Chapter 4
Hanna
By the time I made it back to my car, the adrenaline was wearing off and the humiliation was setting in. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely get the key in the ignition. I just sat there for a second, staring through the windshield at my mother’s perfect rose bushes.
Not a single petal dared to fall out of place. Typical. Even her plants knew better than to disappoint her.
I felt something hot sting behind my eyes. Great. Tears. The one thing I didn’t want to do right now was start bawling in front of my parent’s home where they were probably watching and waiting for me to come back inside.
“Don’t cry,” I muttered to myself, blinking rapidly so none of them would fall. “Not until you’re away, at least.”
I was the furthest thing from a crier. Growing up with my parents meant that there were a lot of reasons to cry but many more reasons not to. The criticism, the scowl that always had an undertone of disgust when the tears were visible.
Weak.
It was the word that my mother used to describe women that showed emotion. And I thought it had been trained out of me at that point.
I sighed, leaning my head back against the headrest, bone weary from the confrontation. And at the same moment, I watched the front door of the house open, with horror, and my mother step out, her back straight and her expression furious.
Oh shit.
I scrambled upright and backed the car out of the driveway, turning quickly and making my way out. I watched her stomp her foot behind me and I wanted to laugh. I wanted to cackle with glee. This was the first time I’d ever done anything against their wishes and it was glorious.
But there was so much going on inside me. Guilt, fury, disbelief. Betrayal. So, so much betrayal.
I’d never assumed that my parents liked me very much, sure. But I’d always thought that deep down inside—deep, deep, down—they loved me. Because... they were parents. Parents loved their children, didn’t they?
That’s what I’d always been told. Parents wanted what was best for their daughters, definitely. So how could they act as though the only thing that I was worth to them was a wedding contract?
By the time I was out on the road, driving toward nowhere, I wasn’t sure where the hell I was going to go.
I’d never been anywhere except home. I didn’t have any friends, because someone like me in our social circles was basically a pariah.
I stared through the windshield, fingers gripping the steering wheel, praying it would magickally know where to take me.
Somewhere safe. Somewhere I could finally have a home.
And when I realized that I had no idea where the hell that would be, I pulled over to the side of the road, staring out into the empty space in front of the car. The wide-open road that had so many possibilities, but none of them were mine.
I didn’t mean to cry. Honestly, I’d been holding it together pretty well for someone whose life had just gone up in magickal flames.
But there I was, parked on a deserted road, still wearing the world’s most uncomfortable heels, bawling into the steering wheel of a car that smelled faintly like peppermint and nostalgia.
The dashboard still had a small scratch where my grandmother had glued one of her good luck charms. I sniffled and wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, muttering,
“Great, Hanna. Real mature. Crying into your grandma’s steering wheel like some kind of sad cliché.”
That was when it happened. The tear that had been trembling on my chin slipped down, landed right on another brass charm—a little moon-and-star emblem in the center of the steering wheel—and the car gave a soft click.
I froze. The engine wasn’t on, and yet, the charm glowed faintly gold. Then—with a tiny hiss—a hidden compartment slid open beneath the glove box. I blinked at it.
“Okay,” I whispered. “Either I’m hallucinating, or Grandma upgraded this car with sorcery-level security features.”
Inside the compartment was a worn leather journal, its corners softened by time. A satin ribbon held a folded letter on top, sealed with my grandmother’s favorite wax—deep violet and stamped with a crescent moon. My hands were shaking as I pulled it open.
My dearest Hanna,
If you’re reading this, then I suppose life has taken one of its usual turns.
You were never meant to be caged, my sweet.
You’ve inherited more than my potions—you’ve inherited my stubborn heart.
If your path ever grows too narrow, find my friend Tabitha.
She’s in a coven near Grebath. Her phone number is inside my journal.
Tell her you’re mine, and she’ll help you find your freedom.
— With all my love, and a pinch of trouble,
Grandma
The journal beneath it smelled faintly of herbs and smoke. I flipped it open—pages filled with potion recipes and notes, spells scribbled in her loopy handwriting, and little doodles of teacups and frogs. And at the very back was the name Tabitha with a phone number.
Tears started all over again—but softer this time. Not from heartbreak, but from relief. I leaned back in the seat and laughed through the tears.
“You couldn’t have just sent a normal inheritance, huh, Grandma? Had to lock it in a secret compartment of a car that opens with tears.”
The car hummed quietly, like it was pleased with itself. For the first time in weeks, I didn’t feel trapped.
I knew where Grebath was—the big city that I’d never been to before—but I didn’t know Tabitha.
There was one thing I was certain of, though.
Grandma had given me a way out. And if nothing else, hiding in a large city would make it that much harder for my parents to find me. I didn’t see a downside to this plan.
And if that wasn’t magick, I didn’t know what was.