Morning damp crawled inland from the river mouth. The sky over Essex was always a mirror filmed with dust and mist; now and then the thick cloud would be torn open by a blade of sunlight, and for a moment the whole town warmed, though everything around still felt wet to the touch.
Eliza's family lived in a two-storey cottage where salt marsh met river. Years of rain had leached the color from the brickwork. Herbs grew along the sills and in the yard—rosemary, mint, staghorn fern, elecampane, and even a few belladonna kept in the shade. Mats of moss, yarrow, and yellow mullein scattered across the front garden, giving the house a hush of mystery and a gentle temperament. By the river in back stood an ash and an elm planted by their kin a century ago. Every so often Eliza's parents would set a ladder against the trunks, clear egg clusters and dead twigs, and smear on a specially made ritual unguent…
Damp blooms ringed the corners of the walls in a faint moss-green. Eliza would scrape them down layer by layer with a razor blade; every time she bent over her bucket she felt like she was changing the dressing on some skin disease that had grown out of the plaster. Maybe the tedium wore her down, because she sometimes ducked the chore—halfway through she'd trot upstairs for a stolen nap. Bundles of dried plants hung in the kitchen all year; rows of glass jars held pinned insects and pollen powders. On days without gloom or rain, morning light slanted through the panes and lit the little motes drifting in the jars.
It was the Easter holidays, and she often took advantage of the break to go up to London every other day—buying books for study and hunting for ritual tools fit for spell-work.
That morning she lifted the canvas bag she had left drying on the radiator, and, while her parents still slept and the sun hadn't shown its face, slipped out early. The slabs by the door had been polished by the town's ever-present mist until their edges gleamed as if licked. Each step set off a crisp clack. She followed the path through a stretch of salt marsh, and the iron tang left by the retreating tide crept up her nose on the breeze—exactly like the smell of a rusted coin warmed in the palm.
At the corner the bakery on her left had just cranked up its shutters; a ribbon of butter-heat leaked through the half-open door. The proprietress had just flipped the sign to OPEN and tipped her chin in greeting. Eliza smiled and went in. The place had stood in Essex for nearly a century, loved for its neighborly ease and famous meat pies. She bought a fresh almond croissant and hurried for the station.
At 7:18 the platform was already full of commuters: a newspaper editor tucked unread copy under an arm; a dental nurse braced her chin on a thermos to free her thumbs for texts; a fisherman in a waterproof jacket stood with hands in pockets staring out toward the seam of the horizon, hoping for the next fat season; the old gentleman from down the lane—forever dozing—was here too. One minute before the train nosed in he startled awake, straightened his brim, and brushed the dust and mud flecks from his trousers. Above them a hanging lamp kept flickering, bright and dim like an arrhythmic heartbeat. Eliza gazed up at it, drifting, worrying at the "counting backward" her mother had mentioned… She chewed at the now-cool croissant and only when the train arrived did she start, gather herself, and follow the crowd aboard…
The train ran past ranks of power poles lined like oracle bones. Reeds and salt marsh streamed by in great drifts. This trip to London was unlike the others: she was after an old book. She couldn't shake that strange vision; the prophecies that came with it had left her on edge day and night. A few days ago, while her parents slept, she'd found the number of an older warlock she had met a handful of times tucked away in the telephone directory. Heart in her throat, she had sent an email stating her vitki name and request, and the elder had agreed. Hence today's visit.
As soon as the train reached the terminus, Eliza changed to the Underground and came up in Marylebone at the elder's address. At the gate of a white townhouse she patted the rain from her clothes, worried the knots out of her damp hair, then quickly slipped a silver pendant engraved with the image of Goddess Freyja over her head and clenched the golden badge of the Asgard Legion tight in her palm. She drew a deep breath, lifted the knocker and rapped three times, then pressed the bell.
Ding-dong… After a few minutes the heavy door creaked open a hand's breadth. "Whom are you here to see?" An elegant older lady stood behind it, careful and severe.
"I'm a probationary initiate of the Asgard Legion and the Yggdrasil Academy Of Exceptional Vitki And Warlocks," Eliza said, nerves tight. "I have an appointment with White-Robe Elder Erik. Would you be so kind as to announce me?"
At the words, the stranger's held face eased. She opened the door halfway and said, "Please present your Assembly badge." Eliza didn't dare delay. She wiped the sweat-slick gold on her T-shirt and passed it over.
The lady took the badge in her left hand. With her right she formed a quick hand sign, traced Othala in the air, and ran her thumb directly across the spear-bearing vitki relief and the compound runes engraved on the surface. The whole badge answered with a faint gold; the ring of the World-Tree around it showed hidden lines of scripture and a net of roots. "Welcome, sister," the lady said, the severity gone. The elegant face that had been set in vigilance finally opened into a genuine smile.
She extended her hand to Eliza. "I'm Ravena. Erik is my husband—he's been preparing materials for you since this morning. Come in, come in; let's get you a hot tea first to warm you up."
After ushering Eliza inside, Ravena led her to the ground-floor dining room. "Chamomile or Earl Grey?" she asked, riffling through a row of herb canisters.
Eliza looked a little abashed. "Chamomile, please… thank you."
"Wait—are you here to examine a prophecy this time?" Ravena turned to study her.
"Yes. I'm… confused. The vision was complex and strange, and I didn't dare tell my mother all the details. I was hoping White-Robe Elder Erik might have manuscripts that explain what I saw." Eliza's eyes flickered with unease.
"Then not chamomile. I'll brew you white ash leaves instead. Drink it hot. And I'll borrow a couple of T-shirts from my daughter—you should change; you'll catch cold if you stay in wet clothes."
From a finely worked silver canister Ravena measured a pinch of pale green leaf, set it into two silver cups, and filled them to the brim with steaming water. She handed one to Eliza. Eliza raised it carefully, blew across the rim—and Ravena stopped her gently. "Child, don't forget to say the words before you drink."
Eliza swallowed, drew a long breath, cupped the silver, and closed her eyes.
"By The Eyes Of Many Thou Given The Sight, When I Drink, Drink For Divine."
She breathed a single clear stream of air across the steaming cup, then, holding her breath, drank the infusion in small, steady swallows. Ravena nodded, pleased, then stepped to the hall and lifted her voice up the stairwell. "Ingrid? Are you there? Come down a moment."
After a moment a girl in a light-blue denim jumpsuit came down the stairs, iPad in hand, eyes still fixed on a runway stream. "What is it, Mother?"
"Ingrid. We have a guest of the Coven." Ravena's tone turned formal.
At once Ingrid tugged out her earbuds, locked her screen, hid the tablet behind her, and stood attentive.
"This is Eliza, a sister from Essex. You're about the same age—plenty to talk about." Ravena guided Ingrid forward. Perhaps still nervous, Eliza scrambled to her feet and knocked the table askew. Ingrid couldn't help a laugh at the flustered, adorable mess of it. "No need to be nervous—make yourself at home. I'm Ingrid." She offered her hand.
"I'm Eliza. It's lovely to meet you. I'm sorry—I came in such a rush; I'm really imposing."
"Goodness , your hands are freezing. Did you come through that downpour without an umbrella?"
"I sprinted from the Tube," Eliza said, raking a hand through still-wet hair. "It looked fine when I boarded; the rain started the moment I stepped off."
"Check your wardrobe for a clean T-shirt, will you?" Ravena said. "And bring a hairdryer and a towel. If she doesn't get dry she'll be ill."
"On it!" Ingrid quickened toward the stairs, then turned back as if remembering something. "What size? Any color you like?"
Eliza flushed. "I usually wear an S… a small. But really, don't trouble yourselves—I can just blot my hair with tissues."
"You wait right there." Ingrid grinned, then called back over her shoulder, "Mother—Eliza's here to consult Father's manuscripts, right? I think he mentioned it at breakfast."
"Yes. She needs a few atlases cross-referencing visions and rites. From what she said, she also wants to understand more of a recent prophecy. Ah—will you be performing the rite today? Looking up texts is one thing; to retrace the scene will likely show the true correspondences." Ravena turned to Eliza, gentle but firm.
Eliza's fingers tightened; words tangled in her throat. According to the Coven's custom, witches aided one another as duty, but asking so much felt like overstepping.
"Don't worry. I know what to do." Ingrid flashed a smile and sped upstairs. Ravena poured Eliza another cup of hot tea and took her hand, seating her at the table.
Ten-odd minutes later, Ingrid came down cradling a stack of clothes. "T-shirt and towel for you; the dryer's in the bathroom already. And this at the bottom is a day-robe I collected from the Coven—if we do a rite today, wear it. As for materials, we don't stock the items that require applications, but the rest is in the household altar." She set the pile in Eliza's arms.
Warmth rose in Eliza's chest. "Thank you—truly. The T-shirt will be plenty. The day-robe is too formal. I won't go to the Coven for formal initiation until summer; it feels early to put this on."
"A witch should look like a witch," Ravena said—stern first, then soft. "Initiation is a matter of time. If you belong to the Legion, then regardless of rank you uphold rite and rule. Go on—change, dry your hair. Erik's waiting in his study."
"Come on, I'll take you up." Ingrid led Eliza by the hand. Paintings of mountains and wild country lined the walls; at the turn of the stair stood two symmetrical, split Uruguayan amethyst geodes. "Bathroom's here—get changed. I'll tell Father you've arrived."
Eliza nodded and pushed open the wooden door. The room was warm and bright; the gold-rimmed mirror and the basin were engraved with oak leaves and mistletoe. A tall cabinet by the marble tub held jar after jar of dried herbs for purification and bathing. She didn't linger to marvel. She stripped off her wet clothes, dried her hair, pulled on the T-shirt, and slipped the day-robe over it.
"If you need sea salt," Ingrid called, knocking lightly, "it's in the brass jar by the sink."
"Thank you." Eliza opened the jar, dipped a copper spoon, and shook a measure of herb-mixed salt into her palm, scrubbing carefully under running water. She worked at the fleck of paint she'd picked up brushing a utility pole, hoping not to present herself to the Elder with any untidiness. Then she set everything back in order, followed Ingrid up, and stopped before the third-floor study.
Three knocks—"tok, tok, tok"—and a mild voice sounded from the door left ajar. "Come in."
Ingrid pushed it wide and drew Eliza in. The sight stunned her: ranks of bookcases loaded with thousands of manuscripts and scrolls, ordered by alphabet; on another sunlit rack, rows of polished short axes and long swords, their gold-inlaid ornament glinting like live fire.
In a high-backed walnut chair at the center sat a man near sixty, hair the color of pale gold, eyes lit with sea-green blue. Gold-rimmed spectacles rode his nose as he studied an opened folio.
Eliza tightened the sash of her robe, went to one knee on her left leg, and bowed. "Honored White-Robe Elder Erik, I am Eliza from Essex, a probationary initiate of the Coven who wrote to you. I seek the scrolls on oneirocritics, the sayings of the Three Mothers of Fate, and our clan's arts. I beg leave to consult them."
Elder Erik removed his glasses and lifted his head. "Up with you. I remember you. When I went to Essex for the autumnal equinox, you'd just entered Year 9—you were thirteen. Look at you now." He smiled.
Eliza rose. Ingrid slipped to the door. "We'll be downstairs. Call if you need anything," she told Eliza, smiling. "Don't be nervous; he's kind." She drew the door to.
"Come," Erik said, setting several parchment volumes before Eliza once she had sat. "Since your email laying out the vision, I've spent days searching every source at hand. 'Twenty-four' admits several readings. The basic is the twenty-four runes of the Elder Futhark. Another: the twelve signs of the Zodiac and their infernal counterparts—two twelves making twenty-four. From your description, it doesn't map cleanly to zodiacal or chthonic correspondences. 'Twenty-four hours' is also argued, but rites divided by hours cannot all occur within a single static scene; I ruled that out."
Eliza's hands clenched. "Are there other possibilities?"
"There are twenty-four solar terms in ancient China, but that concerns the year's agrarian breathing, which doesn't match your scene. Nor do the twelve tribes of Israel plus the twelve apostles convince me here—despite the lone man you saw with a cross; one figure can be symbol, not census. The Jaina tradition speaks of twenty-four Tīrthaṅkaras, but I find no traction with your details. Let me ask: these twenty-four figures—did they seem more like the living, or more like corpses?" He opened a folio and angled it for Eliza, his tone careful.
"They felt like a graft—wandering souls stitched to rotting flesh. As for living breath, I didn't dare go close; I can't swear it," Eliza said, embarrassed.
"And this stone circle—what kind? Stonehenge-like? Only a field of uprights? Or… the Coven's own stone-circle altar?" Erik's voice paused on the last, then steadied. "Recall carefully."
"Smoke and fog wrapped it. Trees were burning; ash everywhere. I've been to Stonehenge with my parents for summer solstice, and it wasn't that. It didn't feel built like a field of stelae either—too desolate, too raw. As for the Coven's altar, I haven't been yet. I won't go for formal initiation until this summer." A trace of shy awkwardness colored her voice.
Erik drew a long breath and stood. "Then there's only one way. If you want clarity, we must return to the site—retrace the tracks and harvest what you missed."
"What?" Eliza stared.
"To know the prophecy, we follow its spoor. But I will not proceed without consent. I must have your parents' leave." His face grew grave.
"I came without telling them. If they find out, they'll be furious." She dropped her head, sweaty hands knotting tighter.
"What you saw wasn't a quaint omen. There is powder-smoke and blood in it. We will not be sloppy. A wrong step costs lives—yours and others." He opened his address book. "Be at ease. I am your parents' superior, and the Coven bears duty for every witch's questions and life. I'll call them, lay out risks and benefits, and hear their answer. For now, go downstairs; Ingrid and my wife will be with you."
Eliza went out, glancing back more than once, and drifted down the stairs like a sleepwalker. Ravena and Ingrid were in the dining room chatting about supper. Seeing Eliza pale and unsteady, they sprang up to catch her. Ingrid took her hand and touched her forehead. "Still Cold. You're not actually sick, are you? Mother—elderflower tea?"
Ravena bent to meet Eliza's eyes. "Did you and my husband find something that upset you? Don't be afraid. Tell us."
Eliza was silent a long time. "We haven't fixed the meanings. Elder Erik suggests retracing the scene to catch what I missed. He's phoning my parents now. I'm afraid they'll be angry that I came in secret, and I hate to trouble you." Tears climbed and spilled.
"My Dearest Silly Girl. We are family. For a thousand years we have looked after one another and walked through the world's weather together. We're glad you came. You are not alone in the rain. The Coven is home, and we are the kin you may not know well but can always lean on. Ingrid, dear—elderflower for Eliza."
The cup steamed under Eliza's nose, but her hands still shook. Ingrid cupped them and warmed them between her own. "I'm only three years older than you. I was just initiated a few years ago. Everyone stumbles when they face the first prophecy bound to their life. But seeing the problem is good news: every problem has its path. I almost shot a deep-blue-robed warlock in the backside during my first week on the range. We laughed about it for months—and I paid for it by running errands for him for two weeks."
They burst out laughing. For a brief span, Eliza let go of fear and talked easily with mother and daughter.
A clear peal of a bell—ling…—drifted from upstairs. Eliza's smile cut off; Ravena set down her cup and, with Ingrid, drew Eliza to her feet. "Come. We'll go up with you."
When they opened the study door, Elder Erik was lowering the receiver. "I've spoken to your parents. After I set out the gravity of this prophecy, they judged you rash but understood, and consented to our performing a ceremony of retracing. Afterwards, what we see, record, and analyze will be shared with them and with the Coven. Your safety—and your mind afterward—are my charge." His tone was firm.
Eliza bowed her head. "I understand. Thank you, Elder, and all of you." She nodded respectfully to each person in the room.
Ravena stroked Eliza's hair; Ingrid brought tissues to dab her eyes.
"Ingrid, ring your sister Gudrun. She's off today. Tell her we convene at one for a retracing; have her bring the ritual unguent she just compounded. Ravena, check the stores for yew and clip fresh yarrow. Eliza—wash your face with decocted white ash and elm leaves. My daughter will give you three offering leaves of gold—press them to your eyelids and lips with sacred oil. Once everything is ready, we meet at the altar." Erik closed the books and spoke like a thrown spear.
They moved at once. Eliza followed Ingrid to the kitchen to prepare the wash; Ravena took a silver knife to the herb tubs on the balcony. Forty minutes later a car gave two brisk beeps outside, and a poised woman stepped in. She set down her bag and came straight to the kitchen. "Hello—I'm Gudrun. Welcome, sister."
Eliza looked up from the steaming pot, flustered but smiling, and shook her hand.
"Gudrun? Is that you?" Ravena came in with a mortar and pestle. "Did you bring the unguent? And where's little Tyri? Not with you today?"
"I've got it—just under three weeks old, but it should be ready. Tyri's with William at his grandmother's; I'll catch them later." Gudrun gulped water, a little breathless. "Work's expanding again; I'm nearly in pieces. Hey—free this weekend? I found a well-rated Japanese grill online—shall we go? Tyri misses his grandma."
Ravena snorted a laugh. "Should be fine. Your father's buried in Egyptian antiquities again; I'll take him to the auction and then we'll come. As for Ingrid—no idea which lucky boy she's seeing these days."
"My foolish sister," Gudrun groaned, covering her face.
"Oh please—who hasn't dated a few mistakes?" Ingrid breezed in, now in a day-robe. "If I'm lucky I'll find a brother-in-law as decent as William. When are you two giving me a baby niece?"
Watching the warmth between them, Eliza couldn't help smiling. An only child, she'd always wished for a sibling to share life's small marvels.
Ravena caught the glint in Eliza's eye and nodded to Gudrun. "Go change—we're nearly ready."
Gudrun drained a second glass.
"You, don't drink so much you beg for the toilet mid-rite," Ingrid teased.
Gudrun answered with a friendly hand sign and ran up to her room.
"Take these," Ravena said, passing Eliza the pounded herbs and the jar of unguent. "Go on with Ingrid to the altar. My husband should have the array laid out. Gudrun and I will join you as soon as we're robed."
Following Ingrid into the depths of the study, Eliza watched as Ingrid pulled a sconce carved with Yggdrasil. The entire wall—rack of axes and swords included—slid aside to reveal a bright inner shrine.
"Don't be startled," Ingrid laughed. "Years ago Father got tired of visitors prying and hid the altar back here. Caused a row with the builders and the neighbors for weeks."
Eliza drew a steadying breath and stepped in. At the front stood a three-tiered white-ash shrine, each level laid with its proper instruments: lowest, rows of labeled herb jars with long swords and short axes; middle, unguents and scrolls; highest, silver statues of the gods. Eliza bowed. To the right, four polished spears stood against the wall beside a bank of multi-drawer cabinets, every drawer fronted with crisp inventory labels. To the left, shelves of bottles labeled with dates and uses caught the sun. Eliza leaned closer: River Water · Collected at the Spring Equinox — Rainwater · First Full-Moon Day in February, Daylight — Morning Dew · Collected in this New Moon…
"Are these only for this year?"
"More or less," Ingrid said, proud. "The rarer waters are stored in the vault, for special rites. These we typically finish by the winter solstice; then we start fresh in February."
Ravena and Gudrun entered in long robes. Seeing everyone gathered, Erik pulled a lever carved with mistletoe; the altar doors closed with a soft, sealing sound.
"Eliza—easy now. Smooth your breathing and step to the center."
Eliza's palms were slick. Still, she knew this rite might unbind her long-held fear. She inhaled, slow and deep, and took her place at the heart. With a flick of Erik's hand, the four bronze candelabra around her sprang alight. Ravena set crushed yew into Eliza's left palm and fresh-pounded yarrow into her right, and told her to hold them gently. Then Ravena took her post at Eliza's left. Gudrun came forward and anointed Eliza's brow, brow-ridge, eye-sockets, behind the ears, throat, wrists, and over the heart, and blew a pinch of powdered white ash—root, bark, and leaf—across her. Gudrun stepped behind her, hands lifted and cupped as if holding a water bowl. Ingrid rang a golden ritual handbell three times before Eliza and moved to her right.
Elder Erik raised his spear and struck the floor nine times. Then he began to chant the long, ancient hymn of the Nine Realms…