Amber Moon: Secrets, Ink, and Firelight, Moonfell Witches Book 2 HARDBACK

Chapter One Moonfell
With only two days to go until Beltane, Birdie Cornelius, the High Priestess of Moonfell, wasn’t sure whether to be excited or exasperated.

The second of the cross-quarter days, Beltane—or May Day, as the non-pagans called it—was a popular celebration on the seasonal calendar, one associated with love and fertility. In her youth, she had quite enjoyed rowdy celebrations with several libations around the fire; now, she was wondering whether she might strangle her younger sister, Horty, and offer her to the gods.

“I am not celebrating sky clad, Horty! I’m sixty, not sixteen. And you’re even older.”

“I see you like to rub that in again.” Horty snorted, still sensitive about the fact that Birdie had regained years when she had not. “And since when does age have anything to do with getting naked?”

Birdie sighed. “I am not rubbing it in. I am merely saying that the years when I would merrily cavort around the fire naked have gone. Actually, I only think I did it once anyway, and that was with Cosworth. As a rule, our family does not get naked for celebrations.”

“Well, I did.”

“Because you were flirting outrageously with the gardener’s son. If poor Harold had known what you two were getting up to, or our father…”

“Well, they didn’t, and we had fun. Plus, I was sixteen, and he wasn’t much older.” She giggled, looking like a mischievous teen again. “He was such a dish.” Then she suddenly sobered. “Where does time go, Birdie?”

“Don’t.” Birdie softened at her sister’s regret. Horty was now a stout, robust woman, nothing like the slender thing she had been in her youth. “Get naked if you want to. I shall avert my eyes as you recapture your youth.”

They were in the small sitting room on the ground floor that faced west, a room they called the snug and which they didn’t often use. However, after Morgana declared she was changing her bedroom and moving to the second floor, Birdie decided they should use a variety of the rooms in their cavernous house a lot more. She was getting set in her ways, and she didn’t like it. Maybe Horty was right. Perhaps she should shed her clothes like a second skin and reinvent herself.

This room was as vigorously decorated as the rest of the house, in shades of soft rose and bold magenta, with deep green accents. A garden room, designed to enjoy afternoon sunshine and twilight hours. Its double doors led out to a small patio, although the doors were firmly shut now, and the fire was lit in the grate. The afternoon had grown chilly, and they were enjoying tea while planning the Beltane celebrations. Although, perhaps it was almost G&T time, Birdie reflected as she noted it was almost four o’clock.

Horty refilled her cup with tea. “No, you’re quite right. I have no wish to get naked in front of my nephews and nieces, and age is no insulation against the chill—not like it used to be.” She gave Birdie a sly glance. “Fancy you remembering the gardener’s son, Henry. He had such pretty eyes.”

“Oh, it was his eyes you liked?”

“Amongst other things. Anyway, this is not helping our Beltane plans. We’re having a fire, obviously.”

“Yes, I was thinking by the south moon gate. It seems appropriate, as it symbolises fire.”

Horty smirked. “No bees?”

“No. Very funny!” Their Ostara plans had gone awry after Birdie had invoked an old ritual with the bees to welcome Giacomo and Lamorak to the house. They had inadvertently caused Hades, her familiar, to disappear, and invited an elemental Earth spirit into the garden. “I would like something far less dramatic. No old rituals. Just something positive to welcome the warmer weather.”

“I’d have thought you’d have it all planned by now,” Horty said, lifting her eyebrow. “It’s most unlike you.”

“We’ve all been sidetracked by our shifter friends, and the Hall of the Wey Wolf.” Horty had only arrived a couple of hours earlier, and they’d barely caught up with the news. “We had to find missing shifters who were possessed by ancient wolf-shifter spirits.”

She updated her sister with the details. The previous few days had been filled with checking up on the affected shifters, and being kept up to date with the investigation into the ancient Anglo-Saxon hall found beneath Finsbury Park.

Horty sat up with a jerk, almost sloshing her tea. “You kept that quiet!”

“It’s hardly something to casually drop over the phone. I decided telling you in person would be more fun. If I’m honest,” Birdie dropped her voice, “after the initial euphoria of beating the shaman and absorbing some of Nahum’s Nephilim power, I had a bit of a slump. I’ve been taking it easy in the garden.” She caught her sister’s concerned expression. “I’m fine now. Don’t worry. It’s like any big spell—you need time to recover. Morgana and Odette were the same. They found it all quite sad, too. All those trapped souls. Odette was particularly affected by the shaman’s power. It was all-pervasive, and you know how sensitive she is.” Birdie was still worried about Odette, if she was honest. She seemed more subdued than normal.

“Then Beltane is just what we need. A little fire magic to refill the well. That should be our theme.”

Birdie smiled. “That is an excellent idea.”

“It’s a shame that Lam and Como won’t be here. They would love Beltane.”

“I think they would have loved the Hall of the Wey Wolf, too, but it can’t be helped. They have their studies. Not long now.” Horty looked disappointed, no doubt missing her grandson, Giacomo, who lived in Italy with his parents. “Cheer up, Horty. You’ll see him much more once he moves in.”

“I know, but Yule was lovely, and I missed Ostara. Oh, well. There’s still the big Litha party to look forward to. You are still doing that, right?”

“Of course. Plans are afoot. It will be fabulous.” With a house full of family, it will also be exhausting. “I think I might invite some of the Storm Moon Pack.”

“To Litha or Beltane?”

She shrugged, not sure if Horty would like the idea. “Maybe both. I like them. They’re fun, and I’d think they’d enjoy it. We could always do our rituals first and invite them later. That might work.”

Horty eyes widened with intrigue. “I like that idea! I haven’t met them yet. I definitely won’t be sky clad if they’re here.”

“They will be if they shift. I’ve honestly not seen so much naked flesh in years.” She watched Horty over the rim of her cup. “Such firm muscles, too.”

“Tease! Where are Odette and Morgana?”

“Morgana is putting the finishing touches to her new bedroom suite on the second floor, and I think Odette is painting.”

“Morgana is moving?” Horty looked gratifyingly shocked.

“Yes. I was quite put out, like a silly old lady. It’s fine, of course. She can go where she wants. I know what she means, too. The second floor does have an ambience all its own, and the rooms look lovely.”

“Which is why we are in here.” Horty nodded as she glanced around the space. “It’s always been one of my favourites. Change is good, and there are too many wonderful rooms in this house that are underused.”

“Actually, we found some very interesting things in the India room on the second floor. Do you remember it? The red room?”

“Yes, it smelled of incense and musk and had lots of exotic things in there.”

“Most of which should really be in a museum. They are all wonderful.”

“Nonsense. It’s our history.”

“True. We found magical instruments made for travel, and one of them was a Wayfinder to search for shifters. Honestly, the entire room is fascinating, but we’ve barely been in there since. It needs organising.” She looked at her expectantly, hoping Horty would take the hint. She loved organising things. “I especially want to know who our fabulous explorer ancestor was. I mean, I know we had a few, but I’m sure it’s just one man who was responsible for the India stuff. Eighteenth century, I think.”

Horty narrowed her eyes and downed her tea. “I knew you’d end up getting me to do something while I’m here, but I can’t resist a challenge. No time like the present. And let’s take a bloody G&T with us.”

***

Two floors above, Morgana sat on the floor in the middle of the India room and inhaled sandalwood, dusky rose, and secrets.

She laughed at her sudden fancy. Secrets. Stories, not secrets.

Lots of stories.

Morgana had just finished moving into her new suite of rooms on the second floor, but too restless to settle after all the cleaning and furniture rearranging, she was instead drawn back to the India room, which seemed to have lodged in her brain and was currently occupying most of her thoughts. The collection of jewellery, art, weapons, and travel-related ephemera seemed to have bewitched her—and not just her, either. Odette and Birdie were similarly affected. It was as if by exploring the room only a week or so earlier, they had released an enchantment.

The rich red walls and polished wood, a mixture of ebony and something golden, drew her in and ignited her imagination. She could be sitting in a Mughal palace, not Moonfell’s Gothic mansion. Peacocks should be strolling the grounds, not foxes and badgers. She closed her eyes briefly, seeing red earth and dust, vibrant saris, colourful bazaars, and marble halls with fretted windows to protect the women’s quarters. A fan lay on her lap, a concoction of feathers and inlaid pearl, and she fanned herself, fancying she caught a whiff of jasmine.

The contents of the ebony box they had opened the week before were scattered around her, but she picked the Wayfinder up, the one they had used to find the Hall of the Wey Wolf, and ran her finger over the fine engravings. Who was this ancestor who had hunted shifters? So far, they hadn’t found any paperwork in here other than maps, but surely whoever had curated this collection would have kept everything together. Or had they been so wedded to the library that any other paperwork had been placed there? Well, now that her bedroom project was finished, she could delve into it more fully. Another bit of research to add to her interest in Moonfell’s origins, and the significance of the grounds. Her gaze landed on a small inlaid box on the bottom shelf of a display cabinet. They had been so sidetracked by the many other objects in this room, it remained unopened.

She uncrossed her legs and scooted to the cabinet just as voices carried down the hall. Horty and Birdie. She would recognise Horty’s strident tones anywhere. Her voice carried down the corridor as if she had a megaphone. Knowing that her moment of peace was about to vanish, she steeled herself and turned to the door as her stout great-aunt bustled in, Birdie on her heels.

“Morgana! What are you doing down there?” Horty asked, hands on her hips.

“Rummaging. How are you, Horty?” She lifted her cheek to be kissed as Horty enveloped her in a gardenia-scented hug. As always, she looked smart in her tweeds and cashmere, quite unlike the witches who lived in Moonfell, who erred distinctly towards more informal clothing.

“All the better for being here. Blimey, what a mess! Do you never shut cabinets?” Her gimlet eyes darted everywhere. “Birdie has been telling me about your latest adventure. Shifters and Wayfinders. How intriguing!” She mooched around the room, peering at shelves and into cupboards. “I spent time in here as a child, until I became obsessed with the library. Oh, and then the tower room, of course. So many places here to develop obsessions about. Look at these miniature portraits,” she said, picking up one of them. “They are beautiful.”

“I thought,” Birdie said, casting an almost apologetic eye at Morgana, “that Horty could help identify the name of our ancestor who is responsible for all this.”

“It’s one of my aims, actually, and it might not be just one,” Morgana said, pulling out the small casket inlaid with ebony and pearl. “I spotted this that we haven’t opened yet.”

Horty had already moved on, her head in the lower cupboard of a large cabinet across the room, and her voice came back muffled. “There are more boxes here.”

While Birdie hurried to help her sister, Morgana eased open the metal catch and opened the box. It was lined with dark blue silk that looked slightly brittle, but was otherwise intact. Within it were layers of tissue paper. Expecting to find more jewellery, Morgana carefully prised back the layers and instead sat back with shock at the pack of letters within them. She worked them free, desperate to see their contents, but not wanting to damage them. The paper was thick and creamy, and very good quality, and a dark red ribbon bound them together.

“I’ve found letters, and they’re scented, too.” Morgana inhaled, her senses once again assailed with the past. “Attar of Roses, I think.”

Shocked that Birdie and Horty weren’t rushing over, she looked up to see them wrestling with a large wooden box. Their heads together, they muttered and swore, and Morgana subdued a smile. She could only imagine what trouble they had caused as young girls. “Would you like some help?”

“No, we’re fine,” Birdie said belligerently, as if determined not be beaten by the box. “You carry on. Letters, you say?”

“Yes. From a woman, I think. They smell of roses.”

Morgana cleared a space on the floor next to her to ensure she kept the letters in order, and opened the one on top, careful not to tear the paper. Again, like the silk, it felt brittle, but she smoothed it open on her lap, noting the looping cursive handwriting. The date caught her eye first. May 1792. It was addressed to Meli. Dearest Meli.

A love letter? A friend or relative? Male or female?

“It’s addressed to Meli. Any idea who that is?”

“None at all.”

Morgana scanned the contents, flicking to the signature at the end of the two-page letter. Your beloved, Fitz. The writing was flowery, but scanning the contents, the letters seemed upbeat and described the impressive décor of the Residency. Residency? She had barely glanced at the address, but she studied it now. The British Residency at Rajgarh.

Morgana’s imagination soared again. “What about Fitz? Have you heard of him? He sent the letters from the Rajgarh Residency. I’m quite excited. Did one our witch ancestors live in a residency? That would be amazing. Maybe,” she added, thinking of all the exploring equipment, “Fitz is our ancestor who’s responsible for all this.”

“Perhaps,” Birdie said. “Maybe they’re addressed to a family member?”

Horty struggled into a chair, wheezing after the effort of dragging the box out. “I genuinely have never heard of Rajgarh, but I’m already intrigued. Fitz must be Fitzroy, or maybe Fitzgerald? Meli is unusual. Melinda, perhaps?”

“I spy trouble!” Odette said, standing at the doorway and watching them with interest. She was dressed in her painting shirt that was long over her old jeans, her feet were bare, and her face was smudged with red paint. As usual, no one had heard her catlike approach. “You three look like children on Christmas morning. Hi, Horty.” She kissed her great-aunt’s cheek. “I thought you two were planning Beltane. Is this a little side-project?”

“Perhaps,” Birdie said, delving into the large wooden box placed between her and Horty. “We have found what looks like journals.” She lifted a slender volume bound in leather.

“This one is, too.” Horty flourished another. “And there’s a name in the flyleaf. Fitzroy Westerly.”

“The name in the letters!” Morgana directed Odette’s attention to the letters in her lap. “I found these in a pretty box. I was expecting to find jewellery.”

“Another type of treasure entirely, then,” Odette said, sitting cross-legged on the floor next to her, and lifting an envelope from the pile. She stroked the surface as she asked, “So, who is Fitzroy?”

“Potentially, he’s our ancestor who’s responsible for all these things.” Morgana’s gaze swept the collection again. “I’ll know more once I’ve read the letters. I’ll take them to bed with me tonight. They’re to a Meli. No idea yet if that’s a man or a woman. A woman, I suspect. It’s addressed to dearest Meli.”

Odette smiled, a dreamy look to her eye and she lifted the thick creamy paper and inhaled. “Jasmine—and cigar smoke, I think. How intriguing! I’ll have them once you’re done, then, if that’s okay?”

“Of course. They’re ours, not mine.” Although Morgana admitted to feeling a slight ownership of them.

“Hold on.” Birdie flicked through another journal. “There is another name on the front of this one. Edmund Swift. There are sketches in here, too. Well,” she sat back, eyes wide as she emitted a palpable air of excitement. “This is quite a conundrum. Three names, journals, letters, and more maps in here, too. I think this calls for another G&T!”