Weaver | UPDATES WEEKLY

Chapter 1

I never understood why my witch parents named me Sunday.

There was a complex history with witchcraft and religion in my family, and I always suspected that might be part of it. Maybe it was the irony of a long line of witches marrying into a long line of Christians, leading to an interesting tradition that blended folk Catholicism with actual, real magic running through our veins. I thought that was a much more interesting explanation than the one my mom always offered me, which was that I was born on a Sunday, and she was inspired by a child's nursery rhyme at the last possible moment to choose my name.

Completely contradictory to the old nursery rhyme, though, I was never bonny, blithe, good, or gay. I didn't consider myself to be particularly pretty, though I don't know anyone who does. However, I also had full sleeves of tattoos on both my arms, anose piercing, and hair dyed bright purple at the roots, fading to pink at theends. I would not call that traditionally pretty by any circumstance. I could understand that "good" is a morally subjective term, but blithe and gay? No, never.

I suffered from an affliction that my mother called "interminable melancholy." It's not that I couldn't ever be happy. It was just that even if I saw the glass as half full in the moment, I could always see a future where that same glass would inevitably wind up dry and empty.

A side effect of the ability to see the literal web of fate around me, I supposed. My disposition always veered in the direction of realistically pessimistic, planning for every possible outcome, preparing for every twitch in those shifting threads.

If I concentrated, I could ignore them. Or maybe if I didn't concentrate, I could ignore them. Either way, I learned to shove my strange sixth sense to the side. If I hadn't, I wouldn't be able to live a normal life.

... Not that my life was particularly normal, but I supposed "normal" was all a matter of perspective. I spent my days running my shop in the old part of town, and I lived my life in peace. That was all I really wanted.

I settled in behind the front counter of the shop to check over the books, and then began sorting herbs to make bags of teas. When I worked with herbs, I always used gloved hands and a clean counter space. I took my sanitation very seriously when it came to medicinals.

That was why, when the bell rang to signal someone opening the front door, I still had a pair of slightly oversized, neon green disposable gloves on my hands.

The first customers of the day were two... Well, I couldn't tell if they were teenagers. Apparently turning thirty eliminated my ability to tell the age of anyone more than about five years younger than me. In any case, the boy and girl looked a little awkward shuffling into my apothecary, their fingers laced together and eyes wide as they looked around at the jars of bulk herbs, the shelves of books and bottles, and the selection of prepared aids and rememdies.

Definitely first-timers.

"Can I help you find anything?" I asked, smiling as I continued to sort herbs.

They whispered for a moment, nudging back and forth between them, and my sense of good humor dropped. I could tell what they were looking for already.

"We're... um..." the boy began, shuffling his weight from foot to foot.

I decided to let him squirm a little, raising an eyebrow and putting on my best customer service smile, but he wouldn't even look me in the eye. The girl, on the other hand, finally stepped forward.

"Just something... to maybe help with... um..." she tried, but she couldn't finish her sentence either.

I finally dropped the smile, pointing to the aisle on the far side of the store.