When a witch dies, it is the duty of the Supreme Council of the Consort to preside over and deliver the cremation of the deceased. Only the Council and the family of the deceased are allowed to attend. It had been this way since the beginning, and it would always be that way. Far from the crowd of the other witches, across the meadow almost hidden from sight, the Council stood alongside Salem and Olympia. Michael’s tiny body was laid on a bed of kindling and pitch. All of the sounds of the night seemed to go mute in Salem’s mind. The muffled sounds of the Consort party across the lawn were imperceptible to her now. She didn’t even notice the sounds of nightbirds chirping overhead or the gentle rustling of the limbs in the breeze. The chorus of crickets lost her as an audience, and only her heart beat could be heard in her ears. Everything else was solemnly quiet. All she noticed was that tiny body of her son laying still atop the pile of wood. That body had been her son. It had been a giggling face when she’d make silly sounds. It had been a long, high-pitched cry when he was hungry, wet, or mad. It had been the bond which had forever tied her and David together. Salem never once thought that bond might die. But there he was, Michael—lifeless, unmoving, pale, and dead on a stack of wood on a lawn she would never see again. Though Salem knew intellectually he wasn’t inside the body any longer, she still couldn’t help but feel protective of his corpse. She didn’t want the others to see her son like this. If only they had been able to see him run to the TV to smack the screen when he saw a dog appear. Or if they’d heard the lilt of his laugh. Or seen him try to master walking and always falling back on his diaper-padded bottom. She knew that Michael. They only knew this empty shell.

  Ursula approached Salem with a torch. Lighting it with a match, she passed it to Salem and took several steps back to stand with the Council. Salem stood alone before the pyre. To be the one to toss the torch was more than she could stand, but tradition was tradition…even if it seemed much too tribal and insensitive—or was that only because it was now happening to her? She felt Olympia step forward and place her gentle hand on Salem’s shoulder. She placed her hand on the torch with Salem’s, and together they tossed it onto the piled wood at their feet. It ignited immediately.

  His body burned for a long time. Salem stood alone, unblinking as she stared into the flames of blue, red, orange, and yellow. To some the smell might have been putrid, but to her it was necessary to experience. These were the last scents of her son she would ever know. She thought back on her short time with him. The way his baby skin smelled in her arms after a bath. The aroma of the baby food he used to spit back out the second she fed him. When he moved onto real food, the way he had spread his dinner all over his highchair tray at every meal—smashing it with his hand before lifting it to his mouth.

  The scent of his burning flesh and bone were now all she had, and it too was waning. She would not cry. Salem vowed only to weep in private—not even in front of her family anymore. Only at night when the moon was growing tired and everyone in Blanchard House was sleeping. That was her designated time to cry. Then and only then would she allow her heart to split open. But here and now, as the last crackle of fire began to burn out, and the form of what had once been her son was melted away, Salem thought of David and hoped his spirit had joined with Michael now. He’s too young to be alone. Even in death, he is still just a baby. She knew better than this of course. Her son was in Heaven now with God, for whatever inexplicable selfish reason He’d have taken him so early. Or if there wasn’t really a God, she knew Michael would be only mindless energy now. She was comforted by either outcome. Her child with his father in Heaven, or the two of them merely joined energy. Either way she liked to think of David and Michael together, holding hands in the adventure of uncovering Death’s other worlds.

  “I suppose you don’t care what we do with the bones,” Atheidrelle said coldly, approaching the smoldering pile and bursting through Salem’s solemn thoughts.

  “What?” Salem said looking up from the ash, startled.

  “He was just a child, after all,” Atheidrelle pointed out. “A baby witch. His power was not yet strong enough, nor cognizant enough to be of any future use. I don’t suppose you’ll be requiring the bone dust.”

  Olympia, who had followed Atheidrelle once she saw her moving towards Salem, heard what Atheidrelle just said. “As tactful as always, I see,” Olympia said glaring at Atheidrelle as she took her place beside her granddaughter.

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  “I am only being practical,” Atheidrelle replied, eyes glimmering as though they were smiling even though her mouth was not. “I only wanted to know what we should do with the remains. I suppose I will have to dispose of them myself.”

  “That’s enough,” Ursula said, approaching with Brimford. “I have heard this entire exchange, and I am appalled at your insensitivity, Atheidrelle Obreiggon.”

  “I’m afraid you have misconstrued my intentions,” Atheidrelle smiled cunningly. “I was simply offering to remove the boy’s ashes. This young woman should not have to deal with such matters at a grievous time as this. I can have one of the servants bag it all up and place with the rest of the trash to be hauled away.”

  Olympia stepped into Atheidrelle’s personal space, looking her directly in the eye. “You are coming dangerously close to awakening my anger. You know how unwise that would be.”

  Ursula intervened between them. “I will not have this. Atheidrelle, you are behaving badly—unbecoming to a Council member, even if you are only seated in that chair as your husband’s proxy. This will cease now.”

  Salem looked directly towards Atheidrelle as she spoke to the two genuine Council members. “As his mother, I have final say as to what happens to his remains.”

  “Yes, dear,” Ursula stated. “That’s the law.”

  “Then I wish him to be buried here, on this very spot…at Oleander.”

  “I will not allow it!” Atheidrelle shouted.

  “No, Salem,” Olympia gasped. “He belongs at Blanchard House.”

  “I want him here,” Salem grinned. “That is within my rights according to Association law. Isn’t that right your majesty?”

  “That is correct.” Ursula stated. “But I think it unwise, Salem. Wouldn’t you prefer him to be buried at home where you can be near him?”

  “I want him here at Oleander.”

  Atheidrelle folded her arms in a standoff. “I refuse.”

  “Then you break one of our Association covenants,” Brimford alerted. “That is a violation with severe ramifications. You’d forfeit your husband’s seat on the Council.”

  Atheidrelle had no choice if she wanted to protect her position in the Consort. “You will live to regret this action, Salem.”

  Salem took another bold step towards Atheidrelle, standing so close their noses were almost touching. Atheidrelle’s black eyes bulged in a mixture of fury and apprehension. “My son,” Salem asserted, “has more of a right to be here than you do.”

  Olympia walked alone back to the courtyard. Salem wanted time alone in the meadow. She sat on a grassy hill watching two Oleander servants burying Michael’s remains on the spot where he’d been cremated. She wondered if she was doing the right thing leaving him there or if she had just been so filled with spite that she’d made a hasty decision. Suddenly Salem felt a meek tap on her shoulder. A young woman, barely twenty, stood beside her. The girl’s hair was as long as Salem’s but redder--almost crimson. She also had Salem’s green eyes.

  “My name is Arielle Obreiggon,” she said.

  Salem met her with resentment. “I suppose you have come to harass me for my decision to bury my son on your property. Your sister Cassandra has already been by to tell me what she thinks of it.”

  “Oh no,” the girl smiled brightly. “I think it is a lovely idea. I think he has every right to be here. Was he a beautiful boy? I wish I’d known him.”

  Salem was at a loss for words. This was not the reaction she’d expected from anyone named Obreiggon.

  “I would have loved to have seen him,” Arielle continued. “You’re so very pretty. Did he look like you?”

  Salem was flabbergasted. She didn’t know what to say. An Obreiggon showing her kindness? Or was this a trick? Everything inside her was telling her this girl was genuinely kind, but then again, she was an Obreiggon.

  “He’s here you know.” Arielle said. “He was out of town on business, but he made a special trip back once he learned you were here.”

  “He’s here?” Salem gasped. “How could he have known I was here?”

  “I called him.”

  “But how could he get here so quickly?” Salem asked.

  “Didn’t you know he can leap?”

  Salem had never known that about him. She had never really known much of anything about him, but this was especially interesting to learn. It was a rare gift for a witch to possess the power to move across great distances in the blink of an eye with mere thought. The idea that you could disperse your body’s own molecules and reconstruct them elsewhere was mind boggling to her. A witch with that gift never need deal with the frustrations of an airport or five o’clock traffic. Salem was not aware he held the ability.

  “I didn’t know he could do that,” Salem answered honestly. “He’s really here tonight, at Oleander?” Her voice betrayed her. It was noticeably clear the idea of seeing him excited her.

  “He asked me if I would find you and bring you to him. He’s back at the house,” Arielle smiled again. “Salem, would you like to meet our father?”