To Save a Sister: A Paranormal Women's Fiction Novel (Majestic Midlife Witch Book 1)

To Save a Sister MAJESTIC MIDLIFE WITCH BOOK 1 N. Z. NASSER Contents Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Acknowledgments Free Gift To Curse a Rival Also by N. Z. Nasser About the Author To Save a Sister: Majestic Midlife Witch 1 Copyright © N. Z. Nasser 2023 Published by Hanora Sky Press All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without prior written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This book is a work of fiction. All characters, organisations and events in this novel are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, or to real companies or occurrences is coincidental. eBook ISBN 978-1-915151-18-6 Paperback ISBN 978-1-915151-19-3 Chapter 1 Our sister Sitara was in deep trouble, not that anyone else had noticed. She washed her hair twice a week like clockwork, spoke to the neighbours and laughed when the rhythm of conversation demanded it. Except she was out of sync, like a violinist who couldn’t keep time with the musical score. Her hair, though fragrant, retained clumps of shampoo from hurried rinsing. Her eyes held no light, only impatience when she conversed with the neighbours. Her half-hearted laughs petered out like a choked car. Sitara might have fooled everyone else, but she couldn’t fool me. When three women lived under one roof, secrets were impossible to keep. Sisters knew each other’s patterns. They knew how to coax out vulnerabilities, soothe hurts and yank each other’s chains. Our eldest sister had discarded parts of her identity like an old coat. I just couldn’t work out why. To figure it out, I had come to the garage adjacent to the ramshackle old house we inherited from my parents. Once, our father had indulged his passion for cars here, tinkering for endless hours. Now it was home to my pottery business. The whirr of the potter’s wheel helped me unscramble my thoughts. Round and round went the wheel as I shaped the clay beneath my fingers. Despite endless hours of practice, the process called for patience and care. I pushed down a deep sense of foreboding as earthy scents filled my nose. Sitara was ripe for a midlife crisis and dealing with menopause to boot. Perhaps she was reassessing her life and wanted space of her own. Maybe that was why she’d shut me down time and again when I’d reached out to her. In fact, for close to a year, Sitara had abandoned all emotional labour, like she’d unplugged from us. Her withdrawal hurt, but I understood the need for space. Sharing a house with sisters in midlife was not for the fainthearted. There was the sigh of contentment over cups of tea, shoulders to cry on, borrowing from each other’s wardrobes but also mismatched moods and wishing that we could be queens of our own domains. There were also niggling worries and minor annoyances to address. This morning, the bathroom bin overflowed with wax strips evidently used by a yeti. What is more, Sitara had adopted a hare who couldn’t control his bowels. Clusters of hare droppings trailed all over the house, despite her insistence that he was house-trained. I was grateful for my studio, with its terracotta-tiled floor, pretty displays of ceramics and its window facing out onto the sands and sea of Boundless Bay. Pottery was so much more than how I earned my living. It was my release valve. A football slammed against the shop front, making me slow the wheel. The crockery in my window display rattled precariously. It wouldn’t have been the first time local louts had targeted the shop. A pimply local boy, all mouth and no trousers, stuck his finger up at me. “Weirdos. Lonely old crones.” His antics prompted raucous laughter from his friends. Group dynamics were a bitch at that age. “Nothing wrong with being weird. Or choosing ourselves over bad relationships,” I shouted. “Do yourselves a favour. Pull up your jeans before you moon the whole bay.” I continued to work the clay, ignoring the middle fingers they raised like masts. Three sisters: the first with green eyes, the second with hazel eyes, and the third with brown ones. All with our own strengths. But our strengths didn’t attract as much attention as the fact we lived alone. A lapse in concentration spilt worry into my fingers. I groaned as the teacup caved into an unsalvageable heap. “What a mess.” I tossed my attempt into the already full slop bucket. I had no hope of finishing the order in time. My customer had asked for ten perfect teacups and saucers for her little girl’s birthday party, glazed in a design that reflected our coastal town. Not misshapen lumps of differing sizes. I’d be at the wheel all night unless I sorted my head out. My younger sister peeked around the door, a flash of blue scrubs and a messy bun. “Your grunts are scaring the seagulls, Kiya. Rough workday?” Her deep brown eyes, thickly lashed like my own, glimmered with relief at being home. “You could say that.” It had crossed my mind to get an internal bolt for my studio door. Or a sign spelling out Bugger Off (Unless You Have Snacks). Although that went against the vibe of what Soul Pottery was all about. “How was yours?” Leena slumped on a dusty stool. Boundless Bay was too small for a hospital of its own. Leena was an emergency nurse in the next town. Judging by the time, my rebel-at-heart sister had floored the pedal on her way back. “It was