Five Minute Read: The Prophecy

The sun winked through the pale pink curtains, casting the room in a cozy, almost romantic glow.

     Frowning at the thought, Beatrice considered that was probably not helping the situation. Shifting her eyes to the teenager in front of her, she stifled a sigh at the look of hopeful expectation on the round, rosy-cheeked face.

     “May I ask why you want one?” Beatrice said. Leaning across the counter of her shop, the long-sleeved velvet cloak enveloping her rippled under the last rays of the falling sun. Raising winged eyebrows, she pursed her lips in what she supposed was a mythical expression.

     “I’ve been in love with Bobby Kincaid since…like forever,” the girl assured Beatrice.

     Racking back, Beatrice latched on to the memory of the girl’s name: Sarah.

     “Hmm.” Clasping her hands together, Beatrice asked: “And does Bobby know how you feel?”

     This question earned Beatrice a theatrical sigh and a deep furrow from an otherwise unblemished brow line. “No, that’s the problem. Bobby doesn’t even know I exist.” Waving a hand behind her, the gesture taking in the rows and rows of shelves at the back of Beatrice’s shop, she concluded. “That’s why I need one.”

     “Ah, I see,” Beatrice said, her own gaze skipping over and around Sarah—raking over the glass containers with their cork lids: rosemary, lemon grass, and lavender. The pre-mixes she’d concocted for clients: health, wealth, abundance, and purpose.

     Beatrice didn’t need to peruse her own items to know that what Sarah was looking for wasn’t included in Beatrice’s shop. Still, the exercise gave her the necessary time to find the right words to explain to Sarah why it wouldn’t be found there.

     “Unfortunately, I don’t sell love potions,” Beatrice said, her voice soft and gentle. Her dark brown eyes implored Sarah, silently begging her to understand. “It’s a matter of preference for witches, my dear. But I don’t believe in magick that takes over someone’s free will.”

     The line between Sarah’s eyes deepened. “I don’t understand…”

     “If you and Bobby are meant to be, it has to be because you both choose it to be.”

     “I know,” Sarah insisted. “That’s why I need the potion. So, he’ll choose me.”

     Beatrice sucked her lips into her mouth. Dropping her gaze down to the butcher topped counter below her, she fought for wisdom. “That’s not what I mean. If he chooses you because you forced him to—via a love potion—you’ve taken away his free will.” Giving the young girl a compassionate look, she added: “And you’ll always wonder if he really likes you for you, or if he likes you because you tricked him.”

     At the words, tears formed in the young girl’s eyes. Reaching across the scant inches separating them, Beatrice patted her shoulder. “I know, it’s hard.”

     “Yeah, right,” Sarah sniffled, one hand coming up to wipe away the moisture on her face. “Men are always throwing themselves at you. My aunt says so.” Her gaze took in Beatrice’s long, straight pale hair, her up-tilted nose, and large espresso-colored eyes. Draped inside the midnight-blue cloak, her body was tall and willowy. The essence of the beautiful sorceress.

     Beatrice snorted. “Your aunt’s telling tall tales.”

     “But you know what,” Beatrice added, snapping her fingers together. “That just may have given me an idea…”

     “Yeah?” Sarah asked as Beatrice skirted around her counter. Eagerly, she watched as the older woman snatched up an empty leather pouch out of a wicker basket set to one side of her register. “You’ll make one?”

     “Even better,” Beatrice assured her. Grabbing a dark crystal out of one of a plethora of bowls lining the middle table of her shop, she also snatched up a small candle and a spell card. Tying up the pouch, she presented it to Sarah. “Here. On the house.”

     “What is it?”

     “A spell—for self-love. Do everything on the instruction card and I promise, your life will change for the better,” Beatrice informed her. “I have a feeling it’s going to be exactly what you need.”

     Giving it a less than confident glance, Sarah nonetheless shrugged. “If you say so.”

     “I do. And I happen to know a thing or two about it,” Beatrice said in a stage-whisper. It earned her a lackluster smile. But it was a smile.

     “Do me one favor, though?” Beatrice asked. Turning toward her, Sarah seemed to be waiting.  “Come back and see me in a week or so. Tell me what you think of it.”

     “Okay.” With a last wave, Sarah walked out of Beatrice’s shop—snuggled at the back of a plaza of business suites, the young girl’s feet echoed down the long, corridor toward the street entrance.

     Left to herself. Beatrice released a long, slow sigh as she returned to her counter. “Why do they always want love spells? I’ll never understand.”

     “Well, the girl made a good point. I can’t imagine you’ve ever needed one.”

     Turning sharply at the unexpected sound from her doorway—and more than that, such a deeply masculine one at that—Beatrice’s gaze met a pair of hazel eyes. And a wide, full mouth. Silver-templed light brown hair. And a high, wide forehead.

     A stranger’s face. A very good-looking stranger’s face.

     “Sorry,” he said then. “Couldn’t help but overhear your conversation…”

     “Is that so?” She pursed her lips, but all the same, Beatrice left the safety of her counter again. “Beatrice Mathers,” she said, one hand outstretched as she stepped forward. “I don’t believe we’ve met?”

     “Oh, I can almost guarantee it.”

     “Flattery,” she murmured through smiling lips. Without waiting for him to continue she added, with a little more starch to her voice. “What can I do for you, sir?”

     Grasping her hand in his own, he grinned good-naturedly. “Russel Casey.”

     When he didn’t immediately enlarge upon this statement, Beatrice arched one eyebrow. Lifting her hand in a sweeping motion, she gestured toward her shop—the glass jars on the shelves lining the back wall, the lone table running the middle of the room with copious stones and crystals, the squat bookshelves under the window holding incense and candles. “Shopping?”

     He had the grace to blush. “Well, now I’m not exactly sure if I’m in the right place.”

     Humming softly, Beatrice bit back a grin. “Don’t tell me you came for a love potion too?”

     Russel laughed as she’d meant for him to do. The low, rich sound tightened her stomach. “No. But after watching you, I’ll admit to being curious—what special little pouch you’d have made for me.”

     Beatrice wasn’t sure if he was mocking her or not. Having grown up in a society that didn’t believe in the power of witchcraft, she was far from unaccustomed to such behavior. Usually, however, it was thrown at her without subtlety.

     As such, she chose to believe he was being genuine. Letting her eyes latch onto the jeans loosely hugging his thighs, the blue shirt tucked into his trim waist, she allowed herself to consider the question. “Depends. Why’d you come in here?”

      A sheepish look crowded his face. “Honestly?”

     She nodded. “It’s preferable.”

     “I thought you were a restaurant.”

     Blinking in blind reaction, Beatrice wasn’t initially sure what to do with that information. Reflexively, she glanced over her left shoulder, at the wall painted with her store’s name. Her lips pulled into an amused smile. “Sticks and Stones Soup?” She asked.

     Shrugging, he laughed. “When I saw the name on the plaza directory outside, I thought—”

     Beatrice threw back her head and laughed. “You might grab a bite to eat?”

     “Something like that.” Sticking his hands in his pockets, he rocked back on his heels.

     “Well, unless you’re looking for a dried leaf salad—which I would strongly NOT recommend,” Beatrice said, her voice trembling with the weight of her amusement, “you’re right. You’re in the wrong place.”

     “My apologies. New in town.”

     “That seems obvious.”

     He grinned. “Still figuring my way around.”

     “Hmm.” Keeping her response determinedly noncommittal, Beatrice shifted. Moving around Russel, her slippered feet steered her toward the two stained-glass lamps decorating her store. With a flick of her finger, she turned each off.

     “Oh, and you’re closed?” Russel asked in realization.  

     “Just,” she assured him.

     “Now I’m doubly sorry for keeping you.”

     Beatrice gave him a dry look. “Do I seem impatient to leave?”

     Russel shook his head. “I don’t suppose you’d tell me where I could find one? A restaurant, I mean. A good one.”

     Tapping one finger against her chin, Beatrice gave the question due thought. “Wings and beer? Cheeseburgers and pie? Or something fancier?”

     “That depends, are you interested in joining me?”

     Rotating toward him slowly, Beatrice gave Russel the benefit of her full attention. “How bold,” she teased.

     “Is that a yes?”

     Once again, Beatrice took up her habit of humming as she dipped her hand into a glass bowl beside her—she pulled out a dark black crystal. She picked up an emerald-looking one, as well. “You’re not wearing a wedding ring.” Though she’d never made it obvious, she’d looked.

     Of course, she’d looked. When a handsome, broad-shouldered lumberjack of a man entered her metaphysical shop—well, she looked. And when he’d touched her…Beatrice had known. Still, Fate could be a cruel, vindictive creature. Just because something was written in the stars didn’t mean it wouldn’t come without obstacles…

     Blinking, nonplussed, he finally said, “I wouldn’t have asked you out if I were.”

     Pursing her lips, Beatrice asked, “And how do you know I’m not married?”

     “Don’t. Figured you tell me if you were.”

     A moment of silence before a small, begrudging smile graced her face. “I’m not.”

     “Good. So—dinner?”

     Giving him a long, lingering look, Beatrice found herself answering before she’d fully thought it through. “Do you believe in fate?”

     Rocking back on the heels of his feet, hands stuck in the front pockets of his jeans, Russel seemed taken aback. Again. “I…I guess I’ve never given the matter serious thought.”

     How else could she explain it? That he was meant to wander into her shop. That she’d been expecting him… even if she hadn’t known what he’d look like, who he’d be exactly. How could she explain that she’d been waiting for him. All these years.

     A stranger on the winds of change.

     “Sometimes, after work, I head down to Copper’s Den for a pint,” she told him.

     His smile widened. “You wouldn’t happen to be considering going there tonight, would you?”

     Pulling the strings taut around the small pouch still in her hands, Beatrice closed her eyes. Offered up her intention to the mother goddess—it was a matter of seconds. Too short a span of time for him to ask what she was doing, but there was a heaviness in the air, a weigthedness when she reopened her eyes.

     If he’d been closer, Russel would have realized they’d suddenly taken on an almost violet color—but only for a moment before the burnt brown returned once more. “I was considering it.”

     “Then I hope to see you there.”      

     In answer, Beatrice held out the pouch in her hand. “Here. Take this.”

     Staring at it with no clear expression on his face, Russel only allowed for the smallest tic of his right eyebrow. “What is it?”

     “What I would have made for you,” she informed him. Nodding toward the pouch, she waited until his fingers reached out to take it from her.

     A shot of pure adrenaline shot through her at the brush of his hand, bursting up her wrist and through her veins. She barely suppressed a visible reaction. Yes, he was the one she’d been waiting for.

     Then again, it was clear—from the wary look on his face, to the amused expression he’d displayed earlier, that he wasn’t a man who believed. In psychic gifts. In witches and magick and all the folklore therein.

     So, she’d tread carefully. It was important—more than he’d ever probably know—that he accept her for who she is, but she wasn’t going to force it on him.

     It was all part of the prophecy.

     “A spell?” Russel asked, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was looking at.

     Lifting one telling eyebrow, Beatrice found herself at ease with his bluntness. “In case it’s escaped your notice, I’m a witch.”

     “Yeah, no. I got that.”

     Nodding toward the pouch, she grinned. “What you do with that information matters.”

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