Chapter 1
Renata
For the millionth time in my life, I rinse the chamomile leaves I picked from my mother’s garden this morning and prepare the bundles to be hung for drying. It’s something I could do in my sleep at this point.
It’s late winter, a couple weeks away from the spring equinox, and my northeastern hometown stays chilly for at least another month. The green magic my mother and sisters possess can keep any plant alive and thriving year round.
The soft breeze tickling the tall grass and the setting sun lull me further into my own mind—reminding me of afternoons in Central Park with a to-go cup of peppermint tea and hours of people-watching. It’s been a long time since I’ve been to the city but a lot of my best memories are there.
My late father would take my older sister, Agatha, and me on business trips into the city, and we would spend our afternoons planning how we’d run away together one day.
It’s a forty-five minute train ride from Hemlocke, but it felt like a whole new world to us.
One with enough magic to keep us sane, but full of people to get lost in.
When our father passed away ten years ago, everything between Agatha and me changed. Sometimes, I still think about leaving my mother’s home and getting lost in New York City. To create a new life for myself in one of the small magical districts out there.
Yet something always brings me back.
Not my mother or sisters, who all carry nothing but disdain for me.
But something.
Something bigger than me, I’m certain of it.
It’s been six years since I last visited the city—the same year I found Hexate, which meant my magic had fully matured and my mother wasn’t taking any chances. Over half a decade later, I still spend almost every day regretting my decision to come home that final night in New York City.
Everything was normal—I went with no plans in mind, just the need to get out of my head and be surrounded by people who don’t know me. The anonymity it gave me was my favorite part of it all.
Before the sun had risen, she and Agatha were waiting for me as I stepped off the train. It had been years since my sister and I had a relationship, but I didn’t miss the worry in her eyes.
My mother dragged me home like I was a naughty six-year-old, not a twenty-one-year-old woman.
For the first time in my life, she took out a leather strip.
Typically, her go to methods were the wooden spoon she always keeps in her apron or her own hand.
I’d argue her words were sometimes worse than the physical abuse.
Even now at twenty-seven, my mother treats me as if I’m no better than a prisoner—always a burden, even on our best days.
There’s something particularly miserable about being the only witch of a different type of magic in your family.
It’s not that I hate working in the gardens or spending my time drying herbs.
I don’t thrive here, and I never will. My skills are those of a human with a green thumb.
I have a natural talent to keep plants alive and healthy, like all witches do, but I’ll never be able to create lush fields and meadows full of blooms like my mother and sisters.
If I’m not paying attention, my magic can cause a plant to wither within seconds.
As a Gray Witch, whose magic leans more toward the spirit realm, my natural connection is with death and the night.
Pretty much the opposite of what Green Witches are known for.
It’s more than that. A coven is supposed to be a family—supportive, accepting, and loving. It doesn’t matter whether your coven members are blood-related or not. The bond is different—deeper, than an average family relation. Most witches crave the comfort it brings. I always have.
My mother keeps our coven to immediate family members, like her mother had. However, she created a battleground rather than a home.
For years, I’ve asked myself why I stay in her home when it’s clear my mother doesn’t want me here, but she doesn’t want to let me out of her sight either.
I wondered if it was simply because multi-generational homes are the norm for witches, so I felt pressured to stay, and she felt obligated to keep me.
Then one day, I realized I’m only harming myself—no one stays because they want to be abused or hurt by the people meant to love them.
They have nowhere else to go or no way to safely escape.
I started saving the small amount of money I earn for my work at the family apothecary, and I keep a small bag of clothes and essentials in the trunk of my car at all times.
If only there were a sign showing me where to go.
As if the universe can finally hear my desperation, my older sister Agatha comes into the room with the mail—odd, since it’s a Sunday.
I’m the second oldest of four girls. Agatha, who is three years older than me, used to be my best friend growing up.
She and our father were the only people in our family who treated my gifts as if they were just that—gifts.
Unlike my mother, who believes Gray Witches are a reminder of the curse on our family line.
As far as I’m aware, there have been three Gray Witches born into the Blackthorn family in the last century—and we are the only ones who end up going mad due to our magic and the Blackthorn curse.
My mother brainwashed the younger girls when they were toddlers, so they were always against me. Sometimes even fearful of me.
It’s harder to navigate my situation with Agatha because we were once so close. I’m not sure whether it was having to deny her request to resurrect our father or some sort of manipulation from our mother that changed things.
I suspect a mix of both, and the former sends a surge of anger through me.
Does she really think I wouldn’t have used my magic to do so if it were possible? If I were strong enough, or nearly experienced enough, at seventeen to harness such power? I hadn’t even found Hexate yet, so my magic was still too young, too raw.
She rolls her eyes when she sees an envelope, presumably with my name on it, judging by the way she thrusts her hand in my direction. When I don’t take it quickly enough, she shakes it impatiently.
Hexate lifts from her perch on my shoulder and hisses at her.
Agatha’s cowardly but sweet mouse familiar, Thimble, scurries into the front pocket of her apron. My sister practically snarls at Hexate, knowing she won’t attack unless I tell her to.
I can’t bring myself to do it.
“Surprising, I know,” she snaps irritably. “There is actually a letter for you.”
Finally meeting her eye, I take in her beautiful features.
The same as all the Green Witches in our family—dark brown hair with golden highlights from the sun pulled back in a triangle-folded kerchief, freckled skin that’s always a little pink from sun exposure, and her bright mossy green eyes that are a dead giveaway to her powers.
As soon as I grab the letter, she soothes thimble and leaves the room.
Trying my best to ignore her, I’m suddenly focused on the crinkled envelope in my hand.
The handwriting is messy—hurried and unfamiliar.
My name, Renata Blackthorn, is barely legible but there’s no mistaking that it’s for me. The return address is what confuses me.
Edmond Finkle, located in Briarhollow—a nearly forgotten town about five hours away by car.
The distance to Briarhollow isn’t the unsettling part of the letter’s origins.
My family’s history is murky when it comes to Briarhollow and the Dreaming Willow Inn the Blackthorns once owned.
It’s impossible to find any information about the town, even online.
The only source that comes up is an outdated website for the town library.
Otherwise, it’s as if Briarhollow has truly been forgotten or glamoured with a very strong protection spell.
There’s no denying that just seeing the town name in his quick script sparks something in me I haven’t felt since I met Hexate.
It’s that visceral tell-tale sign of a witch’s magic coming to life.
A soft hum warms my blood as my heart starts to race from a surge of adrenaline.
Even the static in the air feels different, like a million little pushes from the spirits lurking in purgatory.
To anyone other than a witch with spirit magic, that probably sounds terrifying.
To us, having the spirits on your side is the only confirmation you need to know you’re on the right path.
At least that’s what I’ve picked up on from the few books in Hemlocke’s library on the matter.
Grabbing the butter knife off the counter, I quickly cut open the top and practically rip the contents out.
A rusted skeleton key lands on the counter with a clatter.
It’s an interesting design with twin roses at the bow, leading down to a skull at the end of the blade.
I stare at it for a moment, admiring the details.
When the letter blows off the counter from the wind through the open window, I turn my attention to the other contents.
As I open it and lay the pages in front of me, I skim the contents and gasp.
It’s a letter from my estranged, great-aunt Cordelia and the deeds to the Dreaming Willow Inn.
I’ve never met Cordelia but there were harsh warnings and sordid stories about her… And her magic that drove her to madness.
She’s my grandmother’s younger sister, and the only living relative I have who is also a Gray witch. Who felt the same disdain from her sister I feel from my own.
According to my mother, she became too consumed by her powers and the connection we have to those who have passed. Something directed her back to the Dreaming Willow Inn, where she went mad.
Setting the large legal agreement on top of the key for now, I focus on the written words of my kindred.
My dearest Renata,