Mom's meeting robe."
Witches wore a variety of robes in honor of certain purposes. Coven meetings, major spellcasting, holiday celebrations, and so forth all had different kinds of hooded cloaks, from casual to formal.
Legacies were usually inducted into the coven in September after their eighteenth birthday. The Garden Grove coven instated new members during the sabbat of Mabon, or the Autumn Equinox, which usually occurred around the twenty-first of September.
Traditionally, parents took their teenagers to a witch tailors that specialized in robe-making. I had turned eighteen in June, about a week after graduating high school. Mom put off taking me to the Garden Grove tailor, Madame Ferrier, and I'd felt a combination of frustration and disappointment as the weeks passed. Less than two months later, she was dead.
I never got my own witch robes.