A Reckless Witch - By Debora Geary Page 0,13
explain this last gift and found it written on the inside of the wrapping paper. Which was a serious bummer, because she’d pretty much torn the paper to shreds.
Carefully, she pieced the wrapping paper back together. This time, when she read the message, tears fell. Sweet Sierra. One day, when I was about eight and at witchling school for the summer, some of the older kids drove us all into Halifax for ice cream. Your mom was one of them—it was my first year at Aunt Moira’s, and Amelia’s last. I vividly remember the big gumball machine that dispensed treats and small plastic toys for a nickel. Your mom bought one for each of us. This little frog was mine—it’s been sitting in my jewelry box for a long time now. I thought you might like to have it. Love, Sophie.
Sierra’s hands shook as she clasped the little frog tightly. Oh, Momma.
Chapter 4
Govin looked at the contents of the grocery bag he’d just unpacked. Potato salad, TJ’s favorite beer, two jars of Jamie’s world-famous spaghetti sauce, and three different kinds of cookies. Ooooh, boy.
He looked at Nell. “Awfully big bribe—what do you want?”
She grinned. “I come bearing an offer of help and assistance.”
“Sure you do,” he said dryly, taking a cookie. If TJ caught sight of them, they’d be gone before dinner. “Do you need me to give Aervyn weather lessons again?” Their last lesson had gone fine—until Aervyn had made a pet thunderstorm that followed him everywhere for a couple of weeks. Nell had not been impressed, and Govin hadn’t been able to reverse the spell. He could come close to matching superboy’s talents with fire, but his water and air talents were puny by comparison.
Nell rolled her eyes. “Not just yet, thanks. My house has finally dried out, and I think I’d like to keep it that way for a while.”
He waited patiently. Mothers of five couldn’t beat around the bush forever—they had too much to do.
“We’ve fetched a new witch. We’d like to assign her to work with you on the weather-spells library for WitchNet.”
“That sounds like you’d be doing me a favor.” He eyed the cookies. “What’s the catch?”
She sighed. “She’s eighteen and just coming out of foster care. Her name is Sierra. We don’t know much about her, but she’s Amelia Brighton’s daughter. And we suspect she’s a weather witch like her mama.”
That name sounded very familiar. Govin cast back in time, trying to make the connection. “The weather witch who ran off in the eighties? Claimed magic needed to be free? Disappeared a few years ago?”
Nell nodded. “Yeah. And according to Moira, the one who didn’t use enough safeguards in her spells and took lots of unnecessary risks.”
Govin winced. Those were scary qualities in a weather witch. “Was she any good?”
“Moira says she wasn’t strong enough to influence anything beyond very local weather patterns, so perhaps they didn’t work hard enough to convince her of the folly of her ways.”
He snorted. “Anyone who hangs out with Moira for a summer and still practices magic recklessly is irredeemable.” He had enormous respect and love for the woman who had been the driving force behind several generations of very well-trained witches. “We don’t know what happened to Amelia?”
“We didn’t even know she had a daughter.” Nell’s eyes were fierce, a mama bear on the prowl. “Putting aside for a moment how mad that makes me, she also likely taught her daughter magic.”
Now they were getting to the reason for the cookies. “And?”
She shrugged. “No one’s evaluated her yet, but her air talents are strong, and she insists on living near the ocean.”
Which practically guaranteed she worked with water, as well. And air plus water talents was the classic recipe for a weather witch. Govin spun around a jar of spaghetti sauce and thought for a minute. “So you want to assign me an intern for basic weather-spell work. An intern who’s motherless, powerful, and possibly dangerous.”
“Yup.” Nell didn’t say anything else, just held his gaze quietly. “You’re the best one to evaluate her, Govin. And if she has the power we suspect, the best one to help keep her and the rest of us safe.”
She’d once called him a weenie, cautious witch. Today that was apparently a good quality. “Can she spellcode?”
“Six years ago, when she was twelve, she reached the third witch-only level in Realm.” His old college roommate’s eyes held hints of pleading now.
He had no idea why—he’d have done it just because she