The next was a miniature constellation globe, the stars inked in silver and linked to show the major formations. She tacked a note on the bottom, her curving script so perfect and familiar: So you can always find your way home.
There were a few more toys—a plushie star, an egg of glowing cosmic goo, glow-in-the-dark star stickers—and some staples she sent in every box: sachets of homemade tea, gemstones, a feather that made her think of me. I placed each of the items on my shelf, one at a time, and hid the tea in my drawer and the mystic items on my makeshift shelf altar. And then there was the small box with a note attached saying “Open Last.”
Which, of course, I did.
It was one of those boxes that lockets came in, roughly three inches by three inches, and a note was folded up inside.
Kaira-Love,
The winds tell me you’re having troubled dreams.
This should help keep the dark ones at bay.
The tea is chamomile and mugwort—it will ease you into a more peaceful sleep.
Remember, where there is the deepest darkness,
close by lies the greatest light. You are my Star.
Much love,
Mom
Inside the box, covered in thin velvet, was a piece of clear quartz wrapped in silver wire, smaller lapis lazuli stones threaded over it in an intricate cobweb. It reminded me of stars spiraling around a galactic nexus. The stone was warm in my hand and gave a faint electric buzz. Resting beneath it was a Tarot card. The Star. Guidance, hope, a beacon in the dark.
Another reason I preferred being alone when opening gifts from home: Mom was pagan and the high priestess in her local coven, which meant many of her gifts deviated from the norm. I suppose most kids would have felt awkward about that, but it was one of the many things she and I clicked on. But it did lend a sort of privacy to these gifts—magic was often meant to be kept secret, and although Elisa never prodded too far, there were certain things I didn’t want to try to explain.
Like my Mom’s uncanny timing. Did she know what I’d been dreaming? Or just that I needed to be shielded from the shadows in my own mind?
I kissed the quartz and visualized her face, whispered thank you before hiding it beneath my pillow. I could only remember fragments from last night’s dream, which was probably for the best. Every time I tried to summon it, I felt like I was choking. I just knew it had to do with Brad, and ravens, and that was more than enough reason to want to forget it had ever happened.
I placed the card on the windowsill. Outside, another set of bird prints lingered like a curse.
It made me want to call Mom now, ask her to do a reading or something, but I didn’t want to worry her. Whatever this was, I could handle it. I had before. I would again.
I just had to get through critiques first.
Advanced Painting Studio was my bastion of sanity, save for the few painful hours when we had critiques. Sure, I loved my other art classes—who didn’t like making jewelry or getting dirty in ceramics?—but painting was my heart’s calling. The moment I opened the ginormous black wooden door leading to the studio space, the moment the scent of oil and ether and paint washed over me, I felt like I was finding Zen. The classroom only had two white walls; the other two were floor-to-ceiling windows, overlooking Islington’s forested backyard and letting in what little winter light we got. We even had skylights. Massive red and white pines stretched out into the distance, dotted with small wooden cabins used in the summer for camps. Being in here always made me feel like I was sitting on the edge of a fairytale, an adventure waiting for its heroine to take the stage.
I wandered over to my easel, which was arranged with the others in a semicircle around a table laden with a variety of oddities: broken porcelain jester dolls and papier-maché masks, silver candlesticks and plastic fruit. It was a completely different still life from last week, but damn if I wasn’t getting sick of inanimate objects.
Ethan wandered in a few seconds later. He set up his paper on an easel and scattered tubes of paint on the small table between us.
“I’m starting to think she was lying when she said we’d be painting figures soon,” he muttered.
“Me too.” I paused. “I still can’t believe you invited him along.”
“What?” he asked. He looked over to me. “Oh right. Well, listen. It’s nothing. It’s the three of us going to a school production. Not a date.” He shrugged. “Chris just really looked like he wanted a reason to hang out. I couldn’t leave him in the dust.”
“Sometimes I think you’re too nice for your own good.”
He pressed a hand to his heart.
“It’s my cross to bear. And I do so willingly.”
“You aren’t setting us up,” I whispered.
“I know,” he replied. “But you have to admit, there are worse candidates to spend your Saturday night with.”
“I know. I’m already spending it with you.”
“I’m still cuter,” he said.
I didn’t have the chance to refute him, as Chris came in then and I busied myself with looking through my bag for absolutely no reason beyond avoiding eye contact.