Page 91 of Jinxes and Drumsticks

She nods and gives me a proud smile. Like I’m a five-year-old that just spelled his name for the first time. “It’s called Sympathetic Magic,” she says. “By causing a change on a microcosmic level, we create the same change at a macrocosmic level. When we blow out a candle to carry our hopes and wishes, they get carried on gales way above us, across waves of dark matter in the universe, to the seed of power at the center of all of it. Whatever you believe that to be.”

“It sounds like... like ants telling someone what food they want to eat in the hopes that they make it for them,” I say.

“And it feels like we are the ants in that metaphor a lot of the time, but sometimes you can practice enough that you get really good at it,” Wren says.

“And Wren is very good at it,” Lillith says.

Wren gives a shrug. “Just with protections,” she says modestly.

Lillith nods. “A good one to be good at though,” she says.

All in all, it’s honestly kind of anticlimactic. Wren and Lillith work together doing what they call “dressing” a candle with some eucalyptus oil and some herbs. Cayenne, basil, nettle, juniper and vervain all get ground in a mortar and pestle before Lillith anoints the small candle with the oil while whispering something to herself that I can’t hear because of my stupid damaged eardrums.

They roll the candle in the ground herbs so the mixture sticks to the sides, then Wren melts the bottom of the small candle with a lighter so it’ll stick to an old pewter plate in the center of the table.

While Wren scribbles down some instructions on a piece of paper and ties it to the thin candle—called a chime candle, apparently—with some black thread, Lillith gets up from the table, crawling beneath.

“Whoa, hey, be careful,” I say, hovering my hand over top of her head so she doesn’t hurt herself.

“I’m fine, I’m tiny!” She says as she sprints into the house.

Wren pats the seat she just vacated and jerks her chin back. “C’mere, prettyboy,” she says.

I quirk a brow as I scoot closer to her, when Lillith returns, she doesn’t even hesitate or act awkward about the displacement. She just slips into the spot beside me and grabs my left hand. She slips a ring onto the first digit of my ring finger when Wren clucks.

“Alright, Miss Hopeless Romantic, nice try. This is an active protection, not a receptive one,” she says.

Lillith pouts at her for a moment before grabbing my right hand and trying the ring on all of those fingers instead. I chuckle.

“Can we get a translation?” I ask.

“So, within magic, there are some different types of energy. The Old Timers call it ‘feminine’ and ‘masculine’ energy, but that’s obviously a little outdated now with how our understanding of gender and gender roles continues to change.”

“Sure,” I say. “Feminism and pegging and all that.”

Wren cackles and Lillith’s lips curl into that private smile she gives me when she finds something funny but doesn’t want to stoop to laughing at it. She slips the ring onto my middle finger—too big—takes it off. “Right,” she says softly. “So now we differentiate with the use of the terms ‘receptive’ and ‘active’.”

“Or ‘receptive’ and ‘projective’,” Wren says.

“Okay,” I say.

“The left hand is the receptive hand, the right hand is the active one,” Lillith continues. “We’re doing what’s called a baneful protection. Which means that when something or someone tries to use any magic on you that you don’t consent to, it will harm the caster. So, this is an active or a projective protection.”

She slips the ring onto my thumb finally and it’s a perfect fit there. “Can you play comfortably with a ring on your thumb?” she asks me.

The question strikes me as... sweet. Really sweet. She could give me a fucking protective cock cage and I’d wear it, no question. But making sure I can play drums comfortably with a protective charm that she’s sending me off with to keep me safe from what might be mortal peril is... well. Damn, she’s so thoughtful.

“Yeah,” I say, smiling softly at her.

She looks up from my hand and meets eyes with me. Hers crinkle with faint crowsfeet, and I lean forward to kiss her softly. A slower, gentler kiss than normal. A sort of thank you.

“You guys are disgustingly perfect. Can you stop,” Wren gripes.

I linger a little longer, just out of spite. When I brush my nose against Lillith’s, her pale skin is dusted with the most charming pink.

I sit back and give Wren a challenging look.

“You’re such a little shit. I hope you know that,” she says.