Magical Rite
an excerpt

Annie looked up as the bell over the door rang and Star Falcon came in. “Hi, stranger,” she called to him. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“I’ve been away, but I’m back and meaner than ever. How’s the mead?”
“It’s ready to go into the secondary fermenter. It was ready last night, but I was too tired to deal with it when I got back last night. I was at the birthing. It was an amazing experience.”
“Magical?”
“More than I would have believed.”
“We’ll have to have a party,” suggested Star Falcon. “With mead. I have a nice Braggot that would be nutricious for the new mother. Now that she can drink again.”
“Yes. Too bad Oak Heart’s pomegranate mead isn’t finished. That should be a special one, with all the work he’s put into it. Beth was amazing, she deserves something unique”
Star Falcon stopped still. “What did you say?”
“Beth did a great job with the birth, after she got over the denial, hysteria and delusions.”
“No, I mean, what kind of mead? Did you say pomegranate?”
“Yes,” Annie said. She wondered why Star Falcon was so serious.
“Are you going to tell me he made juice from the meat of the seeds, pressed gently from the seeds in the dark of the moon and fermented with six seeds in a carboy covered with a black altar cloth?”
“I don’t know anything about the dark moon or cloth, but the rest sounds right. I remembered the six seeds, for Persephone’s time in the underworld.”
“I think I need to sit down”
Star Falcon had turned white. Annie led the man to the Tarot querent chair and helped him sit. He leaned over and put his head in his hands.
Annie was at a loss. It seemed like a strong reaction to a description of a batch of mead.
“Star Falcon? What is it?”
“It’s Oak Heart. He’s making his death mead. We’ve argued for a decade or more about the kind of mead we want to have our mourners drink at our funeral. The kind I want is a pure show mead. No fruit or flower, just the pure honey. I’d like it to be a sweet one. I want people to celebrate my life. Oak Heart went for the dramatic and symbolic. Seriously, black this and dark that and everything underworld. Pompous, if you ask me.” His voice was tight. “What right does he have to make his death mead an opportunity for drama? Is everyone supposed to mourn him like Demeter did for Persephone, and just make everything winter for half the year because the old fool is dying?” He rose to his feet jerkily. “I suppose everyone knows but me?”
“Star Falcon, he never said anything about dying. I asked him what he was brewing and he told me. Maybe you’re wrong, he could just be trying out the recipe.”
“Sure, go ahead and defend him. I suppose you sulfited your must, too.”
“Well, actually I didn’t sulfite it or boil it. Eugene said he had heard you could just dissolve the honey in hot water. That seemed like it would preserve the honey flavor better.” Star Falcon looked incensed. “So that’s what I did.” She finished in a tentative voice.
“I see,” Star Falcon said coldly. “I can’t trust anyone.”
“That’s not fair. It is just mead.”
“My best friend is going to die, and you say it’s just mead? How could you?” Star Falcon’s voice was choked with tears; “How could he?” And he left, blundering through the door, half blinded by tears.
Annie went to the phone and called Eugene. “Can you come over? I just told Star Falcon about this mead Oak Heart is making, and he blew up at me.”
“Was it a pomegranate mead, by any chance?”
“Yes,” Annie answered.
“I warned him. Would he listen to good advice? Of course not, he knows everything. I’ll be over soon. We had better consult the cards. We’re going to need all the advice we can get,” Eugene said.