Spells Trouble

of them chose a god. Huh. It’s actually surprising that’s never happened before.”
Hunter picked at her fingernail. “Are you sure it’s okay?”
“Sweetheart, as I told you three years ago when you chose Tyr as your deity—it is your choice. There is no wrong answer. And today I’ll add to that by saying that it’s about time a Goode chose a god instead of a goddess. It’ll keep things interesting.” Abigail paused and brushed a long, thick lock of hair from her face. “Now, stop worrying and get your candles together. And don’t forget the opener for the beer bottle.” She tapped her foot as she stared into the pantry. “Ah! Matches! That’s what I was forgetting.” Abigail looked over her shoulder at her daughters. “Go on! We need to leave in the next five minutes to make it to the tree in time. Shoo, my little chickies! Shoo!”
Mercy and Hunter grinned at each other.
“That’s what we were waiting for,” said Mercy.
Hunter nodded. “Yep, to be called your chickies and shooed.”
“Are you making fun of your mother?” Abigail put her fists on her curvy waist and tossed back her thick hair that was artistically streaked with a blaze of silver gray that looked professionally created, but was actually as natural as their mother’s sweet smile and brilliant green eyes.
“Us?” Hunter said with mock surprise.
“Perish the thought, Abigail!” Mercy added, clutching her pearls.
“Xena! The girls are making fun of me again,” Abigail called.
In a heartbeat the huge Maine coon padded into the kitchen to wind around their mother’s legs as she chirped and mewed accusatorily at the twins.
“Okay! Okay! We’re getting our stuff together.” Mercy backed away like the cat might explode all over them.
“Yeah, call her off! Call her off!” Hunter tried to keep up the pretense of horror, but when Xena plopped her fluffy butt down and began berating them in earnest, she dissolved into giggles.
“I know, they don’t always respect their elders properly,” Abigail soothed the big cat while she stroked her from her black-tufted ears to the tip of her bushy tail. “Yes, I’m not surprised by that, Xena sweetheart.”
As Mercy packed her basket she asked, “What’d she say?”
“Not important,” said Abigail, taking a white candle poured into a tall, clear glass from the pantry and adding it to her basket. “What is important is that she told me half the school showed up for your party—which means it was a success. Oh, and it seems one of my daughters is now going steady.” Xena and Abigail sent Mercy pointed looks.
“I swear that cat spies on us,” muttered Mercy.
“For sure,” said Hunter.
“Well?” asked their mother.
“Abigail, it hasn’t been called going steady for decades. Literally,” said Mercy.
“Oh, I don’t care about your hip teenage talk. When a boy gives you his class ring you’re going steady. Let me see!”
With a grin Mercy lifted the class ring that dangled from its chain. “Kirk gave it to me tonight right before the party.”
“Mag!” Her mom used the nickname she’d been shackled with since first grade when Hunter had figured out what her initials, Mercy Anne Goode, spelled out. “That’s adorable of Kirk.” Abigail studied the ring and then smiled slyly. “Ooooh, what big fingers he has. Which reminds me. There are condoms in the pantry. Be sure some of them make their way into that suitcase you schlep around with you—and also make their way onto Kirk’s penis.”
“Yes, Abigail, I know.”
“Do I need to schedule a gynecological appointment with our naturopath?”
“No, Abigail.” Mercy tried to breathe through the heat spreading across her face as she stoically packed brown and green candles in her basket beside the apple pie.
“Sweetheart, would you like to discuss your clitoris—again?” her mother asked.
Hunter tapped her chin contemplatively. “Yes, Mag, would you?”
“No. Thank you. One clitoris discussion is all I needed.”
Her mother sighed. “Well, if you have any questions you know I’m here with answers. Your pleasure is just as important as his. Do not forget that. Oh, and you’re welcome for your multiple orgasms. They’re familial, you know.”
Mercy buried her burning face in her basket. “I do now.”
“Thanks, Mom!” Hunter said cheerfully.
“You’re most welcome sweetheart,” said their mom happily. “Oh, I need to get those quilts. Now, Xena, where did I put them after the Yule ritual?” Chirping nonstop, the Maine coon trotted from the room with Abigail following.
“If you encourage her to talk about my clitoris again I am going to cut off all your hair while you sleep.”
Hunter grinned. “But you know how she likes to feel helpful.”
“I do not need clitoris help!” She almost hissed the words at her sister.
“Mag, if you’re going steady with Kirk, I’m pretty sure you do.”
Abigail hurried back into the kitchen, carrying a slender pile of three vintage quilts—each the perfect size to wrap around their shoulders. “Xena knew where they were. Now, where were we? Did I hear you say you needed help with Kirk?”
Hunter was still grinning, but she came to her sister’s rescue. “No, Mom, we were talking about the ritual.”
Mercy grasped onto the change in subject like a lifeline. “Yeah, shouldn’t we be setting our intention?”
“Oh, yes. Absolutely.” Abigail hooked her laden basket in the crook of her arm. “But let’s do that as we walk to the tree. Come, girls! Carry your baskets and let’s go write another page of Goode history!”

Four
Mercy and Hunter, with Xena padding along somewhere beside them, followed their mother through their backyard and to the little iron gate that opened to a hedgerow that divided two massive cornfields. The family of four slipped through the gate and began walking along the hedgerow. It was late—almost midnight—but the full Pink Moon, named by settlers hundreds of years ago after early blooming wild phlox—made it easy for them to find their way.
“To set our intention let us begin by remembering the past. On July 29th, 1692, our ancestress, Sarah Goode, was convicted of witchcraft and sentenced to hang in Salem. Thankfully, unlike many of those poor, persecuted women, Sarah