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Chapter Forty-Six

C lover waved goodbye to Rachel before closing the front door. She’d finished Crane’s sweater tonight at knitting group and was thinking about what to work on next.

As she faced the hall, she realized it was quite dark in the house—the only light a soft glow coming from the dining room. Clover peeked around the corner to see a series of tea lights shining on Whit’s ancestor altar.

A moment later, Whit appeared from the kitchen—a bowl in one hand and a plate in the other.

“Oh, you’re home. How was knitting?” he asked.

Clover removed her wet shoes and came into the dining room. “Good. What are you doing?”

Whit directed his attention toward the altar, setting the dishes on the sideboard. “It’s the dark moon. This is one of the times we make offerings to our ancestors.”

Clover crept closer. She’d noticed the altar her very first day but hadn’t really studied it. It had felt so strange, if not dangerous, at the time. The table was gleaming with candles, one for each picture. There were keepsakes—a ring here, a set of dice there, even an embroidered handkerchief—carefully decorating the space. There was also a carved human skull, wood by the looks of it, before which a tea light glowed. Whit had just placed a bowl of water and a plate with one of the cupcakes she’d frozen from the week before.

“What’s that?” Clover asked, pointing at the skull.

“That’s to represent any unnamed ancestors, those we did not know but still want to honor.”

“Ahh.” Clover gazed at each of the photographs. Some of them were quite old, but others were fairly recent. Which of these ghosts has been hanging around? “Oh! Great-Uncle Andri!” She smiled as she spotted him.

Her eyes lingered on another picture of a man she didn’t recognize, younger than she was now but still an adult. “Who’s that?” she inquired in a hushed voice.

Whit followed her gaze and smiled softly. “That’s my dad.”

Clover’s heart squeezed with sadness. “But he looks so young.”

Whit nodded. “He was in his early twenties when he died. I was only three years old.”

The air rushed out of Clover’s lungs as if she’d been kicked. She couldn’t imagine what it would have been like to grow up without her dad. And she was ashamed of herself for not asking until now. “Your mom…is she still around?”

Whit frowned. “Yes.”

“Will I meet her soon?”

He shifted his weight uncomfortably. “I’ve already told her about you. She’ll come around in her own time.”

At least she’ll have time to process me being a summer witch, not like what I did to my parents. “Did your mom raise you by herself, then?”

Whit bobbed his head. “Yes, but she had help from my dad’s parents.”

Clover peeked over at him. “The grandfather who insisted you get married?”

“Yes.”

She looked back at the pictures. The most recent was a photo of a smiling old woman. “This was your grandmother?”

“Yes, she died last year.”

“I’m sorry,” Clover murmured sadly.

Whit shook his head. “You don’t need to feel sorry. Death is a part of life. And just because they’re no longer in their corporeal form, doesn’t mean they’re gone. She’s still here. They all are.”

When Clover was growing up, death wasn’t a thing they really talked about. She remembered when her grandfather had died. She remembered asking her parents what happened after death. They’d told her it was best not thought or talked about. This was the most she’d discussed the topic in her entire life.

A wistful longing welled up inside her. “I miss my grandparents. I wonder if summer sorcerers and witches stick around after death like winter sorcerers and witches do.”

“Well, ghosts aren’t always around. They pop in and out from the spirit world. So it’s reasonable to think summer sorcerers and witches just stay there most of the time.”

Clover’s eyes lost focus as she stared at one of the candles, but she could feel Whit’s gaze on her face.

“Would you like to make an offering to them?” Whit asked gently.

Clover flinched at the suggestion. The dead were gone. And she had been taught that any dealings with them could have terrible consequences. Still, something tugged on her heart. When her gaze fell on the cupcake, she remembered the many afternoons she would bake with her grandmother.

Even though it felt like she was standing on the edge of a cliff, she nodded slightly.

“Would you like to share mine or have your own?” Whit asked.

Clover hunched her shoulders. “I can share yours.”

“All right,” he said, turning purposefully toward the altar.

Clover waited for his words. She had no idea what she was supposed to do. But as the silence drew out, she glanced over at him.

He gave her a soft smile. “Hey,” he said tenderly. “You don’t have to do this if you’re uncomfortable.”

His words bolstered her courage, and she shook her head. Nothing bad will happen if he’s here with me. He knows how to handle ghosts.

“I want to,” Clover murmured.

“Okay,” he said with that same gentleness. “I’ll start, and you can add anything if you feel like it.”

Clover bit her lip but nodded.

But as Whit took a deep breath to begin, panic zipped through her. “Wait!”

He paused to look over at her.

“Will you hold my hand?”

With an affable huff through his nose, Whit nodded. A shiver of heat ran up Clover’s arm as he laced his fingers with hers.

“Better?” he asked.

She wasn’t sure whether she nodded or not, so unaware was she of anything other than his hand in hers as he turned back to the altar.

“Ancestors!” Whit called firmly. “Those we have known and loved and those whom we have never met. On this night, the night of the dark moon, when shadows and shades rule, we honor you and your wisdom. You have seen and know things we cannot hope to fathom. As you have done in the past, please watch over us, your descendants, and bless us. These offerings are for you.”

Some of the candles on the table flickered and danced while others stayed steady.

Whit gave Clover’s hand a gentle squeeze. “Would you like to say something?”

She cleared her throat. “Mam-gu, Tad-cu…” Her face flushed as she addressed her father’s parents—the grandparents she’d known growing up. “I…I miss you, and I hope you’re doing well.”

As Clover took a steadying breath through her nose, she smelled the softest hint of Old Spice aftershave. In that moment, she could almost feel her grandfather’s beard scratchy against her cheek as she hugged him. And then it was gone.