Chapter Four : Hearth Witch
Corinne
This time when Dimitri left me alone in the house, I poured all my time and energy into perfecting recipe after recipe, tweaking and changing items as I went, under Marie’s firm instruction. At night, I fell into bed exhausted, and yet I still sought Dimitri, needing him to chase away those lingering shadows and doubts.
My fingernails raked down Dimitri’s back as he moved inside of me, his muscles firm beneath my nails. My head kicked back against the pillow and I arched up against him, my puckered nipples only just grazing his chest, and then he raised himself higher, swiveling his hips so that he somehow hit me even deeper. The room was filled with my moans and gasps, and when his thumb pressed against my clit, I bucked against him - the feel of his cock inside me, and his fingers on me was too much. My head thrashed back and forth of its own accord and I was mindless to the pleasure that he wrought upon my body. I was vaguely aware of her presence - dimly noted that she seemed to step in only when Dimitri was buried deep inside me, but the thought was fleeting, because then Dimitri moved again, and this time he pressed his finger down against me in unison with his cock.
“Come for me, Vedman,” he exhaled, and I shattered beneath him, a writhing, moving mess.
Dimitri choked something in Russian as he slammed into me for the last time before he released his pleasure into me.
He lay next to me, and I curled up into him, sated and exhausted. My eyes drifted shut as Dimitri’s breath blew hot against my neck as he spoke.
“Leonel said that you haven’t contacted him.” It was a statement more than an accusation.
I opened my eyes and glanced up at him, wracking my brain for who exactly Leonel was.
“The chef.” Dimitri spoke, his voice laced with amusement.
“Oh,” I closed my eyes again and snuggled back down into his arms. “I’m doing it myself.”
I felt his body stiffen against mine, and it took me longer than it should have to realize that he was holding in his laughter. I slapped my hand across his chest playfully.
“Should I be worried?” His voice was filled with a teasing playfulness that was new here, and I was terrified I would do something - say something - to make it disappear.
“Shut up,” I mumbled as I allowed my body to relax against his, sleep tugging at my consciousness as I felt his fingers weave in and out of my hair as I drifted off.
The morning of the family dinner, I awoke to find the bed empty and the sheets cold. If not for the delicious ache between my thighs, I may have doubted that Dimitri even came home last night.
Home.
Was this home? Did I want it to be?
I didn’t know, I just knew that if it was home, I didn’t want it to be like this - where I was left in the house all alone for hours on end, only to plan dinners and functions. It was exactly the kind of life I had run from when my mother had tried to press Andrew upon me.
I rose from the bed, wondering when exactly Dimitri’s room had begun feeling like my own. This was a dangerous game we were playing, and while I didn’t think that he was even aware, when this thing ended, I knew I wouldn’t be the same again - knew I wouldn’t fully recover.
I threw on some shorts and one of my vintage band shirts and made my way downstairs. There was a lot of preparation I needed to do for tonight, and the sooner I got it all set up and ready, the sooner I could get ready.
My mother once sent me to finishing school for two weeks in spring in Britain. The entire place was run by Lords and Ladies, a few hundred seats removed from the crown itself. It was ostentatious and spoke of class and sophistication, and so naturally, I did not thrive in such an environment. After my first week there, they allowed me to remain in the library and read. They took my parents' money, and I kept quiet about being left to my own devices. In my mind, it had been a win-win for all of us.
But I still retained some of those lessons I learnt, and at the very least, I knew how to set a decent table, and so that is what I started with.
A woman called Henla was supposed to be arriving later with her sole purpose being to assist me - and then, to clear up after the family dinner. But I found that I wanted everything to be perfect - found that here, I was not willing to simply leave the setting of the table and cooking of the meal to the staff. And so I set about my task, bringing the canned tomatoes to a low boil - just the way Marie had taught me. I stirred the soup in a clockwise motion, drawing out sigils that spoke to health, prosperity, and happiness within the bubbling goodness. With each movement of the wooden spoon, I whispered incantations, imbuing the soup with my intentions.
It was cathartic in a way I hadn’t expected, and against the quiet of the kitchen, I found an internal rhythm I didn’t know I possessed. I laid out the basil leaves along the countertop, dipping my small paintbrush into the cream as I began to trace the letters I needed on each leaf - labelling them in a way that would ignite their hidden properties, infusing it into the very soup itself.
Wealth. Abundance. Prosperity. Luck. And Protection. I labeled each basil leaf perfectly, annunciating each one aloud as I dropped it into the pot, before dumping the rest of the cream in with it. And then I stirred. I stirred clockwise, allowing my thoughts to settle on all that I hoped the outcome of the dinner would be - of how I hoped everyone would feel whilst they sat at the table. The seven people we were catering for. I envisioned it all. I remembered Dimitri’s blonde mother, stirring the very same soup I heated now - the feeling of joy emanating from Dimitri as he bounded into the kitchen, and I infused the soup with my own hopes - my own aspirations.
Once I brought the soup down to a simmer, I made quick work of setting the table. Laying out the white linen table cloth, and setting the table with the good china that Dimitri had so callously used for pizza only a few weeks ago. And once I was satisfied, I pulled out the two large brass candle holders that looked to hold a pillar candle each. The work of a Witch was never a quick, simple one. Sometimes I wished it was easy as drawing a wand and muttering an incantation, but the true work was in the process of it all - allowing your mind to spiral down into the very essence of Magick - to touch it, taste it, allow it to ignite your blood.
I carved sigils into two large pillar candles - ones that spoke to peace and a calming environment. I thought we could all use some peace after all we had gone through - and I knew that it wasn’t over yet - hadn’t even truly begun, if the cards were to be believed.
The candles were doused in olive oil and rosemary, leaving a flavourful scent in the kitchen.
I had recently had to make a trip to the store in the french quarter, where I stocked up on dried herbs and spices, as well as my candles. The old man who ran the shop simply looked at me knowingly, but I was thankful that he didn’t say anything - didn’t call me out. It was a strange and liberating experience to be allowed to practice Magick freely in Dimitri’s home, and in the streets of New Orleans.
The second course was a lamb roast with baby potatoes, and I used the same rosemary I had used for the candles on the roast, whispering intentions of purification and protection into the meat itself before I slid it into the oven.