“That’s why I’m calling YOU.”

“Come again?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing that I’m aware of,” I told her.

“Don’t lie to me, Rowan,” she pressed.

I tried to circumvent answering the question by placing the burden back on her. “So what makes you think something is wrong?”

“Give me a break, Rowan. You aren’t the only Witch living under that roof.”

At times I forgot that my wife was prone to psuedo-empathic episodes where I was concerned. Much like I would experience someone else’s pain via an ethereal bond, she would see flashes of my torment within her mind’s eye. Due to the shifting and uncertain nature of the psychic realm, these images would at times be symbolic or incomplete. The first time it had happened to her, she thought that I was dead.

Thankfully, they didn’t happen to her all of the time, and she didn’t have to endure the same physical torture as I. If she did, I don’t think I would have been able to handle it. The fact that she faced mental pain because of me was enough to make me nauseous just by itself.

Realizing that she was going to get it out of me one way or another, I let out a resigned sigh.

“Remember those seizures I had back in January?” I asked.

There was a brief moment of silence at the other end, and then she spoke quietly, “Not again.”

Her comment had been couched as a statement rather than a question, but I answered it anyway, “Afraid so.”

“Why, Rowan?” There was almost a pleading tone in her voice. “Why you? Why does this keep happening to you?”

“I wish I knew, honey,” I said, reaching up with my free hand to rub my temple. “Seems like we both ask that question a lot every time this kind of thing happens.”

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Headache,” I grunted, then added, “Did a number on my tongue again. Broke my favorite coffee mug. But other than that, okay I guess.”