Tarot Academy 4 - Sarah Piper Page 0,93

On its face, seven drops of blood merge into one—three of mine, three of Trello’s, and one from Doc, binding us to his Moon magick, sealing the spell’s power.

On either side of the card, two silver candles anointed with mugwort flicker in the darkness, casting us all in an eerie orange glow.

The rest of the house is silent. After barely saying goodnight, Ani went to bed, but the others are waiting impatiently in the living room, giving us the space we need to complete this task. To reveal the last of Trello’s secrets, and possibly my mother’s as well.

To turn my world on its head.

“The spell will essentially allow us to walk back in time through the landscape of Anna’s memories,” Doc explains. “As she draws the Tarot cards and weaves her story, you and I will be able to see those memories unfolding in our own minds.”

“But memories are faulty,” I say. “How do we know we’re getting the truth?”

“Some of the details may be inaccurate or hazy, but the magick prevents her from lying to us.” He turns to Trello, the warning clear in his eyes. “You may begin. And Anna? If you attempt to manipulate us tonight, I assure you—it will be your last attempt at anything.”

Trello makes her promise with a firm nod, her gaze stern and severe across the table, the angles of her face even sharper in the flickering candlelight. She draws the first card from her deck, setting it on the table before her—a pregnant woman seated in an elaborately carved wooden throne, clutching a bundle of wheat in one hand and a cornucopia overflowing with fruit and flowers. One foot rests on a rock, while the other dips into a flowing stream.

The Empress can mean many things—creativity, abundance, self-love, and so much more than that. But tonight, the image speaks to me very clearly of the literal pregnancy depicted, and of a deep desire for motherhood and boundless love.

In my mind’s eye, the face of the Empress turns into my mother’s face, young and buoyant, her eyes dancing with hope as she chatters about her desire to bring a child into this world.

She’s talking to a friend over a cup of tea.

She’s talking to Anna Trello.

“I see her,” I say, the memory spell taking hold.

“Young and in love,” Trello continues, “your parents were eager to start their own family. But as badly as they wanted a child, it just wasn’t meant to be.”

She turns the next card—the Three of Swords, featuring a stone heart situated at the base of a tree. Three swords balance on the stone, pointing up at three scars carved deep into the tree’s bark.

The scene in my mind shifts, my mother’s eyes now full of heartache and anguish, her tea turning cold as she confesses her worries. At this, I hear her voice, almost as if I’m sitting at the next table over, eavesdropping.

We’ve tried everything, Anna. Spells, potions, herbs… Even mundane medical intervention. Nothing’s working. I don’t understand...

“Your mother could not conceive,” Trello says. “She was so desperate for a child, Starla. For you. For in her mind, she’d already made you—already fallen in love with you. She was distraught about her situation, yes. But a witch as determined and headstrong as Melissa Milan would never let something like biology stand in her way. So after exhausting all other avenues, when even your father was ready to give up, she called on the only magick she’d yet to try.”

The next card is the one I’ve been waiting for, and Trello turns it over with an unsteady hand.

The Magician looms before us both, his blue eyes wild as he points his wand to the heavens, his other hand toward the ground. As above, so below. The card of magick and manifestation, of personal power, of co-creation.

A new vision appears in my mind, and suddenly I’m standing inside a dark cave, watching a witch perform a ritual before a stone altar.

It’s the Fool’s Grave, I realize now. The witch kneeling before the altar is my mother.

And I stand behind her, watching through Trello’s eyes, through her memories.

Are you sure you want to do this? The younger Trello asks, but my mother won’t be dissuaded.

It’s the solstice, my mother replies. I must call upon him tonight.

I watch in awe as she lays a series of elemental and other offerings on the altar, the meaning of each item clear in my mind—A black candle, lit to honor the longest night of