“We haven’t named her.”
Worrying white lines of pain appeared around his mouth and eyes. “You should call herah tree.”
“Autry? Kind of like Audrey? Cute, but why?”
His eyelids closed again. The pain was exhausting him. “A trí is three in Irish Gaelic. Mom used it now and then—she said it reminded her of her grandmother counting off stitches when knitting in front of the fireplace. A hoan, a dó, a trí.”
“Ah hayn, ah doh, ah tree,” I repeated.
“Yeah. Like that.” His breathing roughened, and he coughed, wincing as the reflex pulled at his wounds.
“Cecil?” With his nod of permission, I lifted the gnome to the chaise and knelt to speak in his ear. “Watch me from inside the garden room. Don’t let me go too long, okay?”
He nodded, the purple hat scattering pollen on my fingers.
“Go too long?” Ronan mumbled.
“I need to grab something, is all.” I patted Autry’s tiny head with one finger. “Can you find Fennel and bring him here? He’s probably patrolling the park.” I shook my finger at her. “Don’t leave the grounds for any reason—even if Fennel does. Come back for Cecil if you’re tempted. He’ll know what to do.”
Cecil chattered at the kitten, who meowed back at him, flicked her tail, and bounded through the open doorway.
I gave Ronan a final longing look and walked out.
Cecil turned on the garden room radio, and KLXX played through the small speaker. A refreshing change from his usual choice of speed metal rage songs.
The softly strummed opening of “Seasons in the Sun” by Terry Jacks accompanied me to Red’s grave. Ordinarily, I loved that wistful, joyful song and sang along with it. Tonight, it didn’t have the same effect. It felt too much like a goodbye, and I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to Ronan Pallás. Not by a long shot.
Red’s sprout had quadrupled in size since I’d seen it last. Saguaros were notoriously slow growers, and yet he’d aged years in mere hours.
I’d removed my shoes in the garden room, so when I called to the soil, I felt the heat of its reply through the soles of my bare feet. Myclothes made a rustling sound, like leaves in a summer wind as they landed on the ground beside me.
Gracias, Madre Tierra.I sent the words into the earth with intention and magic.
The soil formed a deep, jagged opening large enough for me to step into, and Red’s roots reached for me like arms, drawing my body beneath the surface.
When the hole closed around me, I didn’t lose myself. I kept my focus, sharing my need with the soil. Sharing my worry and sorrow.
When I was ready, I emerged from the same fissure, grounded and alive with power. Fennel stood sentinel beside the garden room door, eyes like sunlit emeralds, a sure sign he was using magic.
I didn’t stop to ask if Ronan was all right. Fennel wouldn’t have called on his magic without a good reason—unlike Cecil, who’d call on his for a discount code on a case of Four Loko—but by the time I could’ve asked, I was already inside the room standing above Ronan.
He rolled back and forth on the chaise, puffing shallow breaths that made his ribcage look like a sharp cliff over the valley of his abdomen. The heat emanating from him steamed the windows.
I took his hand in mine, and he opened his eyes. The sclera had a yellowish cast, and his hair was sopping, yet he wasn’t perspiring. The scent of lavender wafted to my nose. Cecil had likely soaked a rag in a water-diluted tincture of the herb mixed with aloe vera and applied it to his scalp to cool his temperature. It’s what I should’ve done. For his part, Fennel appeared to be using magic to keep the room icy cold. It felt like the doorway to Sexton’s house.
I shivered.
“Goddess, you’re beautiful in your element.” His voice was less than a whisper, barely audible. “Your skin glitters like the stars in a desert sky. I wanted to make love to you more than anything. Wanted it to be perfect for you, but I…” He trailed off before picking up his line of thought again. “…shouldn’t have waited.”
I didn’t reply. I felt as if I were under a spell, and though it was one of my own making, I was afraid to break it.
I took his other hand and spoke the word I’d used over Bronwyn. “Despierta.”
When I’d used it with her, I’d been speaking to her. Now, I was speaking to the magic beneath the Siete Saguaros, the magic thrumming through my veins, the magic in the soil coating my skin.
“Despierta,” I breathed. It wasn’t a power word, a curse, or a spell. It was a call to action.
“Betty?”
