CASSANDRA WILLOWSTONE
"Meow." I need scratches, please.
"Are you avoiding the question?"
Scratches!
"Okay, okay. Bossy." I reached down and scratched Grumbler around the ears and under the chin, her favorite spots. "You didn't eat the belladonna, did you? Because you can't have it, you addict."
Obviously offended by my accusation, Grumbler rumbled irritation at me, flicking her tail as she sauntered away. "You can pretend all you want," I said as she rounded the corner, "but I know you."
"Meow!" I admit nothing, mistress.
Belladonna in large quantities was toxic to everyone but Grumbler. As a witch's familiar, she wasn't affected by little things like poisonous plants.
Grumbler was the Willowstone family familiar, passed down from first daughter to first daughter since our witch ancestors got off the Mayflower.
The cat was immortal, but belladonna was Grumbler's weird version of catnip. It made her crazy for a couple of hours and then she fell into a coma worthy of Sleeping Beauty. She'd wake up a day or so later with a massive hangover and a cranky attitude.
She hadn't always been called Grumbler. Her name changed each time she was inherited. Before Mom named her Grumbler, the cat had been called Petunia by my grandmother. Great Grandmother had called her Miss Mouse, a misnomer if there ever was one because Grumbler was mousy in neither personality nor appearance.
I hadn't changed the familiar's nom de plume when she became mine. Mom had renamed her Grumbler because the cat made grumbling sounds, especially when she was annoyed or about to attack.
Not us, of course.
A witch's familiar was very protective of her mistress and by extension, her mistress's family. It was unwise to anger my familiar. But Grumbler as a name seemed to fit her, and I guess, on some small level, I clung to the littlest things that were good reminders of Mom.
Truth be told, there weren't that many.
I walked out the back door, shutting it behind me. I stood at the edge of the wraparound porch, my toes curled around the rough wood edges. I breathed in the smells of damp earth, dewy grass, and sweet flowers. Interspersed in those heady scents was the sharp fragrances of dill, rosemary, and thyme—the three herbs grown nearest to the porch.
I studied the massive yard with its herb and flower gardens. Those we grew for ourselves and for customers. I dried a lot of the herbs and flowers. I ground some for potions and spellwork, and others hung in bunches from the rafters of our basement.
For our family, we grew vegetables—tomatoes, onions, carrots, squash, and lettuce. We also had lemon trees, blackberry bushes, and a small strawberry patch.
There was nothing more soothing than going out into the gardens to pick fresh herbs or cut a batch of daises and roses. The warmth of the sun, the fresh air smelling of mint and lavender, and the earth under bare feet was the best medicine for weary souls.
When it was time to pick strawberries, we ended up eating almost as many as we plucked from under the tender leaves. But I remember most about those early days of my childhood was my mother's laughter chasing us through the gardens as we played.
Every time I thought about my mother, my heart turned over in my chest and my lungs squeezed. I would give anything, anything, to go back in time and stop her. Not only because our lives would've turned out differently, and by that I meant so much better than they were now, but Mom wouldn't be dead.
For all my mother's flaws and mental problems, I'd much rather she was here with us, flighty and unpredictable and nuttier than a fruitcake, than dead at her own hand.
Honestly, if I could change anything, it would be to save my father from the car accident that killed him. Dad had kept Mom grounded, safe, and well. My father died when the twins about two years old. I'd been seven. Eleven years after that tragedy, Mom's selfishness cost her daughters everything.
I had just graduated high school, but my sisters, who were only thirteen at the time, became targets of bullies at Garden Grove's only elementary school. So, I had to educate them myself. Not an easy thing to do when I was barely an adult, but we managed. My college fund went toward living expenses, but eventually I was able to take courses through an online apothecary school and attain certifications in plant magic, horticulture sorcery, and herbology spells.
Not that my shiny new certificates meant diddly squat.
We hadn't sold a plant, herb, or potion in years.
Believe it or not, the Willowstone Apothecary Garden had been the place to get fresh ingredients for spellwork. Willowstones had a reputation for our horticulture talents. Mom had been botanist. It was our brand. Our family legacy.
After what Mom did, nobody wanted to shop at our apothecary or pick plants from our gardens.
Nobody wanted anything a Willowstone touched.
Our family's long history in Garden Grove, and all our contributions to witches and humans alike, had been erased in the hearts and minds of the townsfolk. I had no choice but to close the apothecary that had been in operation since the town was founded in 1850.
My gaze flicked to the purple hexagon.
I'd been working on re-establishing the Willowstone reputation. Everything rested on admittance to the coven—essentially I needed the forgiveness of this town's witches. The respect for the Willowstone name had crumbled the moment my mother committed her heinous acts. Her sins became our sins.
I breathed out, trying to reduce the stress bunching my shoulders. I needed to focus. Tonight, I would convince the coven to once again embrace the Willowstones.
Once that goal was accomplished, I could re-open our family business and breathe new life into our finances and our lives. My sisters would have the legacy they deserved. The one my mother had traded for revenge.
After today, I could finally stop being ashamed of Delia Willowstone.
And maybe, one day, I could forgive the act of hate that had blackened her soul and ruined the lives of her children.
Maybe.