Free The Flower Bowl Spell by Olivia Boler Page B

child-like O , nose almost touching the glass already smeared with the
prints of dozens of other aquarium-goers. Cleo presses her hands on
the carpeted bumper underneath the window. Her eyes hardly
blink.
    I slide my hand under Tess’s arm and gently
lead her away from the glass. She breaks her gaze on the gelatinous
creatures, but her eyes are still full of wonder. “To think, such
beautiful animals taste so good.”
    I smack my lips in agreement. “Let’s get
going, Cleo,” I say. “Your sister’s been really patient.”
    As we make our way through the darkened
rooms, I speak to Tess.
    “So, Auntie.” I keep my voice low, which
isn’t hard with the relentless murmur of school kids on field
trips. “Isn’t it ironic that Viv’s married to a guy named Jesus
Christ?” I have told her all that I know. I googled the Holy
Revival Redeemer church last night and what the girls told me is
true. Their father’s name really is Jesus Christ. No last name
(although I think Superstar would be kind of catchy). He was born
in Jamaica to a Nigerian father and American mother, who founded
the church and gave their only son a whopper of a name, as well as
no-brainer career plans. On the church’s website, there’s a picture
of Romola and Cleo’s dad preaching to a crowd of hundreds in a
field as it rains. And no one holds an umbrella.
    “Why is that ironic?” Auntie Tess asks in all
seriousness.
    “Hm,” I say. “Because she was born and raised
a witch?”
    “Oh. That.”
    “Yeah, that. What do you think is going on?
Why did she leave the kids with me?”
    “I have no idea. You should ask Gru.”
    “I know,” I say with a Romola-like grumble.
“Wouldn’t she be surprised to hear from me?” Then I think: Would
she really? I wonder if Gru already knows where her
granddaughters are. But I can’t ask her—I don’t think Viveka wants
me to talk to her. I could simply email her a casual hello, except
she only occasionally checks her account at the Mendocino public
library.
    To be honest, I have been half-expecting Gru
to show up on my doorstep. She also sees fairies and animals
talking to each other, and she helped me interpret auras. Gru is
the real deal, as far as being magickal goes. She has shown me
charms and spells of true power, not just the usual touchy-feely,
window-dressing rituals that were fun and thrilling when I was a
child, but became tedious and empty after I’d grown up. She made a
flower wilt and dry up in the middle of a rain shower. She caused a
cat to fly from her rooftop into the branches of a tree over thirty
feet away. I bet if she really cut loose, her display of powers
would put mine to shame. Unlike most witches I know, she has the
light.
    “Viveka asked me not to tell Gru about
this.”
    “But why?” Auntie Tess asks.
    “Still don’t know. She wouldn’t explain. Or
couldn’t. She was kind of…terse.”
    We have arrived at the seahorses, and Romola
is sitting in front of them, writing carefully in her spiral-bound
notebook.
    “What do you know about Viv?” I ask Auntie
Tess.
    “Not much.” She shrugs. “Something happened
between Sadie and Gru. A falling out. So Sadie moved up north and
took Viveka. Sadie left her husband, although they were never
legally bound. It was a straight handfasting.”
    I’ve been to a few of these pagan wedding
ceremonies. Lots of bare feet and flowers. Awesome. Monogamy is not
high up on the list of to-dos for witches. Generally speaking, of
course.
    “What was his name again?” I ask. “Viveka’s
father.”
    “Tucker Murray. Gru handpicked him for Sadie.
Found him living in a yurt near the Humboldt college campus when
she did some lecturing there.” Tess frowns up at the information
panel for the seahorses. “I think he came from money down in
Southern California.” She turns to me. “Memphis, I need to ask you
a favor.”
    “Sure, and I need to ask you one too.”
    “You go first.”
    I take a deep breath. “Can the girls stay
with