Spells Trouble (Sisters of Salem #1) - P. C. Cast Page 0,15
really do.” Hunter cleared her throat and nervously smoothed her hands down her dress. “What do you think? Too plain?”
Mercy cocked her head and studied her twin. Hunter had chosen a short-sleeved tunic dress that looked like a long T-shirt. The color of the fabric was unusual. It brought to mind newly blooming purple pansies washed with the silver of a full moon. Her legs looked slim and strong—and appealingly cute, especially because she was wearing simple high-top canvas sneakers. The dress had no embellishment, which only served to highlight the T-shaped amulet that was her only jewelry.
Mercy touched Hunter’s sleeve gently. “This color is absolutely perfect, H. Seriously. It’s exactly like the very center of your amulet.”
Hunter’s smile was a beam of sunshine. “You really think so?”
Mercy nodded. “Yep. Totally. We look fantastic! Abigail is going to be so happy! Come on.” She grabbed her sister’s hand and together they raced downstairs to the kitchen. Before they walked in, Mercy pulled Hunter back and whispered, “Wait. Don’t you love watching her putter around in the kitchen?”
The sisters stood, hand in hand, and watched their mom as she hummed a tune and collected supplies from her expansive pantry, placing each carefully in the basket that never seemed far from her. Mercy used to think her mother was an actual goddess, and then as she got older she understood that she was a mortal who worshipped a goddess, but that didn’t diminish her beauty or the magic aura that hovered around her like the scents of cinnamon and spice she cooked with so often.
Abigail Goode had just turned forty-six, but she could easily have passed for a decade younger, especially dressed as she was that night in her favorite ritual garb—a dove gray floor-length silk dress that was as simple as it was flattering. Over her left breast was the only adornment on the dress—an owl that Abigail had painstakingly painted on the silk. Her long, brunette hair was usually pulled back in a cute French knot, with only a few tendrils allowed to escape. But tonight, as every ritual night, it drifted free around her waist—dark and wavy.
Without turning around she shouted, “Girls! We must go!”
“Jeeze, Abigail, you don’t need to shout,” said Mercy.
Their mom startled and pressed her hand over her heart. “Athena’s shield! You’re going to give your old mother a heart attack!”
Hunter snorted. “Old? You did not just call yourself old.”
Mercy shoved a gingersnap cookie in her mouth and around it said, “Abigail, you won’t be old until you start wearing a bra.”
Their mother looked down at her perky though ample breasts. “Well, then, I’ll never be old.” When her gaze returned to her girls a smile blossomed across her face. “You two look perfect. Absolutely perfect. Hunter, the dye job on your dress is exquisite, and a wonderful match for Tyr’s amulet. Mercy, I was worried your dress would be too plain because it’s just an off-white flowy thing, but your embroidery is lovely. I particularly like the addition of your goddess’s falcon feathers. Both deities will be well pleased tonight by my magnificent daughters.” Then she turned all business. “Mercy, your apple pie has cooled nicely. It’s still on the rack there by the window. You’ll need to collect it and your candles quickly. Your basket is on the counter.” Abigail fired instructions at the girls as she continued to gather items from her spacious pantry. “Hunter, your beer is on ice in the sink. It’s going to be so interesting to invoke a god. I’ve been rereading our ancestors’ grimoires and I couldn’t find one instance where any of them chose a god. Huh. It’s actually surprising that’s never happened before.”
Hunter picked at her fingernail. “Are you sure it’s okay?”
“Sweetheart, as I told you three years ago when you chose Tyr as your deity—it is your choice. There is no wrong answer. And today I’ll add to that by saying that it’s about time a Goode chose a god instead of a goddess. It’ll keep things interesting.” Abigail paused and brushed a long, thick lock of hair from her face. “Now, stop worrying and get your candles together. And don’t forget the opener for the beer bottle.” She tapped her foot as she stared into the pantry. “Ah! Matches! That’s what I was forgetting.” Abigail looked over her shoulder at her daughters. “Go on! We need to leave in the