The Mabon Feast (Wheel of the Year) by C.M. Nascosta

Author:C.M. Nascosta
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Meduas Editoriale
Published: 2021-10-31T00:00:00+00:00

In the end, he had come to her.

Although, she supposed, who knew how long things would have continued if she’d not gone to the farm that day. The approaching sabbath weighed heavily on her mind, filling her with a tension that had nothing to do with the smells and sounds in her house. That storm in August had not only ushered in the noises and pacing and the distracting smell but also blowing winds and rain, with September bringing more blustery nights and crisp, sunny days. She visited one of Cambric Creek's farms to buy supplies for the approaching weekend’s Mabon celebration, filling her lungs with much-needed fresh air, cool and crisp and damp, with no hint of the cloying black musk. It would be a solitary feast, but she was determined to honor the sabbath well: fresh apples and cider, thick golden honey, pumpkins and squash, a fine cut of meat. There would be no family with whom she would break bread, no circle of sisters coming together to honor the harvest and welcome the Holly King back to the world, no one to share in the timeless devotions. If she raised her voice in song, it would be alone; a solitary bonfire and an unshared feast.

Not like any of that was a surprise, she reminded herself, arriving at the farm.

The harvest moon and Mabon would fall within the same weekend, an unusual occurrence, and one that would have meant a great celebration within the coven. She would be staying home, she’d already decided. The community festival would not have the same reverence, wouldn’t have the same chanting or songs, wouldn’t pay respect to the Dark Mother in the right way. There were several tinctures that would need to be completed under the moon, remedies and elixirs for paying customers, and that superseded a foolish desire for company that might distract her from her solitary place in the world.

Putting away the supplies she’d picked up froth the farm, Ladybug turned to the weathered grimoire the Aunts had left her and began the day’s first order. Calendula and ginger, a splash of olive oil and the talon of a harpy, orange blossom-infused water and a single sprig of mint . . . she peered into the small cauldron, ensuring she’d not forgotten anything, and set the flame on low before jogging down the back stairs. Laundering her autumn wardrobe needed to be a top priority she’d realized once she’d returned from her errand at the farm, surveying the rows of sundresses and shorts hanging in the closet. Dutifully pulling an armload of sweaters and long-sleeved dresses from the cedar chest that had belonged to her mother, she piled her arms high, bringing them downstairs to wash after months of being packed away.

She was coming upstairs after her second laundry run, barely able to see around the towering laundry basket she carried when she encountered him. The stairwell was filled with a looming black shape that had not been there on

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