text: The house creaked with age and emptiness. Every good natured protest from the home amplified a singular expression. \*Loss.\* It was the loss of all manner of sayings, spells, and words of wisdom, and most of all, of the woman who spoke them. It was the loss that Evie Price knew keenly as she stood among furniture hidden under sheets of white linen, unable to feel anything else. That loneliness threatened to consume her, forcing a pressure behind her eyes and an ache in her heart. First Mother, then Grandmama, who’d been so old it seemed she would never retire, in mind or body. But then she did. All at once, Evie’s life... hell, the world, felt unbearably empty. Before Mother’s passing, Evie’s life had been so ordered. So predetermined. University courses, closing shift at the bakery, dinner, homework, rinse, repeat. Even the hint of skipping a short class, or leaving Mother to close the bakery on her own and Evie would earn the sternest of glares. What now, that her university classes were done, the bakery sold, and Grandmama was gone, too? Resentment welled up. Out of habit earned from one too many stern glares, she pushed it down. She could almost hear her mother’s voice scold her. *No sense in crying over it*. But Mother wasn’t here, and neither was Grandmama. Hopelessness dropped from her throat to her belly, and echoed back up like from a great depth. It whispered a lonely refrain. Alice would be along soon, to help her attend to the home Evie’d not visited since she was a girl. Putting the house in order was a task she didn’t want to think about- when Alice volunteered to help, Evie nearly cried. She still didn’t know what she wanted to do with the house. There was no one else to take care of it. The thought of renting it out felt like a cruel joke. Moving in though felt just as cruel. Staying here, without Grandmama? She didn’t even know how half the potions or pots in the kitchen worked. Symbols and words of power laced the rim of every implement. It would take a lifetime to learn what her grandmother had not been permitted to teach her. But Grandmama’s home could never be too silent or somber for long. Somewhere deep in the beams, *something* started*.* At first it was a whisper, and it grew to a hum. It was a sound she never thought she’d hear again. “*What is that noise, Grandmama?” She tilted her head up, swaying with the quiet music.* *The graying witch smiled, and handed a batter spoon to Evie. It tasted of cardamom and honey, with another flavor she’d never been allowed to know, but it was the taste that filled her dreams. In Dreamland, laughing fae that smelled of Grandmama’s fresh muffins danced to the hum of the cottage, but not even dreams could match the love that steeped her time at Grandmama’s in the waking world.* *“It’s the song of home, child. Wherever you are in the world, if you hear this song, it is because you belong there.”* It was the humming that drew her to the attic. A warm, nameless tune pulled almost imperceptibly up the loft stairs. It wove up the worn railing, and grew stronger when her feet rounded the last step. She found herself in the attic, staring at a cedar chest. On the chest sat a book that should not have existed, upon a doily of spider-spun gold thread, wrapped in a music that could only be of Grandmama’s making. Evie blinked and bit her lip, fighting tears that sprang of their own accord. Tendrils of warmth coiled in an almost familiar embrace wound around her as she reached out to the book. So interested was she, she did not hear the gentle footpads that followed after her, even as the floorboards have their croaky report. “What is it?” came a soft, curious voice behind her. She shook her head. “I haven’t seen this since I was little. I thought Mother burned it.” “What *is* it?”, the voice came again. “It’s a...” She couldn’t bring herself to say it at first, picking it up with a ginger touch. A layer of dust came away with her fingertips. “You’re gonna laugh.” “Pffft. Show me!” A gentle hand tugged at her elbow insistently. Evie stood paused for a long moment. The leatherbound cover was just as she remembered, with raised gold snakes and vines intertwining up pale pillars. At the center was a thinly etched circle surrounded by symbols of which she’d never known the meaning. There was a time she’d been promised that one day that knowledge and much more would be hers. That was before Mother whisked them away from Grandmama, 5000 kilometers and lifetimes apart, so it seemed. But she would’ve known that book anywhere. “It’s a spell book. My grandmother’s spellbook.” Alice’s chin popped over Evie’s shoulder. “For real?” “Mhm.” Rough paper edges whispered under her fingers as Evie flipped through the pages. Amidst the stiff parchment and flowing penmanship the faintest smell of dust and cinnamon tea came to her, bringing a smile to her lips. “This book is the reason Mother made us move away.” Her friend’s voice took on a cautious hush. “Is it possessed?” “No no, nothing like that.” She snuck a sly smile to Alice. “That I *know* of.” A slim arm hooked through hers, Alice’s gooseflesh brushing over Evie’s own. “That’s comforting.” The house creaked with a chilly draft in answer. Her companion’s shiver grated like sandpaper against Evie’s skin. The book hummed and emanated warmth. It did not apparently extend to other people. “Come on, we’ll put a kettle on, we’ll use Grandmama’s special tea.” The tea, on second thought, was a task Evie wasn’t sure she could complete. There were words, and an ingredient that danced on the tip of her tongue but that she could not find in Grandmama’s innumerable little vials. They settled on a tea Alice had thought to pack with them, and the two sat with the book on a settee of the deepest blue. They scoured each page, sounding out words they’d never heard before, cautiously forming half-spoken spells on untaught tongues. What it all meant, or could mean, was of little consequence to Evie. It was enough to not be alone. Soon they had mispronounced all of the potions and principles of the first chapters when they reached the incantations. Both curled up, half entangled, tea forgotten, Evie’s heart leapt at the next chapter’s title. “*The Art of Intention, Incantations, and Spellcasting,”* Alice read aloud. “Ooooh, like real, *real* witch stuff? Like wish spells and love spells, and...” “We could practice,” Evie said, eyes wide. “I always wondered if *love* spells really worked!” Then the ridiculousness and absurdity of speaking the possibility struck her, and she fell back in a burst of giggles. Alice joined her, collapsing on the pillows with a flounce and cascade of curls. “Oh, there’s no need for that,” she said softly. The two giggled again, nervous and giddy as they pored over the book. Evie wished it was true. Then she could stop looking away so fast when their eyes met. She could sink into a comfortable cuddle when Alice sat close. She didn’t have to feel embarrassed when their hands touched, like when she made tea for two. She wouldn’t have to pretend to be apologetic when she stole fries from Alice’s plate at restaurants. *She doesn’t like me. Not like that.* The whisper in her brain came with a little pang of loneliness. But at least Alice was here, when she had no one else. ‘*Friendship is a special magic. Never doubt the power of love that is given freely and intentionally*’, Grandmama would always say. *I should be more grateful.* She swallowed back the lump that threatened to break her composure in two and instead said airily, more sing-songy than she could ever possibly feel, “Well, I guess we’ll never know”. The book above their heads, Evie stared at the next chapter, *Incantations with Intention.* Unbidden, the image of Grandmama in her kitchen came to mind. There was always some lesson to be had while the octogenarian prepared some potion or another. ‘*All the intention in the world can be for naught if you never give it life, child.’* “Can you imagine it, just... casting a spell and having your wishes come true?” Alice reached up, taking one side of the book in her hand and pulled it closer. “Your Grandmama thought you could.” “She’d be the only one.” Evie released the other side of the book, letting the back cover hang against the pages, the paper fanning out from the binding. Her friend lowered it, laying the tome down, and slung her arm over Evie as they both settled further into the cushions. “I believe you can.” The sweet earnestness in her voice and lazy finger tracing swirls and nonsense in her palm melted Evie. For a heart as lonely as hers, once a devoid chasm deeper than the Marianas Trench, a spark flared. Grateful, she laced her fingers through Alice’s. “Thank you.” Encouraged by the sweet tones of a familiar humming, Evie rolled onto her elbow and curled into Alice’s embrace. She brushed errant curls from her friend’s eyes. Then she closed her own, and pressed her lips to Alice’s. A nigh-imperceptible exhale swept warmth across Evie’s cheek. It was followed by a smile, a cupid’s bow curved into her own and the kiss was returned. The cottage’s hum swelled gently around them both. Evie could have sworn it took on a voice, tender and joyful, as it whispered, “welcome home, my dears.