A Lost Witch (A Modern Witch Series: Book 7) Page 11

  Caro smiled. “Come. I’ll help you find something to knit.”

  She would have traded anything in her possession for it to be that simple. “Maybe one day. I can’t control my magic just yet.” The understatement of the century. And until she could, easy contact with other people was way off-limits.

  “Pfft.” Caro nodded her head at Jamie. “He’s off to scrounge the three of us some breakfast and I’ll hold on to the clamp in your brain for a while. You’re welcome to spend the day here—anyone who loves pretty yarn the way you do is always welcome.”

  The yarn was glorious—and it wasn’t the problem. She tried to explain. “It takes months for me to get introduced to a new person without having an attack.”

  Or it had. Before the miraculous brain clamp. Hannah tried to open her mind to the possibility of different.

  “Ah. Well, in that case, caution isn’t a bad thing.” Caro had picked up some knitting, a string of hot orange yarn traveling up to her hands and joining the round tube on her needles. “If you wanted to meet some of the regulars here, what kinds of things would make it easier?”

  Dr. Max had asked questions like that. Always trying to give people a chance to own some tiny part of their lives. Hannah tried to extrapolate from the tightly controlled world of Chrysalis House. “Well, I used to look at photographs. Learn a little about people. See them through a window at first, and then maybe far away down the hallway.” She remembered her second meeting with Lauren and Tabitha. “Or it helps if I don’t look at someone when we first meet.” She stopped talking, overwhelmed by the weird requests she was making of the world.

  Real life didn’t work that way.

  Caro nodded slowly. “I think we can do that. Give me twenty-four hours.”

  Hannah stared.

  “I’ll take pictures of the knitting group today and give you a little look tomorrow morning. That’s most of the crew in here these days—not too many people come wandering in for yarn in August, and you can always tuck away in the back room if they do.” Caro set down her knitting. “And I’ve got an idea for giving you something to hide behind.” She stood up and looked at Jamie. “Do you have enough juice left to port us to my townhouse?”

  He glanced Hannah’s direction. “You sure?”

  Hannah wasn’t sure who he was speaking to—but she really liked the plain-spoken woman who knit orange yarn and made insurmountable quirks seem almost normal.

  And she hadn’t left Chrysalis House to live in terror.

  She looked around at the glorious shelves of yarn and pulled out all the bravery she had left. “Okay.”

  Chapter 11

  It was a thing of sleek, outrageous beauty.

  Hannah had followed Caro up the stairs of her townhome, drinking in orange walls and vivid artwork, and shaking off the strange, cold void that was Jamie’s magical transport.

  And then Caro had pulled a sheet off the many-limbed creature in the corner of a small bedroom, and all thought had stopped.

  Hannah stepped over to the large floor loom, hands reaching out reverently. “It’s old. And lovely.”

  “It was my grandmother’s. My granddad had some talent for woodworking. Made it for her when they got married.”

  Family history in every line. “You must treasure it.”

  “Not nearly enough.” Caro touched the warp threads running up the loom’s vertical face. “It sits here in my spare room and gets used as a hanger by my guests. I never did take to weaving overmuch. Just the knitting.”

  Such beauty. Hannah picked up a shuttle, neatly wound with the remnants of a project started long ago. Someone had loved this loom once.

  “There’s a corner at my shop where it would fit.” Caro moved around the room, plumping pillows and tidying small treasures. “If you’d like to set up there and give it a try, you’re more than welcome. I’m pretty sure I have Oma’s stash of weaving thread tucked under the bed there. Lots of colors—she liked silk.”

  Hannah wasn’t a complete idiot. This was no casual offer. “Why?”

  Caro looked over, eyes full of something murky. “Because you need something to hold on to. And because I know what it is to need the therapy of something moving under your fingers.” She shrugged. “And I figure Oma’s pretty mad at me for letting it sit unused for so long.”

  Hanna looked down at her hands, unsure of what to do with that kind of information. “I’d be truly honored to use it.”

  “There’s no shame in busy hands—or in asking for what you need.” Caro’s matter-of-fact tone didn’t make the words any less gentle. “It will take time to find your way in this new life you’ve landed in. And in the meantime, you can sit in the corner and make some pillows for my shop if you’ve got a hankering to be useful.”

  She hadn’t. Not until the words were said. “Thank you. I’d like that very much.”

  Caro snorted. “Decide if you want to thank me later. You’ll have people hanging over your shoulder all the time, asking what you’re doing.”

  Curiosity was a privilege of those who were sane. No one at Chrysalis had ever leaned over her shoulder. A very few had watched from afar, eyes half lit. “I spent every day of the last twelve years wishing to get out. And now I’m not sure what to do with myself.” Hannah Kendrick, lost.

  “Do what any good weaver does.” Caro reached out a hand and stroked the wood of the loom. “Start with the warp threads.”

  Just that simple. Hannah hugged the idea to her heart. One string at a time, up the loom and down.

  Caro smiled. “You can work on it now some if you like. Jamie can port it to the shop in the morning.”

  An entire day to play with such a treasure.

  “If you need more thread than what’s under the bed, just phone over to the shop.” Caro headed for the door and then stopped. “Would you like to stay here for a while?”

  Hannah pulled her head out of tracing the old patterns in the weft already on the loom. “I’m sorry—what?”

  Caro chuckled. “Jamie might like to go visit his wife and daughter—they’re off at a wedding in Nova Scotia. If you’d like to stay here for a few days, you’re more than welcome. I live in the other side of the duplex, so you’d have your privacy. I can have him send your bags over.”

  So much generosity. And so much choice. Hannah’s brain stuttered to a halt.

  “You’re welcome here for as long as you like.” Caro placed a key on a small desk. “There are basics in the cupboards and I’ll drop by some bread and soup for dinner.”

  Hannah wrapped a hand around the sturdy frame of the loom. And for the first time since she’d stepped out of the hallway at Chrysalis House, felt her soul steadying. “Thank you.” Two of the most inadequate words in the history of the universe.

  “You’re welcome. I’ll tell Jamie where to find you. In the meantime, go anchor yourself in history.”

  Hannah frowned, caught in Caro’s last words.

  The older woman smiled, eyes deep with empathy again. “It’s no great mystery. I imagine the future scares you.”

  For lots of very good reasons. Hannah calmed her hands—they were yanking far too hard on weft threads that looked like they’d been on the loom for half a century.

  “That’s not an insult, girl. There’s not a witch I know who would have survived your magic without fearing what comes.” Caro walked back over and laid a hand on the weaving. “But this? People have woven threads through threads for thousands of years. You connect yourself with that past every time you pick up a shuttle. Your hands where Oma’s hands once worked.”

  History under her fingers. Hanna traced the rhythmic lines of warp and weft and finally understood why they had always called to her so. “I loved weaving the very first time I sat down with a loom.”

  “I feel that way with needles under my fingers.” Caro touched the knitting sticking out of her bag. “Always have, always will. For some, it’s a pleasant hobby.”

  For others, it was survival. Hannah picked up t
he old, hand-carved shuttle and moved it through the shed, tears prickling the backs of her eyes.

  Someone understood.

  -o0o-

  Moira lifted the baskets out of her craft cupboard, digging for one deeply hidden ball of wool. Word had come from the west—their new witch loved yarn. And history.

  The last of the baskets creaked as she pulled it out. Old, like its owner. Carefully, she lifted out skeins and balls and little leftover bits meant to repair socks long dead. And when she finally reached the bottom, found the wool she sought.

  It was green and sturdy, spun to last on her gran’s wheel. Given to a headstrong young woman about to head across the ocean. And here it had sat, never quite enough for mittens and too scratchy for a hat. A yarn that knew its purpose and had resisted any other.

  It would make a fine weft for weaving.

  She piled the rest of the yarns back in the basket, taking note of a couple that might make leggies for Morgan in the fall, and picked up the green ball one more time.

  A gift of history and strong hands and sturdy hearts, for a witch who needed to feel all three.

  Gran would be very pleased indeed.

  -o0o-

  He trained the baddest witch in the west—he could do this.

  Jamie settled onto one mat in Nat’s studio and contemplated the one where his newest student would sit as soon as she got brave enough to come out of the back room. It had felt totally mean to disturb her at Caro’s—she’d been so happy when he’d arrived. Relaxed.

  Something the idea of a magic lesson had shattered—but they needed to get started.

  Or at least, that had seemed reasonable until he’d dislodged Hannah’s contentment and sent his own chalkboard back into overdrive.

  Jamie sighed. Lessons with Aervyn never made his skin crawl. This one was, even before his student came in. He sent a quick link to his mother, zoomed in from Nova Scotia to sit quietly in the corner. Are you sure I’m the right witch for this?

  I’m not sure any of us is. But for now, we’re the two witches with precog. And I’m better as backup.

  Which was a nice way of saying her mind powers far outstripped his, and if someone had to do mop-up, he wasn’t equipped. Jamie sighed again. All true. And apparently training a cute five-year-old had given him an unfounded amount of trainer street cred.

  He looked around the studio. Blinds tilted at an angle that let in the early afternoon sun and nothing else. Nat’s signature comforting touches, at least as well as he could replicate them—soothing, grounding music, the wafting smell of lemon, small displays of sculptural rocks and plants, and a tea tray. His wife believed deeply in the power of the senses to open a path to learning.

  He’d take all the help he could get.

  The chalkboard in his head screeched in protest and he told it to hush. Caro had relieved him of living with Hannah. The least he could do was train her.

  Which wasn’t going to happen until he found at least a little focus. He breathed, trying to channel his wife’s serenity. The squishy mat felt warm under his legs. Elsie, Nat’s occasional assistant, adding her fire magic to the soothing touches.

  He felt Hannah’s presence before he heard her almost-silent footsteps crossing Nat’s bamboo floor.

  Empathy spurted from his mother’s mind. She’s used to moving through her life making as little disturbance as possible.

  He’d grown up in a house with six elephants for siblings. Jamie’s heart hurt for the woman taking a quiet seat on the mat facing him.

  She met his gaze, a simple, normal thing that made him feel better. Four hours ago, she’d been ducking all attempts to make eye contact. She was already learning to trust the power of her mind-witch guardians. Just one more reason to get training underway fast. The only adult mind witch of decent power who wasn’t taking a shift in the next couple of days was Marcus, and that was only because no one had told him yet. The man had a wedding to attend, and nobody was going to hand him a convenient escape valve. Not that he seemed to be looking for one.

  Jamie snapped back to the present. Nothing like sitting in front of a new student with out-of-control power and letting his mind wander. Stuff like that would ding his street cred all to hell. He settled more comfortably on his mat. “Thanks for agreeing to do this so soon.”

  “This magic has owned twelve years of my life,” she said quietly. “I’ll do whatever I need to do.”

  To make it stop. He wished he could promise her that was possible. None of them had any idea how this was really going to work.

  He refused to let “if” sneak into that sentence. “Okay. Let’s roll, then. Why don’t you walk me through how it feels when your magic hits?”

  He gave her credit—her mental wince didn’t show at all on the outside.

  Damn. Jamie studied Hannah’s face and went with his gut. “Want the truth? Precog sucks.”

  Hannah stared. Gulped. Let out a shaky exhale. “Yeah.”

  There was a moment in every teaching relationship where trust was born. Even when the trainer was sometimes a bumbling idiot. Jamie sent her a lopsided grin. “If I could, I’d have deep-sixed mine a long time ago. Total pain in the ass.”

  His mother’s snorting mental laughter rang in his head. It’s a little more than that for her, my dear.

  It was. But damned if he was going to acknowledge that. Jamie settled into his mat, suddenly far more sure of himself. He’d picked up a thing or two teaching the world’s most powerful witchling. When the magic was really big, sometimes you just had to pretend otherwise. It was a lot easier to be the boss of something that didn’t loom quite so large.

  He looked at Hannah and kept flying by the seat of his pants. “When an episode comes, you try to control it, yeah? Kick it to the curb?”

  “At first.” Hands worried the fabric of the loose pants she wore. “I used to fight it more, but I never won, you know? Now I mostly just—“

  He waited through the hitching breaths, pretty sure she had to talk this through, for more reasons than one.

  She looked up again. “I just try to hold on to who I am.”

  God, he knew that feeling. “Yeah. It feels like a zombie invasion.”

  That got a ghost of a smile. Hannah studied him, head tilted to the left. “Are you ever scared that the zombies won’t leave?”

  There were so very many kinds of hell. Jamie sucked up his pity—that wasn’t what she wanted now. “I’m lucky.” And he was, in so many ways he normally took entirely for granted. He gestured at his mom, who was reading a magazine in the back corner. “I always had someone around who had beat back the zombies every time.” Never once had he doubted that Jamie Sullivan would be whole and intact and sane when the precog left.

  Hannah had never known that security.

  And now they had their starting place—he was going to help her find some. He reached forward and took her hands. “I’m going to show you something.”

  Carefully, gentle magic flowing from his fingers to hers, he lit up the channels that led to her gut. A lesson learned from his wife. “Feel that?”

  Hannah nodded, confused, but curious.

  “That’s your center. Yogis believe that the soul lives there. Not in your head, but tucked down there in your belly.” Far away from the reaches of precog. “They say you can find it with your breath.” He hoped that didn’t sound as dumb as when he’d first heard it.

  His student smiled. “Meditation. I’ve tried that—it helps a little. Dr. Max showed me.”

  Dr. Max was the weirdest psychiatrist ever. But it was going to make this lesson a much easier one. “Okay, good. So you know how to find your center and follow your breathing there?”

  She was already doing it. Show-off. He grinned—she was more witch than she knew. “Yeah, exactly like that. A lot of witches try to control magic with their brains. It works way better if you move to your gut and run things from there.”

  Terror edged in around her very competent centering. “I can’t control
it.”

  “For now, that’s not the goal.” Partly because he had no freaking idea how to get there. “The first step is just to make a safe place for you to run if an attack hits. Pull down some blinds, don’t look out the windows.” He waited for her to meet his gaze. “So you’ll be sure that, every time, Hannah Kendrick will come out the other side an intact human being.”

  She got it, he could see that. But she wasn’t at all convinced it was possible.

  He hammered down on the part of his head that entirely agreed with her.

  There was only one way to find out.

  -o0o-

  “Let’s run a little test.”

  Hannah tried not to panic. Nothing about what happened in her brain was little.

  “Mom’s going to be in charge of that.” The calm in Jamie’s voice was almost convincing. “She’ll let the clamp off a tiny little bit. Just enough to get some baby precog moving.”

  Retha smiled from the corner. “Got it.” Like she’d been asked to pour the milk or something.

  Jamie reached out his hands again, doing the magical thing that helped light up her gut. “Your job is to find your center and go there. Don’t fight the precog, and breathe out the fear. I’ll be helping you, just like this.”

  Hannah hushed the gibbering part of her mind that wanted to run back to Chrysalis House and the closet full of sedatives. She stared at Jamie’s hands and tried to believe that a little air moving in and out of her lungs was the key to staying sane.

  “Not the key,” he said, flashing her an easy smile. “Just the beginning. A stable place to shelter in the storm. Then we’ll figure out how to wrangle the lightning.”

  A random tidbit from a long-ago plane flight bubbled to the surface. “Put on your oxygen mask when the plane’s going down, huh?” She’d always thought that was dumb. Hitting the ground at several hundred miles an hour still made you dead, oxygen or not.

  Jamie grinned. “You’d like my brother Matt. He’s a pessimist too.”

  It wasn’t pessimistic to be scared of something that had crashed every time you’d flown for the last twelve years. “You’re assuming I can fly a plane.”