Read Online The Flower Bowl Spell by Olivia Boler - Free Book Online Page B

Auntie Tess was for a
waning moon, getting rid of garbage. We’re heading into a new moon
phase and with a little effort I can catch some of its mojo—time
for new projects. That seems fitting.
    I haven’t channeled in about two years. What
if I’ve forgotten how? Now is as good a time as any to find out. I
slip out the back door and down the stairs into the yard, making
sure to stay out of sight of windows.
    I inherited this flat from a craft friend,
Faris, who practices with a Persian flavor, when he decided to move
with his boyfriend to New York City. The first time he invited me
over, when he still lived here, we sat out in the garden and drank
wine and he confided that we were sitting on a portal hot spot.
They’re everywhere, places where the veil is a bit thinner. But I
haven’t used it much, not since I got the news about Alice’s
shattered body being found in a Gabon ditch.
    Before every ceremony, the high priestesses
taught us coven kids how to meditate, but I’ve always been
impatient with the counting backwards and the dropsy notes of a
lute over the stereo and the visualization. Some people claim there
are gods and goddesses they actually talk to, but I think of it
more as a conversation with a better, smarter, and older part of
myself. I call her Smarter Memphis. If there are gods, they have
yet to show themselves to me, except in the form of fairies,
animated inanimate objects, and talking animals, on occasion.
    I strip off my clothes and raise my hands,
opening my eyes to let in the moon’s darkness. My breathing goes
raggedy and I wait for it to even out on its own. My mind, for a
fraction of a second, is quiet, which means the portal is opening.
The next moment, it’s like I’m falling into darkness where no words
or images or sounds exist. The night chill evaporates and the goose
bumps on my flesh calm down. I feel my arms lower. And then I land
and wait for Smarter Memphis.
    When I feel her near, I close my eyes and ask
my favorite question, “What the hell is going on?”
    ****
    Later that night, snug in bed, I wake up. All
is still. The clock reads 3:24. I wish I hadn’t looked because now
I’ll be timing myself. How long will it take to fall back to
sleep?
    Cooper slumbers soundly next to me. He was
already asleep when I joined him in bed. Too late to tell him about
my Arsenic Playground assignment.
    I slip out of bed and pad down the hall to
the girls’ room—already, it’s the Girls’ Room. They’re on either
side of the double bed. This room is supposed to be for Hillary,
but she hasn’t done much to make it her own. She really only sleeps
over when she gets in fights with her mother or deigns to crash
here after a night out with us. I’ve covered the bed with my
butterfly comforter from college and put up a framed Renoir poster.
Across the room are Cooper’s desk and his bookshelves and filing
cabinets. I sometimes work at an antique secretary under the window
next to my own bookcases.
    Romola sleeps on her left side—her heart
side. Cleo is on her belly, her curly brown hair spread across her
damp face. I lift it away, and she puffs out a breath, like
thanks.
    Their bags are on the floor. Just clothes,
schoolbooks, and toys inside. I tiptoe out and go to the kitchen.
Viv’s envelope is where I left it on the counter. In the living
room, I turn on a reading lamp and settle in on the couch with a
throw blanket. I pour the contents of the envelope onto my lap and
a pile of fifty-dollar bills cascades out. I count them quickly.
There’s over two thousand dollars there. I don’t claim to know how
much little girls cost to keep, but really, how long does Viveka
intend to be gone?
    There’s also a binder labeled For the
Babysitter , with the medical records she promised. The girls
have their mother’s maiden name, Murray, which Viv has kept too. No
birth certificates, no indication of who their father is. No
sicknesses either. They appear to be healthy, although there’s