Scrying season
This is the time of year I get out the black mirror. It's an old picture frame with the glass painted black on the back, nothing fancy, made during my first year in coven. One candle behind me, never in front (you want the glass dark, not reflecting a flame), the cat banished to the bedroom, and twenty minutes of soft-focused looking. Most nights: nothing but my own tired face. Some nights the glass clouds over like breath on a window, and images come the way dream images do. Last night it was a staircase going down and a hand holding a lantern. I'm not interpreting it yet. It's written in the book, and I'll sit with it until the sabbat. Practical note: candle on a heatproof plate, well away from curtains and cat tails. The veil is thin this time of year. So are old curtains.