Read Online A Witching Well of Magic: A Cozy Mystery (Witchy Women of Coven Grove Book 2) by Constance Barker - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Constance Barker
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from the text, but it was assured that the subject’s true intentions would be made clear in a very short time, and of their own volition.
That part was probably questionable. But having a good long talk about what was on his mind was, in Bailey’s opinion, the best possible choice that Gavin could have.
She lit small coals, stirred them a little until they were all glowing orange and yellow, and then one by one, in the order prescribed, she scattered her various reagents onto them. One by one they darkened, crisped, and then burned to ash. Each time she did, she spoke the words that translated, she was pretty sure, to things like ‘reveal what is unknown’ and ‘let the fire illuminate the truth’ and other such commands or perhaps requests of the natural forces invoked.
The other part of it all was internal. The outcome had to be visualized clearly, and the intention that it should all come to pass had to be committed. Bailey was committed, though visualizing the outcome was problematic; but she got it close enough probably. Magic was all about symbols and meaning, anyway.
Nothing much really seemed to happen at first. When she had the last bit of crushed, dried flower in her fingers, and was looking at the last line, she tried to really mean it when she said the words and cast the component into the coals.
She felt a momentary rush of expectation.
But, nothing happened. Nothing really interesting, anyway. She didn’t feel any different. She wondered if Gavin did, wherever he was? Were he and Piper even now having a talk? How long did this sort of thing take? The text was vague on that point. Time, when it came to magic, was often a variable figure.
Still, when she used her ability she felt something very specific. And when she worked the candle spell, she felt something there as well. Was there some component to this spell that had to be taught? One of the components she’d just burned had been sort of difficult to get—she hoped it wasn’t wasted.
A stiff breeze blew through the window, gathering up ashes from the bowl in a swirl, and Bailey panicked. She snatched the bowl out of the way before it made a terrible mess. At that particular moment, there was a knock at her door.
Scrambling, Bailey capped the bowl to put the coals out, stuffed everything except the fire hazard back into her chest, and quickly put her room in some semblance of casual order. The coals were out, but at least they weren’t showing under the bowl’s cover.
Finally, she cracked the door cautiously, peering out with her best impression of the bleary eyed look she ought to have had from a short nap.
Ryan raised and eyebrow. “Doing alright in her, Red?”
Bailey nodded. “I’m fine, Dad. Just tired. Sorry, how long have I been asleep? I must have dozed off.”
“ Must have,” he said. He seemed very interested in the sliver of her room he could see through the cracked door. “Well, anyway I’m about to make myself a sandwich. Nothing fancy. Wondered if you were hungry?”
“ Starving,” Bailey said, honestly.
“ Well come on down then,” he said, “and let me make you something.”
She promised to be down shortly, and changed into a tee shirt and pajama pants. When she came down, Ryan had already finished one sandwich, and was on to the second. He was seventy, but didn’t look it, and he was still spry as far as Bailey could tell. The key, he often said, was to keep moving. Now that he wasn’t writing for the paper, she wondered what would happen to him.
They caught up a little—Bailey hadn’t gotten home in time to see him last night, and he didn’t know that she’d gotten her old job back. On the subject of Aiden Rivers, he had little to say, other than that it made sense for Poppy to sell the place. She’d put the cash away, probably, to collect interest, and have a nest egg when she got out, which wasn’t likely to be in her lifetime but then you never knew.
Bailey avoided asking about the paper,
That part was probably questionable. But having a good long talk about what was on his mind was, in Bailey’s opinion, the best possible choice that Gavin could have.
She lit small coals, stirred them a little until they were all glowing orange and yellow, and then one by one, in the order prescribed, she scattered her various reagents onto them. One by one they darkened, crisped, and then burned to ash. Each time she did, she spoke the words that translated, she was pretty sure, to things like ‘reveal what is unknown’ and ‘let the fire illuminate the truth’ and other such commands or perhaps requests of the natural forces invoked.
The other part of it all was internal. The outcome had to be visualized clearly, and the intention that it should all come to pass had to be committed. Bailey was committed, though visualizing the outcome was problematic; but she got it close enough probably. Magic was all about symbols and meaning, anyway.
Nothing much really seemed to happen at first. When she had the last bit of crushed, dried flower in her fingers, and was looking at the last line, she tried to really mean it when she said the words and cast the component into the coals.
She felt a momentary rush of expectation.
But, nothing happened. Nothing really interesting, anyway. She didn’t feel any different. She wondered if Gavin did, wherever he was? Were he and Piper even now having a talk? How long did this sort of thing take? The text was vague on that point. Time, when it came to magic, was often a variable figure.
Still, when she used her ability she felt something very specific. And when she worked the candle spell, she felt something there as well. Was there some component to this spell that had to be taught? One of the components she’d just burned had been sort of difficult to get—she hoped it wasn’t wasted.
A stiff breeze blew through the window, gathering up ashes from the bowl in a swirl, and Bailey panicked. She snatched the bowl out of the way before it made a terrible mess. At that particular moment, there was a knock at her door.
Scrambling, Bailey capped the bowl to put the coals out, stuffed everything except the fire hazard back into her chest, and quickly put her room in some semblance of casual order. The coals were out, but at least they weren’t showing under the bowl’s cover.
Finally, she cracked the door cautiously, peering out with her best impression of the bleary eyed look she ought to have had from a short nap.
Ryan raised and eyebrow. “Doing alright in her, Red?”
Bailey nodded. “I’m fine, Dad. Just tired. Sorry, how long have I been asleep? I must have dozed off.”
“ Must have,” he said. He seemed very interested in the sliver of her room he could see through the cracked door. “Well, anyway I’m about to make myself a sandwich. Nothing fancy. Wondered if you were hungry?”
“ Starving,” Bailey said, honestly.
“ Well come on down then,” he said, “and let me make you something.”
She promised to be down shortly, and changed into a tee shirt and pajama pants. When she came down, Ryan had already finished one sandwich, and was on to the second. He was seventy, but didn’t look it, and he was still spry as far as Bailey could tell. The key, he often said, was to keep moving. Now that he wasn’t writing for the paper, she wondered what would happen to him.
They caught up a little—Bailey hadn’t gotten home in time to see him last night, and he didn’t know that she’d gotten her old job back. On the subject of Aiden Rivers, he had little to say, other than that it made sense for Poppy to sell the place. She’d put the cash away, probably, to collect interest, and have a nest egg when she got out, which wasn’t likely to be in her lifetime but then you never knew.
Bailey avoided asking about the paper,
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