Spells for Lost Things

by Jenna Evans Welch

I remember being annoyed with everything that day—my mom, the system, how long all of this was taking, even the dumb jokes she kept telling me that were making me laugh. How was it possible to be so frustrated with someone and still love them so much?

Like if I don’t get out there and find my place, I’m going to drift out into nothingness, attached to no one and nothing.

“I need to take a look at that huge willow tree outside. They’re water-seeking, and when they get that big, they can cause problems with everything. Ready to go?”

Partway down Essex, Simon stops to talk to someone and Nova is forced to look up from her phone. I feel terrible for her. Without her headphones, she’s way too exposed and vulnerable-looking. All she has to do is bare her teeth and she’s a naked mole rat with anger issues.

What 😂

“You really think they named me for a dead star?” “Why not?” I say. She goes back to angrily stabbing at her phone, and I go back to hunting through the crowd for the mermaid.

They couldn’t be more opposite-looking in how they present themselves, but something about the way they hold their shoulders is identical. They look strong, purposeful. If it weren’t for the age difference, I’d say they could be twins.

Gratitude is welling up in me, and it’s sort of confusing because I don’t want to have a lot of good feelings toward Emma, but also she has offered to do several things for me, and all of them mean a lot. She’s also pretending not to notice the fact that my eyes are weirdly misty right now. “Thank you.” “You’re worth it,” she says, and I’m glad she doesn’t look at me.

Poppy is removing a baking tray from the oven, and when I see the round, flaky pastries, I let out a giddy sigh. “You made kouign-amann?”

can somehow see her freckles in the dark. Willow must be the only girl in the world who is as beautiful in the dark as she is in the day.

I think she’s going to tell me to go away, but instead she folds her arms over her chest. “Oh.”

Yes, and absolutely, and also, YES. But what could she possibly use my help with? The thought sends electricity zipping through my body. Whatever it is, I’m in. I’d shown excellent restraint by responding with a very relaxed-sounding No problem.

“Chop, chop, my little onions,” Emma calls, her black hair swishing behind her.

Several herbs are tucked into the string, and a small white stone has been attached to it. “What’s in it?” I ask suspiciously. The package is light and smells faintly of herbs. “A spell for lost things!” Violet says, as though that explains anything. I must look at it suspiciously, because she laughs.

Witchcraft is about what is already inside of you. You get to listen to your own inner voice and decide what makes you most powerful.”

Ever since Thalia had moved in, Lily had begun dreaming of faraway gardens dripping with blossoms and scents she’d only read about—jasmine and saffron, enormous lotuses blooming in crystal pools in marble palaces. She dreamed of large halls and libraries where she’d learn the names of every plant, studying the way they fit into the world. She had no interest in a life like her mother’s, one where her power was gained in meanness and hidden measures. She wanted the world.

Later, after Thalia had betrayed her, Lily would marvel at the way candlelight could hide a person’s true feelings. She would wonder how she hadn’t seen it, the way her friend’s jealousy and resentment had grown in the shadows. Her mistake was in seeing what she wanted to see.

As the ship pulled away from the harbor, Lily felt a shift that stopped her feet on the dance floor. It was as though the world had suddenly tilted on its axis. She went to the kitchen to look for Thalia, but was only met with her mother, who insisted she return to the party.

I find out she wants a tattoo, a tiny airplane leaving a heart-shaped trail of jet fumes in its wake.

Her hand is swinging by her side, and before I realize what I’m doing, I reach out and take it. She looks up at me in surprise, then laces her fingers through mine, and we head for the house. I don’t have many days in my life that I’d like to repeat, but I could live in this one forever.

We talk so much that when he reaches out to take my hand, it doesn’t feel rushed or awkward the way you’d think it would with someone you’ve only known for a week. It feels like we’ve been on this trajectory all along, and it’s the obvious next step. If he hadn’t grabbed my hand I would have grabbed his.

The Bell family curse is about female relationships breaking apart under forces that hadn’t been entirely under their control. And now history is repeating itself. I can’t control my mother. Our relationship is broken.

No matter how deeply you loved your sister or mother, aunt or cousin, grandmother or daughter, the curse wound its way in, pulling at the relationship’s roots and blotting out the sun. If you were a Bell woman, you expected to lose the one you loved most.

But none of those books tell you that motherhood is one long goodbye. From the moment your child is born, you are preparing them to leave you. It’s the entire goal.”

I hold out my hand, and she cups it in hers, tracing her finger along the center of my palm. “This big line is your lifeline. Yours is extremely long, which reflects all of the energy and enthusiasm you have for life. That’s your Willowness.” Willowness. I feel like I’m glowing from the inside out, tears prickling in my eyes again. “I really like that.”

But Daisy wasn’t the only reason Rosemary had stayed in Salem. She had stayed for Sage. All Sage had was her, and she would not leave her sister behind. Peter tried to reason with her, and then argued with her that she deserved her own life. Sage could manage her own mistakes, chart her own course. It wasn’t up to Rosemary to save her. Rosemary repeated herself firmly. Quietly. “I will not leave Sage.”

And then I start to cry, harder than I ever thought I could. I cry for five-year-old me trying to hold my mom’s eyes open to show her a picture I’d made, because all I wanted was for her to be proud of me. I cry for seven-year-old me, who went to bed hungry after eating only condiments all day, because those were the only things that were in the house. I cry for nine-year-old me, sitting in the back of a foster care worker’s car, watching my mom get farther and farther away in the back window.

When I look at my mom, her eyes are soft. “This tree has a good track record.” “Yeah?” I say. She nods. “All those years ago I asked the tree for love, and it sent me you. That’s why I named you after it.”

I have never, in my entire life, seen anything as beautiful as Willow is right now. And now I’m supposed to talk to her? “Oh—” I stammer. Emma honks once, then pulls away, while I manage a sort of half wave behind my back. “What did he say?” Poppy says from overhead. “I think he said ‘Oh,’ ” Violet says. “Not a great opening line.” This is a category one disaster.