Careless

I felt a burst of cold air whip across my face. Startled, I stumbled back. My gaze bounced over the room as I tried to determine where the chilly slap had originated. I cradled my freezing cheeks as fear stuttered through me. 

"Mom?" I whispered. I heard the longing in my own voice and felt instantly foolish. This house was 170-years-old. It had a lot of drafty places. Even in the summer, you could easily step into a brief cold spot thanks to all the loose beams, shifting stones, and unsealed cracks. 

At least, that's what I told myself as I shored up my courage. 

I didn't know where to begin.

My gaze landed on the teacup and novel laying on the nightstand. I loathed touching anything. I felt that if I disturbed a single item, I would break the spell that had captured my mother's last movements on this earth.

She had thrown back the covers and rifled through her drawers. Probably put on one of her flirty, frilly dresses. Used a scarf to pull back her massive black curls. Squirted on perfume before sliding on a pair of mules. 

She seemed so effortlessly beautiful all the time. 

Both carefree and careless. 

And if I moved even the smallest thing out of place, out of time, I'd kill the very last infinitesimal possibility that Mom would suddenly return, laughter in her voice as she explained everything had been a misunderstanding. 

I realized now that I had avoided Mom's bedroom because I hadn't been ready to let her go. Better to bear the dark shadow of her deeds and resent her unshakeable, magnificent presence than have nothing of her at all. 

I decided to take the advice I so often gave my sisters. Take one step at a time. Begin small, if you have to. All large tasks are made up of smaller ones.

I crossed the room and picked up the paperback. Madame Bovary. Ah. I wasn't too surprised my mother would read about a woman whose romantic ideals never matched up to her reality.

I opened the cover and saw that Mom had written a phrase on the inside: "Tout ce que j'aime n'y est pas." – Gustave Flaubert. I didn't need to know French to understand the quote.

Mom said it often enough in both languages: All that I love is not there. This was a reference to the death of my father. What Mom never understood, or maybe never cared about, was that her children who loved her were there. Always. But we weren't enough for her. 

I think she was probably as disillusioned by motherhood as Emily Bovary had been. 

The bookmark fell out, fluttering to the floor like a wounded butterfly. I scooped it up and realized it wasn't a random piece of paper Mom had used to mark her stopping place in the novel. 

It was a folded square of parchment the color of a ripe peach. 

I put down the book and opened it, staring down at the unfamiliar scrawl of a man's handwriting. 

I began to read. 

My darling Fiona,

Tonight, I give myself to you in the sacred grove. Heart. Soul. Mind. Body. I want to speak vows with you. And I will marry you as soon as I can untangle myself from Carol. But this ritual we do tonight is the one that truly matters. A binding that seals our destinies. We are one, my love. 

Forever yours, 

Doug

Shock rooted me to the floor as I considered the implications. Then my legs turned into wet noodles and threatened to give way. I sat down heavily on the bed and read the letter again. 

This… this couldn't be right. 

If Mom and Doug had broken up, why would she keep this letter?

My chest ached. I pressed a hand against my breastbone trying to relieve the pressure squeezing the breath from my lungs. 

Okay. I needed to think about this logically.

When was this note written?

Early in the relationship when the shine of their attraction was bright and new?

I studied the note for a date, for any indication about when it had been penned. I couldn't help but think that this was an old communication. Probably a memento Mom kept so she could remember a time when Doug had loved her.

All it had really served to do, however, was pour salt on the wound created by Doug's ultimate rejection. Maybe it was even her nail-in-the-coffin motivation to destroy them both. 

But what if… what if…

What.

If.

 I blew out a shaking breath. What if… and it was a humongous if… Mom and Doug hadn't broken up at all?

I studied the note. Had she gone to meet Doug that night to magically bind with him?

Witches weren't required to weave their magic together to commit to each other. Intertwining magic wasn't easily done and you could forget trying to reverse such a powerful and complicated ritual.

Witches were just as prone to divorce as humans. Rare was the couple that blended their powers together. It was dangerous, for one thing. And for another, it bound them mentally and physically. Until death.

Is that what Doug had meant when he'd written the phrase "seal their destinies"? Why on earth would the man seek to bind with Mom in such a permanent way when he was still married to Carol? 

If Mom and Doug had been intent on magically binding, then the implications were huge. Because there had been no reason for my mother to kill her lover or herself. 

Chills shuddered through me. 

It had never occurred to me, not once, that my mother might not have committed the crimes of which she'd been accused. Because the story fit who she was. At least, it fit who everyone believed her to be. 

Including me.

I looked down at the paper. 

I had to find out when the note was written. 

I hurried downstairs to the kitchen and put the letter on the counter.

I grabbed my mortar and pestle and sea salt. I sprinkled salt into the mortar and added a few drops of water.

I used the pestle to grind the salt and water together then I put my finger into the mixture and added a pinch of my magic.

A green flame flickered.

I put the letter over the mortar and said, "Salt to turn, water to clear, fire to burn, let the date appear."