ritual was finished and the circle taken up as Dori rose again, lifting her arms in silence to bid farewell to the Goddess, then lowering them and crossing them over her chest, bowing her head.
As those gathered rushed into the next room, where snacks were piled high and wine was chilling, she quickly cleared her altar, lovingly wrapping each tool in silk cloth and tucking each back into the trunk in the corner. The Tiffany chalice. The crystal-tipped wand she’d had custom-made by an artisan in Greenwich Village. The statues of Pan and Diana, replicas of ancient artifacts. She’d bought them in the gift shop at the Met. The dagger, with its double-edged silver blade and onyx handle, slid neatly into its sheath. It was worth a small fortune. She was especially careful with the giant quartz crystal ball on its elaborate pewter stand. She rarely had time to use the thing, but it looked great on the altar.
She didn’t relax until every item was safely tucked in the trunk and she had turned the key.
“Thanks so much for letting us use your flat, Lady Starfire.” The voice was Sara’s—could be no one else’s, with that beautiful accent. She was new in town, but very highly regarded in the community. Had come straight from England with the equivalent of a Witch’s pedigree—a long and distinguished lineage.
When Dori turned to face her, it was to see her dropping into a curtsy, her head bent low.
“We’re not so formal, here, Sara. Ritual’s over. It’s okay to call me Dori. And I’ve never been all that comfortable with the genuflecting.” She glanced into the next room, where there had to be at least forty people eating, talking, laughing. Someone had put John Denver and the Muppets on the stereo—which was sure to start an earnest debate about playing Christmas music at a Solstice party among those not yet far enough along their path to realize they were all celebrating the same thing.
Dori almost cried when she thought of the potential crumbs and spills on her carpet.
“I simply couldn’t believe we had so many who wished to attend!” Sara went on. “Our open circles have only brought in eighteen to twenty people, up to now.”
“I know.”
“There just wasn’t room in the back room of my shop,” she went on. “And I couldn’t bear to turn anyone away.”
“I know,” Dori said again, fixing the beautiful blond Witch with a serious look. “It’s okay. Really, Sara.”
The other woman sighed in relief. A little too much relief. So Dori quickly added, “And next time, you’ll know in advance that you need a bigger place, so you’ll have time to make other arrangements.”
“Right.” She nodded hard. “Absolutely. And we’ll leave the place spotless, I swear.”
“The cleaning service will take care of that.”
Sara smiled. “Will you join us for the refreshments?”
Dori glanced into the dining room, at the smiling faces, young and old, dark and light, round and narrow. She didn’t want to join them. They tended to fawn and fuss and treat her like a celebrity and she wasn’t up to it tonight. Something was terribly wrong. But if she didn’t take part, they’d be disappointed, so she lifted her chin and walked into the dining room.
Several of those present bowed in her direction when she did. One quickly vacated a chair and another brought her a glass of wine.
Dori sighed, sipped her wine, smiled a little. Every High Priestess in this room had been taught by her. Every coven had sprung from the little one that had begun around her coffee table when she’d first come to Manhattan from tiny Crescent Cove, Vermont, ten years ago. She’d really done a good thing here, she thought. Her Witches were busy, politically active, constantly working to educate the public about the Craft and debunk the widespread misconceptions that caused so many Wiccans so many problems. They provided services for the Pagan community, raised money for the homeless, organized Pagan Pride events and voter-registration drives.
Yes. She’d done a good thing. And the Goddess had rewarded her. Her life was perfect. And she was sitting here in her penthouse apartment, petrified, waiting for the ax to fall.
In the morning, it did.
She showered and dressed for success in a burgundy Pierre Atonia suit—slender skirt, a little on the short side, tailored jacket that accentuated her narrow waist, matching designer pumps. She left a brief note for the cleaning service, asking them to spend extra time on the dining room carpet, and she took a taxi to work just as she always did.
But when she stepped out of the elevator into the reception area of Mason-Walcott Publishing, a grim-faced man was waiting for her.
“Ms. Stewart?” he asked. He didn’t smile.
He was tall and dressed all in black. His face was pale and bony, his eyes deep set. He could have been the pop-culture version of the Grim Reaper, she thought. And a shiver went up her spine. Everything in her told her this was it, the thing she’d been feeling in the air.
“Yes?”
“I’m Martin Black, VP in charge of personnel.”
She lifted her eyebrows. “Of Mason-Walcott?”
“Of Beckenridge.”
Beckenridge. One of the largest publishers in the biz—and notoriously right-wing conservative.
“And you’re here because…?”
“Because Beckenridge just took over Mason-Walcott.”
She looked past him to see if co-workers were lurking, ready to laugh at her falling for such a lame joke. But her stomach had clenched into a knot that told her this was for real.
“I’m afraid we’re…not going to be needing you.”
She blinked twice, and for the first time she noticed the big cardboard box on the counter that separated the receptionist’s desk from the rest of the area. It held her belongings.
She shifted her gaze back to Mr. Black’s. “You’re firing me?”
“Technically, we’re laying you off. We took the liberty of clearing out your office. Everything’s right here.”
She nearly gaped. “May I ask the reason?”
He shrugged. “Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters. I’m not even convinced it’s legal!”
“Oh, it’s legal. The position of editorial executive director is being eliminated, to be sure it’s legal.”
“But that’s not the real reason, is it?”
He shrugged. “Would you really want to stay, Ms. Stewart? Our titles fly in the face of everything you so openly believe in and practice.” He handed her an envelope. “A month’s severance. It’s more than generous. Good luck, Ms. Stewart.”
He scooped her box of belongings off the counter and shoved it into her chest, leaving her no choice but to take it or let it fall to the floor. Then he clasped her elbow, turning her toward the elevator, and reached
