They used to be inseparable. They’d been every cliché, from finishing each other’s sentences to knowing when the other was in pain. But Seth was never content; he was always digging and asking questions about their magic and their parents, which was a mystery thick as cold clover honey. The only thing Gigi would tell them was that their father had never been in the picture, and their mother was gone. Not dead nor that she’d left—just gone. Like a puff of dust in a summer breeze.
Sadie never understood her brother’s need for answers or the way his cheeks would flush with embarrassment when neighborhood kids teased them about being the grandchildren of crazy Marie Revelare. Seth tried to hide from the strangeness, run away from it, deny it until he stopped asking questions altogether. Unlike Sadie’s magic, which showed up externally in the garden she tended and the food she made, in the way she could stir her finger in a pot of cold water and it would boil seconds later, Seth’s magic was internal. It was a hidden thing he never utilized as far as Sadie could tell. And no matter how many times she asked, demanded, pleaded, and pouted to know what it was, he would respond only with silence, headlocks, or vicious glares. But on full-moon nights when they were young, when the clouds whispered their secrets across the sky and the church bells chimed in the distance, Seth would sneak into Sadie’s room with chocolate biscuits and a jug of milk. They’d settle a blanket across the hardwood floor, and with their knobby knees drawn up and moonlight splashing across their faces like a blessing, he would finally talk. He asked questions about her magic, their future, and—most of all—their mother. What did Sadie think she was like? Why did she leave? Where was she now?
In Sadie’s mind, if her mother had wanted to leave, then good riddance. Magic was the truest thing she knew, and she was good at it. And if she focused on becoming the best, then she didn’t have to think about the way Seth had left her exactly the way their mother had. Seth’s disappearance had been heartbreak number two. The last year had been spent trying to find a neat little box to put the pain into. Something she could label and wrap with a bow. But the heartbreak was ugly and defied any sense. She hated that. Not having answers. Not having control. And even with the memory of those secret nights, she never found out what his magic was.
“I’m not like you. I don’t think what I have, what I can do, is good,” he’d confessed one night. They were older then, thirteen, and he’d brought Gigi’s cooking sherry instead of cookies and milk.
Sadie’s heart had hammered, wondering if this was finally the moment.
“I can’t tell you because I don’t know,” he’d snapped. “Honestly, stop screaming your thoughts into my brain.” He’d softened a moment later at the hurt look in Sadie’s eyes. “One day, okay? I promise.”
“You swear on the lemon tree?”
“I swear on the lemon tree.”
But he’d still left.
“Every Revelare leaves at some point,” Gigi had told her with a bright and distant sorrow.
The fingers that had been carefully combing through the zucchini were now clenched into fists. She forced her hands open, carefully harvesting dozens of squash and zucchini, separating them into bundles, avoiding their spiky vines and doing her best not to look toward Rock Creek House or think of Jake, and failing miserably at both.
There was a small pile of zucchini for Sunday night dinner and a larger one for the table at church. Folks always brought their surplus of fruits and vegetables for whoever wanted them. As a last-minute thought, she made another pile for Bill. She’d make some zucchini and coriander seed bread for him and his crew working on Old Bailer.
As she bent over to pluck an errant weed that had escaped her notice, the hairs on the back of her neck stood to attention, and a shiver worked its way along her shoulders. A moment later, she heard a scuffling sound beyond the lavender.
“Hey!” she shouted, picking up a zucchini and getting ready to launch it in the direction of whatever creature was trying to eat her garden. But then, squinting through the brush, she saw a small chocolate lab puppy staring back at her.
“Oh, puppy!” she called, instantly melting. “What are you doing? Come here, pup.” She held out a hand, and the dog took a bounding leap over the bushy lavender, landing in a heap as his short legs went every which way.
“Hello, little Bambi,” she said, scratching his velvety ears as he cascaded into her. “Who do you belong to, hm?” she asked, feeling around his collar for a tag. “Chief?” she asked, reading the engraving.