Legacy by Molly Cochran Page B

Gram and Agnes and I went into the woods and cut down a little tree, which we decorated with real beeswax candles. We put candles in all the windows, too, and made garlands of ivy and holly to wind around the stair railings and doorways. In the evenings, we’d sit around the fire while my great-grandmother told stories or Agnes played the piano. She was very good, although she played with an almost embarrassing passion. Sometimes Gram twanged along on her dulcimer, which generally didn’t improve the music, but added a homespun touch. During the days, we’d all cook together or go walking through town. Sometimes I’d hang out with Jonathan and he’d teach me about carpentry. Or I’d walk alone through the woods. Anything to avoid running into Peter. Or thinking about him, although I didn’t manage that very well.
    It’s true what they say about time being a great healer. Iwasn’t over Peter—I didn’t think I ever really would be—but the edges of the wound I felt in my heart weren’t so raw anymore. And inside that wound was still the memory of his kiss. Nothing would ever take that away. Sometimes just the thought of his touch would be enough to make me feel weak. The memory was so powerful, so immediate, that it was as if I were right back in the Meadow with him, holding him, being held.
    One day Gram, Agnes, and I went to Hattie’s to bake pies for the local nursing home. I could just imagine what that was like, an old folks’ home for witches. Miss P showed up too. Even though Miss P was a few years younger than my aunt, the two of them got along famously.
    I was stirring pastry cream in the twenty-gallon mixer when Peter came into the kitchen.
    I stopped breathing.
    “Excuse me,” he said. He was heading toward Hattie when he saw me.
    In that instant time ceased to exist. His eyes, gray and deep and full of a pain I didn’t understand, searched inside mine until they found my soul. And I gave it to him, there, across the noisy, bright kitchen.
    I’m yours,
it called to him.
    You’re mine
, his called back.
From the beginning, you were meant to be mine.
    “Peter!” Hattie shouted. “What do you want?”
    “It . . . it’s Eric,” he stammered. “I think he needs his medicine.”
    “I’ll be right up,” Hattie said, wiping her hands on her apron.
    The spell was broken. Spell? Who was I kidding? That was nothing but wishful thinking.
    I’m yours.
Geez, how corny could you get? I went back to stirring my pastry cream.
    “Peter!” Hattie called again. When I looked up, a strong brown arm was snaking around the door, grabbing Peter’s shirt and yanking him out of the room.
    He was still looking at me.
    The kitchen was weirdly quiet. “What?” I snapped crankily, irritated at the nosy women who were so interested in my nonexistent love life that they’d all dropped what they were doing and stood gawking at me.
    Wishful thinking. That was all it was.
    On the night of the Winter Solstice we lit all the candles in the windows and on the tree, too. They filled the room with warm, flickering light. Sitting on an old horsehair sofa between my aunt and my great-grandmother, with no television or recorded music in the background, I felt as if I’d been transported back in time.
    “Yule teaches us a great lesson,” Gram said. “It is the darkest time of the year, with the shortest day and the longest night.”
    “Mmm,” I murmured as noncommittally as I could.
    “It means that things have gotten as bad as they can,” Agnes said. “One tick after the moment of darkest night, the light begins to grow.”
    “We call it the birth of the infant light,” the old woman said. “Another word for hope.”
    I sat up straighter. Hope, yes. No matter how bad things were, hope was possible. Maybe even with Peter. “I’ll try to remember that,” I said.
    “Very good. Now, shall we try a cone of power?” Gram asked. “And then perhaps a cup of tea?”
    “A cone of what?”
    “We’ll make a