Regina leaned against a wall, shoulder nestled between pictures of her sister as a kid and a dog that’d been dead for 10 years. The pictures lay tucked into a hallway — one that ended in 3 of the house's 4 bedrooms, including the master.

Her mother's bedroom.

Her mother's *empty* bedroom.

The bell above the front door informed her that yet another visitor had arrived. The mystery guest quickly joined the dull roar of whispers, sobs, and utensils sweeping across plates. There were so many casseroles in the kitchen it was almost impossible to pick out distinct smells throughout the house.

Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and found a hint of tomatoes.

Sharp.

Acidic.

Stewed and salted.

They pushed their way around, creating bulges in dishes of noodles and cheese and making the air smell earthy in all the best ways.

With another breath, she found garlic. Zesty and spicy. Although she preferred to use the cloves to cleanse her divination tools rather than adding that much to a bowl of food.

But alas, the smell that hit her when she focused was lasagna. It was always lasagna. Why the Rook folk loved their knock-off Italian so much she had never understood. They came from the south; you’d think there'd be more meatloaf than meatballs. Or hell — soups and baked goods, since kitchen magic was so damn common. Regina was hardly the only one pulled in its direction.

Another deep breath and the trail of tomato was gone again. It had mingled too deeply into the rest of the food. It was certain to be covering every inch of counter space. At least 3 slow cookers.

She could picture the corning-ware through the walls.

Her mother would have loved all of this — the food, the company, the grief. It would have been a prime opportunity to guilt the long-distance family members. The woman had been the ultimate matriarch. Who needs a Queen of England when you have Riley Rook: Coven Leader.

A soft sigh shimmied out of her lungs and into the already dense room. It couldn’t be that long before someone would come looking. She should have been at the door instead of hiding, but she overwhelmed easily. A bad trait for a Rook to have, so she’d been told. Even Renee would pester her soon.

In an effort to not be cornered, quite against her will, Regina picked herself up and walked into the living room. Before she could even decide which direction to go, someone tapped on her shoulder.

*So much for not getting cornered,* she thought, trying not to think about who had spotted her that quickly. With a clenched jaw and a lead ball in the pit of her stomach, she turned around.

Face to face with the eternally annoyed face of an aunt she had hoped wouldn’t show up.

Her mother would probably have loved this part too; getting to be the peace-maker. The single most adult person in the room, and telling both parties, opposite ends of the family, to go simmer down and maybe read a book or something.

“Go light a candle,” she would say.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

“Go say a prayer,” she would order.

“Check on the salt ring,” she would tell anyone looking too bored.

Riley Rook never let anyone forget that it took all of us, and it took every day, to fulfill our promise to the world. And a fight was just another chance to remind someone.

“Hello?”

Regina blinked, suddenly unsure of how long she had been daydreaming about her dead mom.

“Earth to Gina.”

“What!” Regina snapped, annoyed at the obnoxious childhood nickname/insult. Trying to regain her composure, she forced a complete sentence out. “What can I help you with?”

It was about 7 levels more polite than she wanted to be at that moment. People all around and the only one looking at her was the person she liked least of them all.

The woman pointed a finger in Regina’s face for a moment as she spoke. “It's a hard day for us all. Least you can do is remember your manners.” She let her hand fall far enough to cross her arms over her chest, and she shifted her weight.

A speech was on its way.

“You are her oldest, after all. Last year we lost *my* mother, and now with this…” she said as she looked disdainfully around the room. “We function best when everyone plays their part.”

*My part?*

“Their part? What ‘part’ exactly are you trying to pin on me? I’m the oldest daughter of my mother, but this room is full of women who are elder than me. More experienced than me. *stronger* than me.” Regina mimicked her aunt's body language — confused at where the conversation was going.

“Your *part*, Regina Michelle Rook, is to perform the consecration before its too late. Your *part*,” she lifted her finger back up to wiggle around in front of her, “is to lend your strength to this family, no matter how small you perceive that to be.” She took a step forward, closing the gap between them entirely.

One woman towered over the other, her face contorted and breath warm on the other's face. “Your part is to be a Rook. Be a proper witch. Heaven forbid no one acts in time, and instead of an accident, you turn—”

“Aunt Rose!” Renee called, feet pounding on the wooden floor as she finished her stomp from across the room. She pushed on one shoulder, separating her from Regina. “Take a breath. Preferably outside.”

Rose straightened her spine, arms back over her chest. As if that was simply their default position. Stiff, like the rest of her.

Regina had always seen her as stiff. Rigid in the old ways of the practice. Rigid in every single thing - even about grief.

“As if you have any room to talk, Renee. Despite the number of people you crammed into this room, we aren’t that many. If we don’t follow the rituals, there could be a breach. If girls like your sister had their way, we would have more breaches than we could handle. There is no one to take our place.”

“Outside, and maybe a cup of coffee.” Renee shook her head and pushed once more on the stiff woman. She gave a look to her sister and escorted their aunt through the crowd.

While she watched them disappear, she quietly whined that she was alone again. Rose may be the worst of her aunts, but she wasn't the only one that would be eager to ask her questions. Question like…

“The consecration,” she muttered, the point rolling back into her head. “Fuck.”

The funeral and the wake were the fun parts, it seemed. Wallowing in grief and eating your way through condolences was standard. Next was the full moon and the dirt and the burial, and all the spell-work that came with it. Her mother was the head-witch, she was full-blooded, and she had an eldest daughter.

It was like a perfect storm, lining up for her. Without the fun parts afterward; those went to *Rose.* No wonder the woman had been so worried — she believed she would lose it all if so much as a single step was missed.

Regina stood there, eyes unfocused on anything they were looking at, hoping that her sister was willing to help. Her body was frozen for a while, poring over current events, before a shadow took up her eye space. She blinked, and when that didn't free up her body, she shook her head.

Focusing, at last, she turned her face forward and noticed a tall, well-dressed man holding two glasses, both with lots of ice and likely cola. She smiled. “Uncle Taylor. Dare I ask?” She gestured toward the beverages.

He gave her a weak smile in return and held one cup out for her to take.

“It’s been a day. I imagine the night won’t be any easier for you.” He nodded toward his hand, lifting it slightly.

Regina took it, holding it between her own hands. She was still unsure if she was reading him correctly — but he had always been her favorite uncle for a reason. He understood the women. He understood *her.* And he never took himself too seriously.

With one hand free, Taylor lifted his own cup to his mouth, downing a third of the contents in one gulp. “I don’t imagine the coming days will get much easier for anyone, come to think of it.”

“I agree.”