Time: 7:09 p.m., October 31
Imagine, if you will, a meadow cradled in the soft hands of a valley. Rolling hills surround the valley, farmland eventually giving way to forest.
Imagine a tree at the center of this meadow, decked in hanging lights and the last vestiges of red leaves. Imagine tables set around the tree, laden with pies and candies, ruby red apples and the last of the season’s peaches. The air smells of spices and burning leaves and the faintest hint of snow.
Then, of course, imagine the people.
#
Nellie couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so nervous. She stood near the unlit bonfire, carved pumpkin in her hands. Her palms were so sweaty she worried she might drop it.
The sun had dipped below the horizon some minutes ago. Above, the sky was deepening to nighttime blue, stars slowly appearing in the heavens. Candles and lanterns decorated the meadow and hung from the Party Tree, turning the benches and tables all shades of orange and gold.
The town’s residents stood in clusters all around the meadow, dressed in their autumnal best. The Chesterfields and Hartfords and Carters all stood in loose circles, drinking cider and talking. Gnazz and his ilk stood beneath the boughs of the tree, looking their best despite the disaster at the apothecary that morning. Even Miss Spider was there, though the creature was glaring daggers at Prince who had curled himself over Branwen’s shoulders and now refused to leave.
“Are you ready?”
Nellie started, nearly dropping the pumpkin as Maeve spoke from beside her. The other witch had arrived at the ceremony site dressed in studious black. The only splash of color on her was an enormous sunflower, stuck into the brim of her hat. Under different circumstances, Nellie would have asked her about it and prepared to tease her when she blushed—she knew all about her sister’s infatuation with the apothecary attendant—but she was far too nervous to do so tonight.
Maeve reached out and squeezed her shoulder as Branwen detached from the crowd and came towards them. “You’re going to do beautifully, Nellie my Nell.”
“Don’t patronize me,” Nellie muttered. She straightened as Branwen came to stand before the unlit bonfire. The older witch raised her hand, and silence fell across the assembled.
“Welcome, friends,” Branwen said “Welcome neighbors. Welcome and bright blessings on this, Samhain night. Tonight, we honor the year that is past. We remember those we’ve lost. And we invite them to join us once again.”
On cue, Maeve stepped forward. She held a lantern in one hand, and she bowed as she presented it to Branwen. The other witch nodded in return before taking the lantern. She opened it’s little glass door and reached in with her bare hands, scooping out the flame like it was dough. The crowd let out a delighted murmur as the witch took the fire in her hands and knelt down beside the bonfire.
There, stretched out on the dead grass, a skeleton lay. Nellie wasn’t sure whose skeleton it was, or even if it was the same one as last year. It was always the first thing in the field when they arrived to set up for the festival, ready and waiting for them.
Now, Branwen took the fire from her hands and dribbled it, bit by bit, into the skeleton’s open mouth. The flames flickered and seemed to vanish as they hit the bone. Branwen kept working steadily until all the fire was gone before she stood with a slight groan and stepped back.
And then, with a jerk, the skeleton sat up.
Nellie felt a shiver pass up her spine. She’d always watched this part before, never participated in it. But as the skeleton stood on bony legs, she found herself moving unsteadily forward. She stopped just before the skeleton, bowing and holding out the Jack-o-Lantern. Sweat trickled down her back as she held still, waiting.
Slowly, the skeleton reached forward and took the pumpkin. It examined it, rolling it around in its bony arms. Nellie held her breath. She’d never heard of the Master of Revels refusing his head before. But if it ever were to happen, she was certain it would be with one of her pumpkins. Even though this was turned out all right, it might not be good enough.
Then, raising the pumpkin up, the skeleton jammed it down onto his head. It went on with a pop and candlelight flared inside the head. Triangle eyes and a laughing mouth glowed with yellow light as the Master of Revels raised his bony arms.
“Let the night of our celebration begin!”
He turned. Nellie felt Branwen’s hand on her arm pulling her back as the Master of Revels took a huge breath.
“Well done, child,” Branwen said.
Then, the pumpkin head blew out. A stream of fire spewed from his jagged mouth, sending heat curling over everything. If she’d been standing a bit closer, Nellie was sure her eyebrows would have singed right off. The bonfire caught, erupting in dancing flames.
And the crowd behind let out a roar as the celebration began.
#
It was hours later when Nellie, exhausted and giddy, found herself sitting nearly alone at one of the picnic tables. The revels continued with dancing and feasting and more tricks than she could count, but her feet ached and her head was spinning. Just for a moment, she wanted to rest.
Across from her, another woman sat at the table. Nellie didn’t recognize her, though she must be from town. She was a doll of some kind—silken skin and woolen tresses framing black button eyes. Nellie felt her looking across the table as she sat.
“I like your hat,” the patchwork woman said.
Nellie reached up, flushing as she realized she was wearing her quilted hat, not the black silk one she’d intended to wear. “Oh. Thank you. It’s not…it isn’t what I meant to wear tonight.”
“Oh, I know about that.” The woman held up a hand and pulled off her lace glove. To Nellie’s surprise, the hand that emerged was itself quilted, the fabric a lovely gingham. Despite the different in cloth, the needlework on it was just as fine as the rest of the woman’s body. “Butterscotch ate my hand earlier. I had to improvise.”
“Butterscotch?”
The woman pointed to the large golden retriever currently following the Master of Revels around. As if sensing his mistress’s attention, the dog turned and trotted over to where they sat. He lay his big head in the patchwork woman’s lap, looking up at her with soft brown eyes.
“This is Butterscotch,” she said.
Nellie felt her heart squeeze at the sight of him. They’d had dogs on her family’s farm when she was a child. Collies, mostly. She remembered rubbing her face in their fur and cuddling up against their warm bodies during the winter months. There wasn’t much she missed about that farm, but she did miss her dogs.
“He looks very sweet. Can I pet him?”
“Go right ahead.”
Leaning down, Nellie let Butterscotch sniff her fingers before sinking them into his shiny, soft fur. He let out a grumbling sigh and leaned into her touch. “Hello you beautiful boy,” she murmured, scratching between his ears. “Did you eat your mom’s hand?”
“He didn’t fully eat it,” the woman admitted. “I just didn’t have time to mend it before tonight. I had to make do with what I had.”
There was something familiar in her tone that made Nellie look up. The woman was tugging her lace glove back onto her gingham hand with a pinched look of disappointment. She picked gently at the stitches around the wrist, as if contemplating whether or not to pull the hand off completely.
Without thinking, Nellie reached over and took the patchwork hand in hers, pulling it away before the woman could start unpicking her stitches. It’s just like the pumpkins. The thought startled Nellie even as she had it.
“You know what’s nice about cotton?” she said. “It’s really easy to get stains out of. I ruined a pair of satin pants in the garden once—very bad grass stains—and ever since I always wear a cotton apron whenever I’m outside. My stitches aren’t quite so nice as yours.”
The woman was staring at her, and Nellie realized she was still holding her hand. She released it, flushing.
“You’re the garden witch?” the woman asked.
“In training. I’m not very good at it. My plants tend to be…mean.”
To her surprise, the patchwork woman laughed. “I’ve never met a mean plant.”
“I wouldn’t recommend it. They bite.”
The woman smiled at her then, the sorrow ebbing out of her face. “I’m Amelia,” she said, holding out her patchwork hand.
“Nellie,” Nellie replied, shaking it. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Butterscotch, who had grown tired of being ignored, nosed into their handshake and demanded more attention. Nellie obliged, scratching right between the eyes.
“I bet there are some interesting dyes you can make with mean plants,” Amelia said thoughtfully. “Especially the really cruel ones that ruin satin pants. Really, what better fate for them?”
Nellie let out a laugh of her own. “You know,” she said, “I think you might be right.”
#
Maeve laughed as she threaded her way through the dancers, two cups of cider in her hands. The musicians played a lively jig, one that made the very candle flames jitter in time, and the witch found herself stepping lightly as she made her way over to the hay bales where Thomas was sitting.
He looked much better than he had that morning. His hair was washed and combed, and his tweed jacket had been brushed clear of lingering leaves and spices. The only sign that anything was amiss was the cast he had on his leg. It was broken, as it turned out.
The sea of guilt Maeve had felt upon first seeing him in the cast nearly made her throw up. She felt so selfish for dragging him out when all he probably wanted to do was sleep. Witches might be used to such horrors, but Thomas was only human. He needed rest, not to be dragged out to the festival.
But then he’d seen her and smiled before producing the largest sunflower Maeve had ever seen from his basket and presenting it to her. She wore it in her hat now, a miniature sun set against velvet black.
“Here you are, good sir,” she said with a smile, settling herself beside him on the hay bale. “One hot cider.”
He gave her a toast. “My heroine,” he said as he savored a sip. “Is this one of Branwen’s?”
Maeve shook her head. “The Witherwoods contributed the cider. Branwen is good with anything baked, but don’t ask her to brew anything. She’ll poison you. By accident.”
Thomas snorted a laugh, and Maeve felt her cheeks go pink. She loved his laugh, especially when she was the one responsible for it.
He took another sip of his cider, fiddling with the handle. “Thank you for saving me this morning,” he said. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t shown up.”
“I’m sure you would have figured something out,” Maeve said lightly.
“I don’t think I would have, actually.” Thomas turned, and Maeve found herself staring into his green eyes. The bruise on his face made him appear more serious than she’d ever seen him.
“It was nothing,” Maeve managed. “We’ve dealt with a lot of deadly plants at the house. Nellie is best with them, but we had to deal with a strangler fig once that was trying to eat the oak out front. Did you know, strangler figs are native to the tropics? It was very odd that one popped up here, and in the middle of winter at that.”
“Maeve?” His face was very close to hers.
“Yes?”
“I don’t really care about strangler figs right now.”
She swallowed. “No. No, I don’t suppose that’s—mmph.”
Maeve had read her fair share about kissing. In theory, she knew a great deal about it. Most of her questions were logistical ones: what did one do with one’s nose, for example? Where did you put your hands? What if your breath smelled bad? But as Thomas’s mouth met hers, his lips soft and insistent, Maeve reflected that no book had really done justice to the feeling of being kissed. She felt hot and cold all over, her stomach twisting itself into delicious knots that she never wanted to untangle. And as her arms looped around his neck and the kiss deepened, the only question she found herself asking was whether she could keep kissing him forever.
#
“You can’t stay on my shoulders for the rest of your life,” Branwen said.
Prince, who’d been grooming one of his ears, let out a growl. “I can and I will.”
“What about when I take a bath? You hate baths.”
“I will get used to it.”
Branwen sighed. Prince had done almost nothing to explain himself. She owed her understanding of what had happened to Barley Nutcorn, who had stopped by with Prince long enough to inform her that she was on the hook for banana nut muffins all winter long.
“Prince,” the witch said seriously. She reached around and grabbed the cat by his scruff as he tried to wriggle away, pulling him off her shoulders and setting him on her lap. They were seated at the edge of the firelight, away from the revelers and, importantly, away from Miss Spider.
The black cat sulked in her lap. “She tried to eat me,” he said sullenly
“You took her spoons.”
“That is hardly a fair comparison!”
Silently, Branwen agreed. But she couldn’t tell Prince that. “You’re very lucky Barley intervened for you,” she said. “It could have gone very badly otherwise. Miss Spider isn’t going to do anything to you tonight. But tomorrow, I’m afraid, you and I are going to pay Miss Spider a visit and return her spoons. And apologize.”
“I will not apologize,” Prince said sullenly. He slunk off her lap, head held high in a manner only manageable by a very guilty cat indeed. “She tried to eat me. She can apologize first.” With a flick of his tail, he trotted away into the darkness, probably to find Nellie and terrorize her instead.
The sound of rustling leaves made Branwen turn. A cold wind, colder than this time of year was made for, swept across the hills and forest. The stars twinkled above, moving aside as a shadow stepped from the sky. Branwen smiled.
“I didn’t think you’d make it.”
The shadow resolved itself into the form of a tall woman. A hat—point crooked as a bent crone—sat atop a head of moon-silver hair. Brown eyes behind half-moon spectacles.
“I wasn’t sure I would make it myself,” Rowena said. She stepped forward to embrace her sister, hugging her tightly. “How goes the night?”
“Better than I expected, given how the day went.” Branwen gestured to a nearby fallen log and the pair sat. In the meadow, the bonfire still burned high. The figure of Master of Revels passed in front of the flames. His head turned in their direction, and Branwen thought she saw a flicker of interest in those triangular eyes. For a moment, it seemed he might come their way. But then he turned and continued his rounds, leaving them in peace.
“How go things in the North?”
Rowena sighed. She pulled off her hat and stretched out her feet in her pointed boots. “It’s gotten complicated,” she murmured. “The Winter Queen has been unwilling to meet with the Watchtower lords. She won’t release any of the boys she’s taken. And…well, there’s a girl.”
Branwen raised an eyebrow. “A witch?”
“I’m not sure. She’s young, and very much untrained if she has the talent. But the Lesser Folk have been rallying to her. She’s going after the Winter Queen herself, despite our attempts to dissuade her.” The older witch shook her head. “So, you see, I cannot stay. But for this one night, I wanted to come home.”
Branwen frowned at her friend. “Rowena, if the Council needs our help—”
“We don’t. Not yet.” Rowena waved her hand. “Bah, that’s enough of politics for one night. Tell me of our home, Branwen. Give me something to think of that’s more important than the fate of the world.”
Branwen wanted to object. But knowing Rowena, any objection she could muster would fall on deaf ears. So, she took off her own hat and laid it aside. The world could wait awhile. It was All Hallow’s Eve, after all.
