Triple Moon: Honey Gold and Wild, Moonfell Witches Book 1 (PAPERBACK)

Chapter One: Present Day

“I think they’ll be very pleased with it!” Birdie said, feeling smug as she studied the open-plan living room and kitchen area. “They get their own tower. What could be better than that? I think we’ve made a good job of tidying it up.”

Morgana laughed. “We will also get a modicum of peace. As for tidying it up,” she cast her grandmother a sly smile, “I hate to think how messy this place will become. As much as I love my son and Como, I know they will be typical young men. This floor will probably be knee-deep in dirty clothes and unwashed plates the next time we come here.”

“It will give Mrs Bell something else to complain about,” Birdie pointed out, referring to their cleaner who visited once a fortnight for an entire day with her daughter. The house was so big, they tackled parts of it at a time. Magic kept it clean in between the visits. As far as Birdie was concerned, though, nothing beat a proper, manual cleaning. “Although, of course, we know that she will love fussing over them. As will I.” She was so excited about the prospect of Lamorak, her grandson, and Giacomo, her great-nephew, arriving that she had barely slept. It was an unexpectedly warm day in mid-March, but the room was chilly, and with a word of command, the logs in the grate erupted into flames. “Perfect.”

“Now that I’m here, I’m wondering why my bedroom isn’t in one of the tower rooms.” Morgana walked to the east window, leaning her hands on the stone sill as she looked out of the arched, Gothic window. Her long, dark hair was loose over her shoulders, the grey streak curling around her chin, and her black dress hid her slim form. “The view is amazing.”

“I know why mine isn’t. The stairs would play havoc on my knees. And it’s too isolated up here for me,” Birdie pointed out. “Even though I’m more youthful now. Besides, I love my room. It’s an oasis of calm.”

Before Christmas the witches had performed a banishing spell on a Fallen Angel, and there had been unexpected consequences. The Goddess had reduced her age by twenty years, taking her from being an infirm 89-year-old who could barely see or walk, to a vibrant sixty-something. However, that didn’t give her the energy of a teenager—thankfully. Age brought its own rewards, like wisdom and knowledge, and the unapologetic need to do what she wanted without caring what others thought.

It was Sunday morning, and the two witches were on the top floor of the southeast tower that overlooked the orchards and the front of the house. The tower was part of Moonfell’s original Gothic building, and over the years had been extensively renovated. It emerged from the second floor of the house, with another two floors above that level. When the young men had stayed with them over Yule they had been given their pick of rooms, seeing as they had declared that they wished to move in permanently over the summer, and both had chosen the tower. There was a bedroom and bathroom on each floor, and the top floor contained a comfortable lounge and kitchen that they had opted to share, decorated in the fashion of the house, with dramatic colours and oversized furniture; a fusion of Gothic and modernity. Totally self-contained, it was perfect for their needs.

Birdie joined Morgana at the window and gave her a brief hug, knowing how nervous she was about Lamorak moving in. Morgana hadn’t always had the easiest relationship with her son, but it seemed to have improved over Christmas, so that was something. “They’re only here for a couple of weeks, so it’s a good way to judge our success, don’t you think?”

Morgana nodded, her gaze distant, and it was obvious that she wasn’t really seeing the garden anymore. “We need to introduce them to the bees. We never did it at Christmas.”

“It was too cold. They were hibernating. This is the perfect time.” Birdie smiled to herself as she surveyed the gardens that were springing into lush life again with the advent of spring. Ostara was a week or so away. The view also afforded a glimpse of the Waxing Moon Gate to the east, the Full Moon Gate to the south, and the tangle of paths and planting around them.

“It will seem so quiet here after university halls. All that hustle and bustle, plus the pubs and restaurants. They’re bound to be bored. I can’t see them wanting to stay here for long.”

“Good grief, Morgana. We’re in London, on the edge of Richmond Park, not deepest, darkest Peru! Storm Moon will keep them entertained. It’s hard to be bored around shifters—and magic! They wanted to come!”

“I know, but…”

“No. Let’s not second guess. I certainly do not expect them to live here forever, but even if they only stay a year, isn’t that something to look forward to?” Birdie bit back her impatience with Morgana. Sometimes she forgot to enjoy the present because she was so focussed on the future. “What time are they arriving?”

“Late this afternoon. About four, I think.”

“Excellent. We’ll head to the bees at dusk.”

Morgana’s eyebrows shot up with surprise. “We’re doing that today?”

“Why not? Sooner the better. It doesn’t do to disappoint the bees. Besides, I’d like an excuse to stroll through the orchard.” Birdie walked away, leaving Morgana to her thoughts. “I’ll prepare everything now. And stop worrying!”

Birdie headed down the stone stairwell, past the doors to the bedrooms, and on to the second floor of the main house. She had another reason in mind for the bee ceremony. She wanted to start their Ostara celebrations early, and had found the prefect spell to help welcome spring to Moonfell. She had newfound energy since she had been gifted a few extra years, and spring, a season of new beginnings, seemed an excellent time to give thanks and weave her own sense of renewal together with that of the coming season.

As the coven’s High Priestess, it was her role to plan their ceremonies. Well, most of them, anyway. For the last few years, Morgana and Odette, her two granddaughters who also lived at Moonfell, had picked up her roles as she had been unable to perform them. Consequently, Birdie now delegated leading some rituals, as the three witches all had diverse magical abilities, and it seemed silly not to use them appropriately.

Taking a deep breath of satisfaction at the future unfolding before her, Birdie absorbed the sights, sounds, and scents of Moonfell as she walked down the richly decorated hallway. She had never lived anywhere else, and her soul was deeply entrenched in the estate. She had only been a teenager when the house declared its intent that she would be its guardian. It was hard to explain how that had happened, but every guardian experienced the same thing, more or less. It was a type of knowing that just struck one day. Sometimes it happened in dreams, sometimes during a spell or while gardening, or even just reading in a quiet room in the house. The house decided, and then informed you. It also let the current guardian know who the future one would be, too. The house, with its own innate magic instilled by generations of witches, instinctively knew who to choose, and when Birdie died, Morgana would take over. The guardianship had skipped a generation, her two sons and her sister’s children completely bypassed. However, it was a wise choice. Morgana was steadfast, level-headed, and a skilled witch, but Birdie sometimes feared the responsibility would isolate her too much. With luck, Odette would continue to support her. Someone always did.

Birdie was suddenly struck by how hushed the house was, almost expectant. She patted the wall. “Not long now…then you’ll wonder what has hit you,” she muttered under her breath.

Not that their recent months had been uneventful. They had dealt with a demon-summoning witch who had been imprisoned in their other tower. The house’s magic had contained him when he tried to attack them and the shifters guarding him. Several members of the Storm Moon Wolf Pack had stayed there for a few nights after the demon attacked them to recover from their injuries. Birdie hoped that nothing like that would happen again any time soon, but it had been fun to work with Maverick and his pack again.

The bright gleam of sunshine through the window at the end of the hall beckoned with its promise of burgeoning life, but she still had much to do before she could stroll through the garden. Quickening her pace, she descended the stairs to the first floor and entered the library that housed their enormous collection of journals, spell books, history books, and magical treatises, along with many other varied titles. Her research was spread out on a table that lay under one of the huge, arched Gothic windows that overlooked the interior courtyard. The centre of the collection was a slim volume about bee lore, the myths surrounding it, and associated spells, written in the seventeenth century by one of her ancestors called Caleb Masters. She knew very little about him, other than he seemed to be fascinated by the bees that had lived in the orchard before the house had even belonged to their family.

It was valued more for its illustrations than its content. Caleb was a fine illustrator, and he had sketched and painted the hives, bees, sections of honeycomb, and the orchard itself. The hives looked different now, but nevertheless, the other illustrations demonstrated the continuity of the house.

One spell had caught her attention. It recommended a ceremony in which the members of the household reintroduced themselves to the bees at the spring equinox, binding themselves to the growth of the hives and the garden. To Birdie, at least, it was charming. For as long as she could remember, this had never been observed in her lifetime. Not surprising, she reflected as her gaze swept over the vast array of family histories in the library. There were far too many spells and rituals to do them all. With every generation, the manner of honouring the seasons changed. Only the yearly Yuletide protection spells had survived the five hundred years of Moonfell history.

The good thing about this particular spell was that Caleb recommended it be cast on the new moon before Ostara, and the new moon was that night. A time to set intentions for the month ahead. Birdie consulted the spell’s ingredients, made a note in the margins, tucked it into the pocket of her long cardigan, and headed to the still room.



***



Odette, at thirty-one, was the youngest permanent resident of Moonfell. She observed the narrow path she had cut through the long grass strewn with bluebells in the orchard.

Over the winter, although the grass hadn’t grown much, the bluebells and crocuses had sprung into life, almost obliterating the main path that led from the lawn to the beehives in the centre of the tangled, wizened fruit trees. Pink and white blossoms were already emerging, a mix of apples, pears, plums, and damsons, and all, despite their age, were heavy croppers.

She cast aside the old-fashioned scythe that she had used, peeled off her gardening gloves, and rubbed her sweaty hands on her jeans. Despite using gloves, she could feel tender skin at the base of her thumb from where she had wielded the gardening tool. The sharp scent of earth and young growth was rich, and she breathed deeply, savouring the warmth from the sunshine on the back of her neck that felt like a tickle. However, the tickle persisted, and she absently rubbed her skin as she turned towards the hives that basked in the unexpected heat of early spring.

Half a dozen hives were spread under the trees in the centre of the orchard, and the deep thrum of bee song added to the drowsiness of Odette’s surroundings. The hives were painted in shades of pale yellow or green so that they blended in with their surroundings, and the witches had freshened up the paint over the previous weeks. It had taken longer than they expected. The centre of the orchard, as was its wont from time to time, would prove elusive to find, as if the bees had willed it so. The phrase hivemind kept circling Odette’s thoughts.

“It’s all right,” she said out loud. “I won’t cut any more grass. I just wanted an easy path to find you. Not that it will help, I’m sure. When you want to stay hidden, you’re remarkably stubborn.” She pursed her lips, hands on slender hips as she studied the few bees that had emerged from their winter hibernation. “We’ll be back later. We have new members of the household to introduce to you, so you better not hide then!”

The buzzing intensified, and for a moment, Odette swayed, dizzy with their hypnotic song. Unable to control an overwhelming need to sit, she rested cross-legged in the long grass, the cool earth beneath her. Closing her eyes, she concentrated, as if she might understand what the bees were saying. Their murmured song intensified until it was all she could hear. The sounds of bird call and the creak of branches vanished, and spring sunshine painted a golden glow upon her closed eyelids.

Odette was used to this state. Her magic encompassed a type of knowing beyond her own mind. She saw to the truth of things, whether she wanted to or not. Secrets could not hide from her for long, even if she tried to block them—or if people tried to block her. It wasn’t mind-reading, though, and the revelations seemed to come when she least expected them; when she was relaxed, perhaps, or engaged in conversation about something else entirely. It was a heightened perception, really. She had learned to live with it, and she had certainly learned to keep secrets—some of them, at least. Often, insights would emerge as she painted in her studio, as if the paintbrush were a conduit to the hidden realms. Or the moon gates would reveal glimpses of the past, like they had at Yule.

Her breath slowed as the murmur of bees filled her up until she thought she might overflow with the sensation. Then suddenly an image entered her mind, and she saw a collection of hives that were very different to the ones they had now. The wood was silvery with age, the trees that surrounded them weren’t quite as gnarled as the present, and it was later in the year…late summer, perhaps. Ripening fruit hung on twisting branches, and the deep green leaves made a cave of the orchard. A breathy, uneven sound disturbed the silence.

Crying.

A whirlwind of emotions hit Odette so hard that she took a sharp intake of breath. Someone was so panic-stricken, so overwhelmed that he or she could barely think straight. This person was drowning in fear, and Odette ached to help whoever it was. She waited, hoping that her vision would change to show the figure responsible, but annoyingly, the sound started to fade, and in desperation, Odette tried to force it. It was the worst thing she could have done.

Abruptly, the normal sounds of the orchard returned, the golden glow receded, and all trace of the unbidden images vanished as if it was a dream.