Thoughts on Rebellious Romance & Indie Bookstore Marketing with M.J. Etkind

The witches hadn’t asked Bea if she was sure when they’d handed her the small glass vial. They’d also never once questioned whether she was ready or insisted she wait any more time than the sixty minutes it took for the potion to brew and then cool enough for her to drink. They’d assured her that this potion had been used safely for millennia and was much, much safer than the alternative. Bea had never thought she’d be here, never thought she’d have to make this decision, and yet, she wasn’t nervous. There was only a sense of clarity as she sat at the small wooden table in Sylvie and Harriet’s cabin.

“Here goes,” Bea said and then tipped the miniature vial back and let the amber-colored liquid slip down her throat. The taste wasn’t pleasant, but it was gone in a second.

Once she swallowed, Harriet handed her a glass of water, and Sylvie gently explained what was going to happen next. “You’ll cramp like you’re on your period, and there might be some nausea. We’ll give you a potion to counteract the worst of the symptoms, but you should still rest for a few days.”

“We can loan you a heating pad,” Harriet added.

Despite the serious circumstances, it was hard to feel anything but at ease in the warm, cozy little cabin. Holly, Bea’s dog, whom she brought almost everywhere, was snoozing near the hearth, and the small kitchen smelled delightfully yeasty from the freshly baked bread Harriet had just taken out of the oven.

Bea could have gone to a doctor for this, but the closest one who could see a werewolf was nearly three hours away, and she didn’t want to travel that far. This was simple enough healthcare for the witches to handle; the trip to the doctor’s wasn’t worth the time and gas money. Besides, she’d grown up going to the witches’ small cottage on the edge of Pine Falls for all manner of little things. Sylvie was a healer and could cure minor bumps, bruises, and ailments, and Harriet had a talent for potions that transcended the ability of most witches.

And the two of them—Harriet and Sylvie—were witches in every sense of the word. True, neither of them would be caught dead in dowdy black frocks—instead favoring hearty work pants and Doc Martens that made it easier to work in the garden—their attire, complete with matching flattop hairstyles and carabiners full of keys, turned heads sometimes. But none of that was ever a big deal among those who knew them well. They were too important a part of the community, particularly for magical beings who lived nearby and needed the potions they could concoct, like Bea.

Bea pushed her straight, dark-brown hair off her shoulder and away from where it had fallen in her face. “But it’s gone, right?”

“It will be gone,” Sylvie confirmed.

Bea let out a deep breath, feeling her lungs empty for the first time in days. The tightness that had encapsulated her chest finally eased, and her heart rate returned to normal. She’d made the right decision, and she knew it; she knew it as well as she knew the sky was blue and the sun was hot.

Maybe she would have children someday. But at not quite thirty, she wasn’t ready for that yet. So when she’d realized her period was late, she’d known exactly what to do. She hadn’t told anyone else, especially not her husband, Ryan. He didn’t need to know. Hell, even if she ended up wanting to have kids, it definitely wouldn’t be with him. And he didn’t know it yet, but he wasn’t going to be her husband for much longer, anyway.