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“You can set her on the sofa,” I told Walker.
I headed for the kitchen and smiled at the familiar scents that filled my nose. Shelves and shelves of herbs lined the walls. Potted plants sat in the windowsill above the farm sink. Jars of cookies, crackers, and other food sat on the counter. To my left, a backdoor led to the garden where even more plants could be found.
I ran my finger across the wooden countertops. There was no dust to be found. I snapped, and a light that hung on the wood-paneled ceiling flickered on. I scanned the shelves for the ingredients I needed and tried to ignore the ache in my chest.
Most of the jars were labeled with Mom’s handwriting. I’d always failed to imitate her swirling letters.
“What are you making for her?” Walker asked.
I nearly jumped out of my skin. I hadn’t heard him approach me.
“My mother always called it an R and R spell,” I answered and smiled. “It increases healing in the body and cultivates a deeper, more powerful rest.”
“Sounds like something we could all use after today,” he said.
I plucked some chamomile, peppermint, and a few other things from the shelf, then searched the cabinets for a mortar and pestle. Mom always kept everything in the same place, but I’d never bothered to learn where it all went. She’d chastised me endlessly for my inability to keep the kitchen organized, but I had never imagined her not being here to tell me where to look or where to put things. I blinked away tears and tried to focus on the task at hand.
“I’ve never mixed it for a human before,” I told Walker. “I could just as easily put you down forever.”
I finally found the mortar and pestle and set the tools on the counter.
“But your usual mix will work for Cadence,” he said and sighed. “Because she’s a witch.”
The sadness in his voice grated on my frayed nerves. I couldn’t understand how someone who so honestly gave me compliments could be so opposed to his sister being one of my kind. I tossed some herbs into the mortar and ground them with more force than necessary.
“It’s not the worst thing for her to be,” I huffed, “and I can help her master her power.”
“She shouldn’t have to worry about mastering anything!” he argued. “She’s just a kid.”
I sighed and faced him.
“You denying what she is—what she’s capable of—it isn’t going to make this any easier for her.”
Walker ran his hand down his tired face.
“You don’t get it,” he insisted. “How am I supposed to protect her from her own—her own magic?”
He said magic like it was a dirty word, and I threw my hands up in disbelief. I was too raw with grief to be having this conversation—to hear him insult the very thing that ran through my veins. Through my mother’s veins.
“Maybe she doesn’t need your protection!” I said. “Maybe she just needs you to stop acting like she’s a monster!”
Slack-jawed, he stared at me. The kitchen suddenly felt too small for both of us.
“I’m only worried about what kind of life she’ll have,” he said, as if that would make it better.
As if there were something so clearly wrong with my life.
“Just go mope about your poor witch of a sister elsewhere,” I told him.
His tense stance deflated. He clutched his hat in his hands. “Freya.”
“Don’t say my name like that,” I whispered.
“Like what?”
I swallowed the lump in my throat.
“Like I’m someone you care about,” I answered.
