Chapter 1

Yule 1978

More? I couldn’t believe there were more of these things. Who was doing this?

My eyes drifted from the crocheted Granny Square ornament done up in festive red and green, to the Santa Claus head of red and white, to the striped bell in red, white, and green. It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with putting up holiday decorations. It was specifically these that had been showing up all over the forest and had now made their way to our pentacle-shaped garden at the heart of the village.

Whispering Pines was a community of primarily Wiccans, so we celebrated Yule. At least that’s how it was until the fortune tellers moved here. They followed something closer to Christianity. When Effie Grace and Cybil Crain moved here with their kids Rae and Gabe, respectively, Lucy O’Shea, our leader, decided everyone had a right to their beliefs and announced we would alter our celebrations a bit so the tellers wouldn’t feel excluded. Still, Wicca was our prime religion, and that meant natural decorations on our Yule trees. Small pentacles made from twigs, cranberry garland, and dried orange slices. Mistletoe clusters, shed deer antlers, and tiny wreaths woven from grasses or willow. Items found in nature, not these gaudy manmade things.

Maybe Effie and Cybil were responsible for these things. In addition to fortune telling, they earned an income by making and selling prairie dresses and other handmade items from their vardos, aka wagons, at craft fairs.

“Can’t make much of a living by telling people what’s coming around the corner,” Cybil complained, “or connecting them with their passed-away loved ones. Folks want to leave the fairs with something they can hold, not a fuzzy feeling.”

“Effie and Cybil,” I murmured out loud to the Santa head. “I might be onto something. What do they make with yarn?”

Afghans. Effie was especially talented. She always had a skein of yarn with her and was knitting or crocheting something every time I saw her.

“And if she can crochet a whole afghan,” I reasoned, “she could easily make dozens of ornaments. Mystery solved! It’s the tellers. The next question is, why are they doing this?”

“Reeva?”

I spun around to see a pretty brunette peeking at me from the other side of a Yule tree positioned in the pentacle point one over from where I stood investigating the new “decorations.” Since a pentacle was a five-pointed star, the village garden had five trees on display.

“Hi, Priscilla. What’s up?”

She clutched her bookbag to her chest like she was cold. Understandable. It was especially chilly today. Winter didn’t take its time coming to northern Wisconsin this year. I didn’t think Priscilla’s school supplies were for warmth, though. The way she held it, it looked more like a shield. What was she protecting herself from?

“Can I talk to you about something?” She seemed both shy and desperate about the request.

That’s when I noticed the girl from the grade below me in school had dark circles around her red-rimmed eyes. I rushed to her side. “Have you been crying, Priss? Is everything okay?”

She swallowed and shook her head. “Somewhere private? I don’t want anyone else to hear.” She sniffled. “Sorry, I’m butting into your day. You were probably on the way home.”

I glanced at the cottage just to the east of the northernmost pentacle point. The Grahams had asked me to stop by but never specified a time. Whenever was convenient, they’d said.

“Sounds like this is a big deal. You’re sure you want to talk to me?”

Her shaggy hair fell in front of her eyes when she looked down and nodded.

While Priscilla and I were friends, we weren’t that close. Certainly not close enough to tell each other deep, personal secrets. And that’s what this appeared to be. Not sure I was comfortable with this. Surely, someone else’s shoulder would be the better one for her to cry on.

“Can I ask first, why me?”

She offered me a sad smile. “Because I know I can trust you to keep this to yourself. Everyone knows how dependable and steady you are, Reeva.”

I swear to the Goddess, they were going to carve that on my gravestone when I died. Here lies Reeva Long. Dependable to the end. Either that or, She never said no to anyone in need.

“Where do you want to talk?” I asked with a sigh. “We could walk.”

Her face brightened. “To your cottage? Maybe we could talk in your bedroom? That’s private, right?” She paused to take a breath. “Or do you and Flavia share a room?”

“Oh, no.” I laughed at that last bit. Not because it was funny, but because it was ironic. “We used to share one. About a year ago, Flavia insisted she needed her own space because I looked at her too much.” I held my right hand in the air when Priscilla’s eyebrows cocked in question. “I swear, that’s what she said. She begged Daddy over and over and over until she was not only driving him nuts but Mom and me too. He finally caved, tacked on a little addition, and finished her room about three months ago.”

“Did you?” Priscilla asked.

“Look at her too much?” I shrugged. “I was probably trying to figure out what planet she came from. Flavia can be such a space cadet, you know?”

Priscilla reddened like I’d just said something she wasn’t supposed to hear.

“I’m not trying to be mean,” I promised. “It’s just, Flavia tends to live in her own world sometimes.”

She giggled at that. It was a nervous rather than happy sound. “Don’t we all?”

“Guess that’s sort of the point of Whispering Pines, isn’t it? We’re all a little different.” I turned and walked a few steps, my boots crunching on the packed snow. She didn’t follow right away, so I waved for her to come along. “Personally, I love having my own room. I’ve always liked being alone.”

“You’re not alone.” She ran to my side and fell into step with me as we headed northwest. “None of us are. We’ve got the Pack.”

The Pack, as Lucy O’Shea had dubbed us, was the group of kids from the original or first families to settle in the village. Dillon, Briar, Rae, Gabe, Karl, Horace, Priscilla, and me. And our little tagalongs, Sugar and Honey. Flavia tried to be one of us. She was the last to join us and then left after a month or so when no one fawned all over her for being the “new” girl. She didn’t understand that we were all the same. No one in our group was seen as special or different, so no one got special treatment. Unless someone got sick or did something spectacular, then we’d care for them or cheer for their accomplishment. We were supportive that way. Why she thought she deserved extra attention, I could never understand.

Priscilla tilted her head. “Come to think of it, you haven’t been hanging out with the group as much lately.”

I gazed up at the snow-covered pine trees. “I’ve got other interests.”

She looked around, seemingly making sure we weren’t being followed, and whispered, “Wiccan interests?”

I laughed hard at that. “Wicca isn’t a secret around here, Priscilla.”

She blushed in response. Then I understood. Priscilla, like my best friend Rae, hadn’t settled on a path yet and felt pressured to do so.

“Your mom is a witch. She’s helping you, isn’t she?”

“I guess.” Priscilla exhaled a steamy breath into the cold air. “She’s very crafty. Makes these beautiful ceramic dolls, among other things. She thinks I should follow her lead.”

“And be a craft witch?” I frowned. “Is there such a thing? That might fall under the hedge witch umbrella.”

“Who knows?” She shrugged. “I don’t think that’s right for me anyway.”

“No? I’ve seen the things you make. I’m in awe of your artistic talent.”

Was she the one leaving the ornaments around the village? I’d never seen her with a crochet hook in her hands, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t whip up a Santa head.

“Are you still planning to go into architecture?” I asked. “Or have you changed your mind again?”

This cheered her a little. “I was thinking about art school. There’s that school in Milwaukee that opened a couple years ago. The Institute of Art & Design. I’ve heard it’s good.” Her smile grew wider and then faded rapidly. “That would be a lot of fun, but not exactly practical.”

“Practical?” I spread my arms wide and gazed up at the sky heavy with clouds. “We’re supposed to dream big and follow our passion.”

“Yeah, well, Mom’s passion for ceramics doesn’t always pay the bills, you know? I need to be able to sup—”

But she cut herself off mid-word and let the thought float away with her breath.

She was so serious today. What was going on with her? “You should do something that makes you happy. Don’t worry about being practical. As for the Wiccan part, Flavia is still trying to find her path, too, and Rae swears there isn’t a drop of teller blood in her body.” Priscilla didn’t reply. “Maybe you could study with your mom. Or learn from some of the other villagers. There are a lot of talented people here. You know what Dulcie Barlow always says.”

“None of us knows all,” we recited in unison. “We grow wiser when we lean on and learn from each other.”

“We’ll see.” Priscilla took on a faraway expression. “We never really know what our future holds, do we?” She watched our boot-covered feet trudging along the path through the woods. “What about you? You’ve settled on a specialty, haven’t you?”

Not to brag, but I’d been successful with a few things I’d tried. Mom, a green witch, taught me plenty of tricks with soil and spades when I was young. Daddy, a skilled carpenter, taught me how to build and fix things. I also tried hedge witchery and followed a traditional witch path for a while.

Since all of those paths seemed to come naturally to me, my parents decided it might be an inherited or bloodline thing. They hoped that meant one or more skills would emerge in Flavia someday. No, they weren’t just hopeful. They were desperate. So desperate they asked me to leave the “simpler” skills for her to pursue. While the request upset me, I understood. Where most things came easily to me, my sister struggled with everything. Including life in general. Flavia just needed to focus her time and energy. If we could find something to make her happy, life would be easier for all of us. The villagers included.

Last fall, while Mom was working frantically to protect her plants against a heavy frost Dulcie predicted was coming that night—she was right, and it killed everything not covered—I discovered cooking and baking.

“Make dinner for us,” Mom barked while tossing bolts of burlap and balls of twine out of the garden shed. “Anything. Peanut butter sandwiches are fine for tonight. We don’t even need jelly.”

I made Beef Wellington, asparagus with hollandaise sauce, and roasted tomatoes. We started with a green salad with poached pear slices, candied walnuts, and goat cheese topped with a honey vinaigrette. The meal ended with airy chocolate mousse. Thank the Goddess for Karl’s parents, Kent and Yolanda Brighton. They let me nab the tenderloin and cheese from their stash. I’d never again tease them about being so over-prepared, as Daddy always said. If not for them, I may not have discovered my true talent.

My shocked parents praised the meal that night, then pulled me aside and encouraged me to not flaunt yet another newfound skill. They didn’t want me to squash Flavia’s motivation. I didn’t back down that time. Flavia could either get competitive and try to best me or sit in the corner and pout, but I had found my calling.

I pushed my shoulders back and proudly announced to Priscilla, “I am a kitchen witch. Or maybe house witch is a better term. If it has to do with cooking, baking, or generally caring for one’s hearth and home, that’s what I love to do.”

“Will you teach me how to make some things?” A look of desperation shadowed her face.

Teach her? I could do that. At least I thought I could. No one had ever asked me. “What do you want to make?”

She shrugged. “Nothing fancy. Some easy, tasty, and fast things for busy days.”

Easy, tasty, and fast. A challenge. I liked being challenged. “Does this have to do with this secret you wanted to talk to me about?”

She grimaced. “Sort of.”

If she told me this secret, it would make me responsible to her. I’d have to hold on to it and not let anyone know I knew. Inevitably it would come out, and I’d either have to lie and pretend I had no idea or admit I’d known all along. Then everyone would demand to know why I hadn’t said anything. I hated secrets. Knowing them, not having them. I kept mine to myself, however, because they weren’t true secrets if anyone else knew them.

It’s not that I didn’t like Priscilla. She was a fine person, but I didn’t want to carry this around with me. Sharing something with someone and then asking them not to say anything was cruel. It wasn’t an honor. It was a burden.

She seemed desperate, though, to . . . what? Clear her conscience? Admit to a sin? Was this something bad? How bad? Looking at her hopeful, semi-scared face, I knew that within the hour we’d be huddled together, and I’d listen for as long as she wanted me to. Unless someone else was willing to take my place.

“You could talk to Flavia,” I blurted. Maybe she was meant to be a therapist witch, whatever that might mean. “This will sound cruel, but she doesn’t have any friends. She could use someone in her world.”

Priscilla’s shoulders dropped, and she echoed me. “Not to sound cruel, but I’m not sure I can trust Flavia. We all know how she can be. If it suits her needs, she’ll spill the beans.” Priscilla chewed her bottom lip, then begged, “Please, Reeva, I don’t know who else to turn to. If I don’t let this out, I might explode. I know I can trust you.”

And there it was. I know I can trust you. The final nail in my coffin. I was good at pretty much everything except saying no. And playing any kind of musical instrument. Definitely not a musical witch. I’d regret this. No doubt about it. She really needed to talk to someone, though, and it looked like that person was meant to be me.

“Consider it your Yule present to me,” she said and gave me a cheesy smile.

I rolled my eyes and bumped my shoulder into hers. “We don’t exchange Yule presents. Come on, let’s go to my house. It should be plenty private there.”