Linda Robertson: Fatal Circle

“Ruya”—Xerxadrea said the name of her raven—“will remain out here.” She added her broom to the collection leaning just beside the door.

I reached for the door but, hearing the popping of gravel under tires, stopped. Lydia’s mud-splattered pickup rolled up the driveway. She’d been the interim high priestess for Venefica Coven, when their former leader went missing. It was because of Lydia that I’d participated in the Eximium: she had nominated me to take the priestess position. Thankfully, the competition ended with Hunter Hopewell gaining the title and not me. Lydia was also the previous owner of this house and land.

“Lydia’s arrived,” Xerxadrea said.

“How do you do that?” I asked.

“Do what?” She used to add “child” to the end of her sentences. I wondered if she had stopped saying it because I was now a part of her lucusi .

“See,” I blurted out.

“Sorcery, of course.” She smiled enigmatically.

I knew that, but had hoped to get more of an answer. Since she didn’t offer, I didn’t press.

Lydia slid from the big truck easily and approached us. Her hair was twisted into her usual bun, and she wore a corduroy dress and flat-heeled boots. She bid us a proper greeting and apologized for being late, citing her chickens had gotten loose. “Is Demeter awake?”

Her question reminded me that Lydia and Nana used to be friends—and that, according to Lydia, they had parted on not-so-good terms. “Probably. She claims the crack of dawn is her new alarm clock.”

Taking a deep breath, Lydia nodded. “If need be, I’ll go.”

“Let’s hope that isn’t the case,” I said, holding the door open for Xerxadrea. Her warm, soft hand rounded my arm, obliging me to stay with her as we entered, but I managed to keep the door politely ajar for Lydia.

The rattling of dishes met our ears as we proceeded down the hall. The witches had gathered in the dining room around the big table, which seated six easily. After seeing Xerxadrea to a padded chair, I added the middle leaves to the table. With enlisted help, we moved the bench and two chairs from the dinette in the kitchen to fill in. The table would now seat ten—assuming Nana would join us.

To spare Nana’s knees, I’d promised to have the dining room renovated into a downstairs bedroom and add a bath. However, if, as a member of the lucusi or as the Lustrata, I was going to have pow-wows around my table with any regularity, not having this space might be a problem. Maybe I’ll ask Xerxadrea to teach Nana that mist-magic thing.

About that time, Nana, Beverley, and Ares came down from the second floor. Herding the Great Dane puppy out the front door to do his morning business, I stopped them there in the hall and asked, “I thought you two were going to sleep in today?” Last evening Beverley had been kidnapped by fairies. They had tried to kill her, but Menessos’s quick action had saved her. To me, kidnapping and attempted murder were definitely grounds for a day off from school. “How about we call the office and say you have a tummy ache from eating too much candy? Then you can stay home.”

“But I want to go.” Beverley’s smile was bright.

Before I could even try to dissuade her, Nana assured me, “We talked about it upstairs.” She was trying to see into the dining room; the chatter was drawing her attention.

“I won’t say anything to anyone, Seph,” Beverley chimed in. “I promise.”

Beverley was dressed and ready. Insisting she skip school would sound ludicrous, so I let it go. Ares came back to the door. I let him in and held his collar so he didn’t take off and knock little old witches from their chairs. “All right,” I conceded to Beverley. “Take Ares to the garage and feed him so he doesn’t bother our guests, please.”

Because Beverly kept saying “kibble,” the growing-into-a-behemoth animal allowed the child to guide him down the hall and past the strangers he unmistakably wanted to sniff.

Taking Nana to the dining room through the living room, I said, “Nana, perhaps you’ll remember Xerxadrea?”

“It has been a long time, Demeter.” They shared a polite word or two. Then, “If I may introduce the rest?”

“Please do.” I remembered their names, but allowed the Eldrenne to continue the introductions because I wanted to gauge Nana’s reaction to Lydia.

Xerxadrea indicated the high priestesses as members of her lucusi, then lastly said, “And this is Lydia Whitmore.”

Until then, Nana had been consummately playing the crotchety old crone with a bit of elderly befuddlement, busily digging her cigarette case from her robe pocket, giving the effect of barely listening, fostered by halfhearted nods as each name was spoken.

But at Lydia’s name, she stilled. Slowly, stiffly, Nana turned. She squinted as if her eyes were going bad, but they weren’t. This was her expression of contempt. It was usually reserved for the mention of nursing homes, bingo, and antismoking laws.

The painful silence wore on, as fragile as a soap bubble.

“Hello, Demeter.”

Nana lifted a cigarette to her lips and lit it without taking her stern stare from the last-arriving guest. She took a drag and, from the corner of her firm-lined mouth, blew smoke at the ceiling. I was convinced that just then she could have chewed up tin cans and spit out nails.

“Lydia Whitmore,” Nana whispered, not having removed the cigarette, “is speaking to me?” Her whisper was a lit fuse. A short one. “After fifty-six years?”

Lydia stood slowly. “I’ll go.”

Nana jerked the cigarette from her lips and gestured with it as she spoke. “Oh, no, Lydia, sit! Stay! Eat the food from my granddaughter’s table.” There was sarcasm and a threatening, seething rage in her gravelly voice. Nana shuffled into the kitchen, glaring at Lydia all the way.

A second later, I followed, speechless.

Because Beverley was standing at the counter eating, I didn’t ask Nana the obvious. The kitchen was filled with the smells of breakfast, and Johnny was moving pancakes onto a platter. To the kid’s delight, he flipped one through the air to land on her plate.

In minutes, all the food was ready and Johnny shoved a platter of scrambled eggs at me. He lifted the other serving dishes, piled with pancakes and sausage links, and headed to the table with a nod for me to follow. As he placed them before the wowed assemblage of witches, he swiped a hotcake from the top and rolled it around a link. “I’m going to run Beverley to school.” He bit into the food even as he left the room. “I’ll be right back,” he added from the hallway, just before the two of them went out.

“Thank you,” I called, glancing at the clock. It was eight-twenty-five already. The sunrise was so late in the fall!

He’d gotten me out of the kitchen and back to my guests, but I was a hopeless hostess. I didn’t know what to say or do. Apologize to Lydia? Apologize to Nana? Around me, the women were filling their plates and digging in. They weren’t waiting for me to fix something; I hadn’t done anything wrong. “Sit down, Persephone. Eat with us,” Vilna-Daluca said.

I sat. I heard the engine of Nana’s LeSabre cough and rev. I should be taking Beverley to school. Already, this was upsetting our routine. While I was sure Johnny had made Beverley a lunch, I doubted he had included one of the sticky-notes from the joke book in the cupboard. She’s my responsibility.

“Is it even safe?” My voice was soft, but it was enough that the movement and chatter around the table ceased.

“Is what safe?” Vilna-Daluca asked.

“For Beverley to go to school today? After all she’s been through, losing her mother and with what happened last night. Maybe she should stay home.”