But it was her mother.
No, Ivy realized. It was her own form of magick. A magick that she might have learned from her mother, who learned it from her mother, and her mother before that, but it was also all her own. So when—and why—had she stopped? Ivy had no good answer.
“I don’t take anything when I go out on a walk, at least, not without leaving something behind in return,” Trixie went on when Ivy remained silent. “You were always different, though. Your walks always yielded a small treasure. Ever since you were small. I’d take you with me, and I’d try to make you say thanks to the tree spirits, but you’d just run away with your hands filled.”
“Are you telling me that this Thanksgiving I should lay down an offering? Say thanks to the trees or forest spirits or something?”
“Not necess
