The End of Magic (The Witches of Echo Park #3)(103)

"You do know what you're doing," she said, as they'd sailed up into the clouds.

"You're precious and I would never risk your safety like that," Tem said, settling his arm around her as they climbed higher and higher.

She leaned her head against his chest and they stood like that, eyes trained on the ground as it flew past them. The desert was the dreamlands' default, and the sloping dunes of pale yellow sand stretched on and on like pats of butter melting in the heat of the sun.

"Do you see him?" Lizbeth asked over the hiss of the fire.

Tem shook his head.

"Nothing, lovey."

This went on for a while, both of them scouring the ground for some signs of life.

"Maybe the darkness took him, too?" Lizbeth said.

"I suppose that's a possibility."

They didn't continue down that line of thinking.

"Wait, I think I see something!" Tem cried, pointing down to where two small specks were walking in the sand, hand and hand.



       
         
       
        

Lizbeth's heart swelled as she realized . . . that the second speck was Arrabelle.





Lyse





Lyse and Niamh stood on the red lacquer bridge that spanned Eleanora's koi pond, listening to the tinkling song of wind chimes (from somewhere in the neighborhood) as they danced on the wind. Lyse had chosen to return to a time before she'd come back to Echo Park. Before Eleanora had learned she was sick. Before The Flood had entered Lyse's consciousness.

She took a moment to look around, one final time, knowing she might never see this place again-the place where she'd grown up, where she'd known what it was to love and be loved by someone who was your family. The breeze blew through her dark hair, pushing her bangs in her face. With the breeze came the familiar scent of jasmine, a smell she loved more than any other.

She closed her eyes, bathing in the scent-filled air. When she opened her eyes again, all she wanted was for her time on Curran Street to last forever. She turned her head and smiled at Niamh, who was holding the Dream Journal in her hand.

"I'm almost ready," Lyse said.

"Time doesn't really matter right now, does it?" Niamh said-and Lyse shrugged.

"I suppose not."

She took one last look at Eleanora's small bungalow . . . so many memories, so much heartbreak and joy. It was where she'd fallen in love with Weir, where she'd discovered who and what she really was, where she'd said good-bye to the woman who'd raised her.

"Good-bye, house," she whispered.

"Mama! Someone's up there!" It was Ginny's voice and it cut through the sound of the wind and the dancing wind chimes . . . and that was when Lyse knew it really was time to go.

She could hear Dev and the girls climbing the hill and knew they were only seconds away. She felt Niamh's hand on her shoulder as she began to call up the blue orb.

"May I have the Dream Journal?" Lyse asked as the orb coalesced around them.

"Of course," Niamh said, and handed the book to her.

The air around them began to shimmer with magic as a golden light erupted from inside the book and, suddenly, the blue orb that enveloped them was a bright and shining gold.

"I'm sorry, Niamh," Lyse said-and then she shoved Niamh out of the orb just before it popped.

She felt bad leaving Niamh behind, but she knew that when she opened her eyes again, she would be facing something great and terrible: The Past. And she did not want to take anyone there with her. 

Take me to the beginning, she thought-and when she opened her eyes again . . .


• • •

. . . she found herself in the potting shed of the nursery in Georgia that she had once owned with her best friend, Carole. There was a gap in between the door and the frame, and she was able to peek out through it and see what was happening inside the greenhouse.

She watched, the Dream Journal still clutched in her hands, as a past version of herself hunted through a small mini-fridge looking for a beer. Like a mini-earthquake, the cell phone in the back pocket of her past self's cutoff khakis began to buzz. The abruptness of the vibration in the still of the nursery startled the past Lyse enough that she dropped the beer, the foamy head pouring out over the concrete floor.

"Really?" her past self said, and sighed, looking down at the cracked phone screen and staring at the name on the caller ID. Her past self picked up the half-empty can of beer and set it on top of the mini-fridge.

For a moment the other her debated not answering it, but then guilt got the better of her.

Lyse remembered this moment clearly, knew from experience that the other her would close her eyes and press accept.