Page 4 of Casting Butterflies

I couldn’t help but shudder. Damn them for giving me a task that involved my worst nightmare. “I don’t suppose they described this artifact.”

“No.”

“What about the wrong hands? Is that a specific group? Person? Or just a generalization of anyone that isn’t us?”

“Also not clear.”

“How does this vague prediction tie into the garage sale in Manotick?”

“It might not. However, I happened to come across a social media post”—Don’t ask how Cedric browsed the internet because I hadn’t the slightest clue—“that mentioned an estate sale for one Dorothea Papillon, a woman recently deceased, known to collect all things butterfly.”

There was that dreaded word again. Had I known about the winged bastards ahead of time, I would have never agreed to go to this auction. Technically, we could still turn around and go home. It wasn’t as if Cedric could stop me.

“I’m surprised you’re keen on following the instructions of the seers.”

“Usually, I wouldn’t be. However, they did say one other thing.” He paused before saying in a low tone, “That the acquisition of the artifact would lead to fur becoming leaf once again.”

I could have mocked Cedric for believing; however, it would be mean to take away his hope, no matter how far-fetched. Did he really think an old lady who collected winged bugs really had anything that would break the curse keeping him in his cat shape? Then again, it wasn’t any crazier than the other stuff we’d tried. I’d read through every single book on magic I could find, both those left behind by Charlie’s Grams—the last owner of the Grimoire that we drunkenly used to summon demons—and even more lore I found online. I’d ordered antiques with promising attributes off of eBay using savings I could ill afford to deplete. All of them turned out to be duds—and each time we failed, Cedric’s whiskers drooped.

“Hope I have enough cash in my wallet,” I muttered.

“If not, I shall find some for you.”

“We’ve talked about stealing,” I chided.

“Borrowing,” he corrected. “And when I’m returned to myself, I shall replace it.”

“How? I mean, facts are trees don’t have money unless they’re cut down and made into lumber, which would likely kill you. Or are you a maple? Because the sap from those is liquid syrup gold, and as a bonus, you don’t have to die.”

“For the last time, I’m a dryad who used to inhabit an oak before the wizard destroyed it.”

“Still don’t see how that distinction translates into dollars.”

“I said I’d pay it back. The how doesn’t matter,” he snapped.

“If you say so,” I sang merging onto Highway 416 and heading south on it. As I drove, a question occurred to me based on something he’d revealed. “If the wizard who cursed you murdered your oak, is it even possible for you to return to your dryad form? Don’t you like need it as an anchor?”

“I’ll need a part of it, yes,” he admitted. “If lucky, a sliver might be enough for me to return to my proper shape.”

“But it’s been ages. Would there be anything left?”

“I don’t know,” his subdued reply, which led to him dropping flat and putting his head on his paws.

The obvious dejection had me feeling like an ass. “I’m sure we’ll find something. I mean, the roots are probably still in the ground somewhere.”

“Probably.” Still morose. “An acorn that could be planted would be better, but I doubt there’s any left.”

Leaving a single hand on the steering wheel, I reached over and stroked the top of his head, uttering a soothing, “It will be fine.”

“What are you doing?”

“Petting you.”

“Stop it.”

“Why?”

“Because.”