through a second gate into the garden of a professional witch.
Sarah’s garden served the same purpose as one of my libraries: It provided a source of inspiration and refuge, as well as information and the tools to do her job.
I found the three-foot-high stems topped with purple flowers that Sarah wanted. Mindful to leave enough to self-seed for next year, I filled the wicker basket and returned to the house.
There my aunt and I worked in companionable silence. She chopped off the moonwort flowers, which she would use to make a fragrant oil, and returned the stems to me so that I could tie a bit of twine around each one—no bunches here, for fear of damaging the pods—and hang them to dry.
“How will you use the pods?” I asked, knotting the string.
“Protection charms. When school starts in a few weeks, there will be a demand for them.
Moonwort pods are especially good for children, since they keep monsters and nightmares away.”
Corra, who was napping in the stillroom loft, cocked her eye in Sarah’s direction, and smoke billowed from her nose and mouth in a firedrake’s harrumph.
“I’ve got something else in mind for you,“ Sarah said, pointing her knife in the firedrake’s direction.
Unconcerned, Corra turned her back. Her tail flopped over the edge of the loft and hung like a pendulum, its spade-shaped tip moving gently to and fro. Ducking past it, I tied another moonwort stem to the rafters, careful not to shake loose any of the papery ovals that clung to it.
“How long will they hang before they’re dried?” I asked, returning to the table.
“A week,” Sarah said, looking up briefly. “By then we’ll be able to rub the skin from the pods.
Underneath is a silver disk.”
“Like the moon. Like a mirror,” I said, nodding in understanding. “Reflecting the nightmare back on itself, so that it won’t disturb the child.”
Sarah nodded, too, pleased by my insight. “Some witches scry with moonwort pods,” Sarah continued after a few moments. “The witch in Hamilton who taught high-school chemistry told me that alchemists collected May dew on them to use as a base for the elixir of life.”
“That would require a lot of moonwort,” I said with a laugh, thinking of all the water Mary Sidney and I had used in our experiments. “I think we should stick to the protection charms.”
“Okay, then.” Sarah smiled. “For kids I put the charms in dream pillows. They’re not as spooky as a poppet or a pentacle made of blackberry canes. If you were going to make one, what ingredients would you use for the stuffing?”
I took a deep breath and focused on the question. Dream pillows didn’t have to be big, after all— the size of the palm of my hand would do.
The palm of my hand. Ordinarily I would have run my fingers through my weaver’s cords, waiting for inspiration—and guidance—to strike. But the cords were inside me now. When I turned my hands and splayed the fingers wide, shimmering knots appeared over the tracery of veins at my wrist and the thumb and pinkie on my right hand gleamed green and brown in the colors of the craft.
Sarah’s Mason jars glinted in the light from the windows. I moved toward them, running my little finger down the labels until I felt resistance.
“Agrimony.” I traveled along the shelf. “Mugwort.”
Using it like the pointer on a Ouija board, I tilted my pinkie backward. “Aniseed.” Down moved my finger. “Hops.” Up it swooped in a diagonal line to the opposite side. “Valerian.”
What was that going to smell like? Too pungent?
My thumb tingled.
“A bay leaf, a few pinches of rosemary, and some thyme,” I said.
But what if the child woke up anyway and grabbed at the pillow?
“And five dried beans.” It was an odd addition, but my weaver’s instinct told me they would make all the difference. “Well, I’ll be damned.” Sarah pushed her glasses onto her head. She looked at me in astonishment, then grinned. “It’s like an old charm your great-grandmother collected, except hers had mullein and vervain in it, too—and no beans.”
“I’d put the beans in the pillows first,” I said. “They should rattle against one another if you shake it. You can tell the kids the noise will help with the monsters.”
“Nice touch,” Sarah admitted. “And the moonwort pods—would you powder them or leave them whole?”
“Whole,” I replied, “sewn onto the front of the pillow.”
But herbs were only the first half of a protection charm. Words were needed to go along with