As she set the full and weighty tome down upon the table, she remembered.
She opened it.
Ran her hand across the faded image of the woman and remembered.
Remembered her soft yet direct voice. The lessons. The wanting, so badly, to be just like her when older.
Her long, thick hair. Her dark, knowing eyes.
As she turned the page she took in the list of names.
Names of those she loved as family. Names of those who loved her. The names of those who made the circle complete.
Remembered the light trill of their laughter and the lull of the rhythm when they crooned their chants.
The crackle of more pages turning. The mixture of nature and magic beneath her finger tips. The dried pools of ink and the indentions from the sharp quill.
The smell. Mustiness from the old paper. Sweet, bitter, earthy.
She remembered the smells that came from the bottles. The rows and rows of bottles. Some she could touch, others she was forbidden to until much older.
Light from the full moon shone through the window. A bell chimed from the grove outside.
It was time.
She closed the book.
Her time for remembering had come to an end.
A second chime from beyond the open window.
Time for her to complete her own circle now.
Her own circle of sisters.
A big thank you to
For more ghostly frolicking you can find the list of party participants here.
And also a special thank you
to each of you who have stopped by to visit my little circle of sisterhood.
Leave a comment with your email or link
and I will be drawing a name next Saturday
to win a handmade journal, perfect for penning spells of your own.