“Oops,” I laughed, wiping the drip off the syrup carafe. I’d managed to drown my food. “That poured faster than I expected.”
“Morning,” Camille said. “Did you sleep all right?”
I nodded. “I think I dreamed about being back home again.”
Camille frowned. “Yeah, sometimes I do, too.” She stared at her plate. “I don’t think I miss it much, except for spending time at the Grove of the Moon Mother.”
Iris glanced at me, then at Camille. “You don’t miss your family?”
“Our real family is here,” Camille said so sharply that Iris backed off.
“Right. Well, are you ready for this morning? I looked up Lukia and there’s a Lukia Ridgeshine who lives two houses down the road. I figure we can head there after breakfast,” Iris said.
“All right. Should we call first?” I asked.
“I’d rather just show up. Since she went to see Grandmother Coyote first, she should be expecting strangers to show up.” Camille finished her breakfast and folded her napkin. She carried her dish over to the sink and rinsed it.
“Do you mind if I stay here?” Iris said. “I’ve got plenty to do. I wrote down the address for you.” She fished it out of the pocket of her apron and laid it on the table.
“That’s fine,” Camille said. “I’ll go put on my boots,” she added.
“I’ll be done in a moment,” I said, taking the last bite. “Is it snowing?”
“No, but it’s cold and smells like snow is coming. Is it normally this cold?” Camille asked.
Iris shrugged. “Cold? Yes. Snowy? Every few years we have a good snow. I think the weatherman said this is supposed to last for a week or two. You can bet that a number of streets are shut down. We don’t fare well here with all the hills. The city isn’t built for snow, so life slows down during periods like this.” She glanced at the clock. “Are you going into the shop today?”
Camille thought for a moment. “That depends on Lukia and what happens with her.”
She headed into the foyer, where she sat on the bench to put on her boots. She was wearing a calf-length black skirt and a black underbust corset over a low-cut cold-shoulder top. I joined her, slipping on my own pair of Doc Martens, and then I handed Camille her cloak while I slipped into my jacket.
We didn’t look like sisters—I was six feet tall, naturally tan and athletic with long blonde hair. Camille was five-seven, curvy, with long black hair and pale skin. And Menolly had come into the world with a recessive gene from our mother’s side that left her at barely five-one, petite, and with long coppery hair. Even in death, she carried that petite, almost child-like form.
“Ready?” I asked.
“As rain,” Camille said. “Let’s take the car. I don’t trust walking on the icy shoulder.”
My Jeep had better traction than her Lexus, so I climbed into the driver’s seat and we headed out. The house was on the opposite side of the street, and as I pulled into the driveway, we saw the red mailbox that Grandmother Coyote had mentioned.
“How well do you think Grandmother Coyote knows Lukia?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I have no clue. But I think we’d be hard put to find any close friends, given she’s one of the Hags of Fate,” Camille said.
The driveway wasn’t nearly as long as ours, and it was paved, so it was much easier to navigate. The house itself was a modest one-story house, but it was cottage-cute, and there was a little garden area encircled by a picket fence to one side. The garden was covered with snow, as was the rest of the area, but the raised beds showed from beneath the snow.
“That’s pretty,” Camille said as we approached the door. “I want to put in herb gardens next year. Iris has promised to help me.”
“You think we’ll be here next year?” I asked.
Camille nodded. “I have the feeling we’re going to be here a lot longer than we think.” She rang the bell, and we stepped back to wait.
Before we could ring the bell again, the door opened.
The woman who answered was tall and lanky, though not as tall as I. But she was lean in a hard way, and tan, and her eyes looked like she’d seen too many hard knocks along the way. She was dressed in a pair of jeans and a button-down shirt that was wrinkled but clean. Her hair was dirty blonde, and she was wearing clumpy mascara and liner that had a grunge look to it—slightly smudged, but not messy.
“Yes?” she asked, her voice raspy.
“Are you Lukia Ridgeshine?” I asked.