“It wasn’t all oak. Remember the apple grove just after you turn in to the lake drive?”
“I know what you’re talking about. That’s Mr. Caldwell’s grove,” Emily said. “Mercy and I got super sick the summer we were thirteen from eating too many green apples from there. Remember, Mercy?”
Mercy shuddered. “I’ll never forget.”
“Last winter that ice storm killed the oldest tree out there.” Hunter tightened her ponytail as she explained. “Mom told us about it. Mr. Caldwell called her to see if she could save it, but it was too late. I remember she said that the apple wood was being chopped up and given to the campsite.”
“Huh. I got the wood wrong. Still weird,” said Mercy.
“And super weird that it was apple wood.” Hunter touched her T-shaped pendant and shared a look with her sister. Neither needed words to understand the significance of that particular type of tree this particular night.
Emily waved her hand around, redirecting the twins’ attention. “Hey, did you two ever consider that what happened might have just been a fluke and more about the weird smoke caused by your exploding moss fire bomb than anything remotely witchy? I mean, no offense, but that makes way more sense than saying that you actually conjured something from smoke.”
Mercy and Hunter locked their gazes and smiled knowingly.
“You’re right, Em,” said Mercy.
“Makes way more sense,” added Hunter.
“Well, anyway, it was a super cool party! And now that you two are back to your normal psychic-level closeness, all is right in the world.”
“Oh, sod it! I’m a wanker! I didn’t give you—” Mercy began.
“Your pressie!” Hunter finished.
“Mercy, you’re not British.” Emily tossed her mass of tight, dark curls back from her face as she glanced in the rearview mirror at her bestie.
“Neither are you!” Mercy giggled. “Me first!” She fished into her bag until she caught the little box she’d wrapped in silver foil and handed it to her sister.
Hunter shook it and then tore into it. She opened the box and her eyes went huge. “Holy Tyr! They’re unbelievably gorgeous! Mag, you shouldn’t have. They’re way expensive.” The moonlight that came in through the car’s windows glistened off the moonstone studs that were set in white gold and circled by little diamonds.
“The look on your face was worth every second of the six months of babysitting I had to do to pay for them.”
“Seriously? That’s why you’ve been so cheap for the past six months?” Em said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you suck at keeping presents secret!” said the twins together. Then they laughed and, at the same moment, said, “Jinx!”
“I am so good at keeping secrets,” Emily grumbled.
“Yeah, you are—as long as they’re not about presents,” said Mercy. “But don’t worry. We love you anyway.” She held out her hands to her sister. “Okay, now me!”
“You’re super sure I got you something and I have it with me.”
“Of course you did and of course you do. It’s probably something little that you can fit into that ridiculously small cross-body you carry.”
“Oh, please. What’s ridiculous is that suitcase you lug with you everywhere.” Hunter bent and felt around under the bucket seat in front of her.
“Yeah, but if the zombie apocalypse happens I’m set.” Mercy patted the bulging bag at her side.
“Do not tell me that you hid her pressie in my car and did not tell me about it,” Emily squeaked.
“Okay, we won’t tell you,” Hunter and Mercy said together.
“Stop with the creepy twin speak,” Emily said, and added, “and I can so keep a secret.”
“Happy birthday.” Hunter handed a narrow box to Mercy. She’d wrapped it with green paper covered in vines.
“Ooooh, the paper is awesome!” Unlike her sister, Mercy carefully peeled every piece of tape off and then smoothed the paper as she freed the box. She opened the lid and gasped. “Hunter! It’s perfect!” Mercy caressed the slim stack of squares of vintage lace, then lifted each to study their unique beauty. “Ohmygoddess! I’ll make such cool stuff with these!”
“I can’t wait to see what you come up with,” said Hunter. “Happy birthday. Love you twin.”
“Happy birthday, love you, too, twin.”
In the rearview mirror Emily smiled at them all the rest of the way home.
* * *
Mercy loved everything about the old Victorian home that had housed Goodes since the mid-1800s. It was the last house at the northern most edge of Main Street, backing onto acres and acres of cornfields or, depending on the year, bean fields. This was a corn year and the stalks were already as tall as the twins. Mercy loved it when the mature corn secluded their house and the expansive gardens that filled their five acres, which included a koi pond with a fountain of Athena, their mother’s patron goddess, complete with plumed helmet, an owl on her shoulder, and a dolphin beside her spouting water from its mouth. And, of course, in one corner, surrounded by lilacs and framed by a wrought-iron fence covered with wisteria, was the meticulously tended Goode family cemetery.
It was over the top, but the entire Victorian house was gloriously over the top. The majority of the house was butter yellow, with its ornate trim painted highlights of purple, fuchsia, and dark green. The double front doors were the same bull’s blood red as the wraparound porch. Literally bull’s blood red, as their mom liked to remind them. Every time the house had been repainted, actual bull’s blood, as well as protective spells, were mixed into the paint.
“There are my birthday girls! And right on time. Was the party fun?” Abigail Goode hugged each daughter in turn as they came inside. Without giving them a chance to respond she hurried on. “You need to get upstairs and change. Quickly. Then meet me in the kitchen and we’ll gather the rest of the supplies together for the ritual.” Abigail pushed them gently toward the stairs when they didn’t move fast enough. “Quickly! Tonight is too important to chance being even a minute late.”
The twins sprinted up the winding staircase to their side-by-side rooms. Mercy rushed to her closet. She’d hooked the hanger on which her ceremonial dress hung on the outside of her closed closet door, and she couldn’t help taking a moment to reverently run her fingers over the intricate design of vines, flowers, and falcon feathers—one of the goddess Freya’s favorite symbols. It had taken Mercy an entire year to finish the embroidering. The cut of the dress was simple—cream-colored hemp jersey flowed long and free from a teardrop neckline. Mercy stroked the material. “Soft as silk, but a lot easier to embroider,” she murmured to herself. It was her artistic hand at embroidery that made the dress special and Mercy had meticulously decorated the neckline, sleeves, and the hem of the full skirt with symbols that celebrated the earth and her chosen goddess. She didn’t wear an amulet that represented her goddess, like Hunter did her god. Instead Mercy imagined Freya as part of the earth itself, so every flower and tree, even every blade of grass symbolized her goddess.