Celestine Nightshade's Arc

Chapter 2 of 4

Celestine held the wand and watched the silver owl on the fence post. The seed was in the ground. The soil was warm. None of that was hers. Someone had put the wand in the bird's beak and pointed it at her garden. Until she knew who, every bloom in this bed would carry their fingerprint. She could not enchant a garden shaped by a stranger's hand. She had to name her benefactor tonight. She fetched her cauldron from the garden shed and set it on the flat stone by the bed. She filled it from the rain barrel, struck a small fire under it, and dropped in three things: a silver feather the owl had shed on the post, a pinch of the warm soil where the seed lay, and a hair from her own head. The water climbed to a boil and threw off pink and blue steam. A tracking brew. Her mother's recipe. It would show the face of whoever had touched all three. The steam gathered above the rim and thinned into a shape. Not a face. A tree. Dark trunk, wide crown, flowers in every color, small lights moving in the branches like fireflies. Celestine knew the tree. It stood a mile past the ridge, in a clearing her grandmother had called the grove. Her family had planted it. Her family had been buried under it. The steam held the image for three breaths and broke apart. A small black cat stepped out of the hedge and sat at the edge of the stone. Pink eyes, a collar that caught the moon. It looked at the cauldron, then at Celestine, then back toward the ridge. It had not been in the garden a moment ago. Celestine crouched and held out her hand. The cat pressed its head into her palm once and walked three steps toward the gate. It stopped. It waited. She understood. The brew had named a place, not a person. The cat had come to lead her the rest of the way. She pulled the seed packet from the dirt and tucked it inside her jacket. She left the cauldron cooling on the stone. The silver owl lifted from the post and flew low over the wall, headed for the ridge. The cat followed. Celestine followed the cat, wand in her fist. She had wanted a name. She had gotten a trail. Whoever was shaping her garden lived under her grandmother's tree, and she meant to stand in front of them before the moon set.