Chapter 4
Renata
Parking my car outside of the large main gate, I try to ignore the anxiety bubbling in my gut and take in as much of the house I can.
That word is too meager for the residence I’m currently looking at. It’s a three-story manor that is in much better shape than I expected. Some of the windows are cracked and the stairs need some patching up, but it’s beautiful. I can only imagine what it looked like in its prime.
The steps lead up to a large porch that wraps around one side of the house with an intricate wooden railing. The front door appears to be in good shape, making me wonder how much Cordelia tried to restore the Dreaming Willow on her own.
On the other side of the house, there’s a bay window under what looks like some sort of watch tower. My eyes follow it all the way to the top, taking in the tall towered roof and the dark green fascia with the carcass of some sort of vine plant—maybe climbing roses.
The thought of blood-red or soft pink roses along the dark green accents, white brick, and light gray wood panels is breathtaking.
There are more vines creeping along the foundation, handrails and siding.
Even dead, the color looks a little different making me think the ones closer to the ground are possibly Virginia creepers.
Please don’t let it be English ivy.
My magic wouldn’t be able to control that hardy, invasive plant. Only a Green Witch would be able to without a struggle.
To the far left of the front garden is a huge, bare tree. The base is large, close to ten feet in diameter, and it stands at a height of at least forty, maybe even fifty, feet. The extended branches shrink into thin individual twigs that reach for the ground.
The inn’s namesake is enough of a clue, but it’s the largest weeping willow I have ever seen in person, even without its leaves. Whatever witches my ancestors had in their coven must have been very talented.
Now that I’m taking in the rest of the lawn, I realize how delusional it would be to think I could restore this entire place by myself. The front looks like the graveyard of a once beautiful garden. There are the corpses of bushes along the balcony and trees planted throughout the space.
It’s peculiar how the dead plants dried up. All of the leaves, buds, and color have been drained out of them. Yet the trunks and stems have ossified, taking on a bone-like appearance.
The strangest part is how the dirt looks dry, yet simultaneously mushy. It’s probably just an unusual tint to the mud or a mirage from the sun, but I’ve never seen anything like it.
Hexate and I look at each other, both wondering what we’re getting ourselves into.
Closing the few feet between us and the iron gate, I take a deep breath and steel my shoulders to take one look around the Dreaming Willow Inn before making a decision to sell it or not.
Maybe getting rid of the whole thing is exactly what any future Blackthorn witches will need.
Even in its abandoned state, there’s a natural allure to it. It would call to any witch or magical being.
When I look up, I catch Poppy landing on the top of the gate. She settles herself and watches us. She’s calmer now than she was at Edmond’s house, but her beady stare is assessing, making my skin prickle under the attention.
Shaking my nerves off, I push the gate open but my hand freezes around the iron picket, stunning me in place. A sudden wave of emotion washes through me.
Anger.
Fear.
Despair.
Each one sends a rush of bitter cold through my bones—the kind that hits you when you jump into the lake too early into the spring without checking the temperature first.
Hexate tightens her hold, wrapping her body around my neck in a protective stance, but it is a whisper of a touch.
The sensation freezes me in place for nearly a minute before the grief settles.
With that comes the realization that I felt someone else’s emotions on a visceral level.
An ability that should only belong to Divination Witches.
It felt different from anything I’ve read—almost like pacing through a ghost, but their essence lingers.
My brain is screaming to get back in my car and drive home.
My instincts are telling me that I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.
Ultimately, what pushes me forward is the bitter stubbornness to prove my mother wrong.
I thought the exterior and front gardens would be the worst of the deterioration, but that was uncharacteristically hopeful of me.
The inside is just as bleak. Some fresh paint and a deep cleaning would help brighten the large spaces and bedrooms. A few needed repairs are obvious, like brand-new windows and fixing the doors that are hanging off the hinges.
There’s not a lot of evidence of Cordelia, or anyone over the last century, inhabiting the property, though a few signs prove she visited often.
The two rooms on either side of the front door have clearly been lived in based on the throw blankets and open books along the coffee table, as well as a pair of slippers that look too new to be anyone other than Cordelia’s.
And the firewood is too fresh to have been left there for long considering the amount of rain the northeast gets.
The back of the inn has been forgotten. Most of the picture frames are falling off the walls, if they haven’t already crashed to the floor.
The candles in the chandelier have melted but the wicks aren’t burned down, casualties of the summer heat and constant humidity.
All the books seem to be charmed against deterioration, but even they’re starting to wear, having not been reinforced recently.
There hasn’t been any evidence of termites, or really any pests, inside the house.
Maybe someone thought to charm it against some natural factors, holding the building up.
With a sigh I pick up Hexate, not wanting her to hurt herself on broken glass or wood splinters, and turn down the hallway.
There’s one master bedroom on the first floor with fresh sheets. Er, maybe fresh isn’t the right word but there are no signs of dust mites or moth holes in any of the bedding, furniture or rugs in the few rooms I walked through.
The layers of dust on every surface tell me she stopped caring for the inn months before her death, but the scattered debris across the floor makes me wonder if that was due to her mental state as the curse took over her mind.
The kitchen is the cleanest room with a thin layer of dust covering the surface—no more than what makes sense for a month of abandonment.
The dishes are in perfect condition, sans a good washing, and there are cabinets full of herbs and tea mixtures that are still consumable.
However, the bowl of fruit on the counter has rotted, now accompanied by fruit flies.
Quickly, I grab the bowl, holding it out as far in front of me as I can, and kick open the cracked Dutch door. As I step through the threshold, I’m momentarily stunned by the back gardens—at least what’s left of them.
I walk to the edge of the handrail and mindlessly toss the fruit out of the bowl, setting it at the top of the stair’s bannister.
“Wow,” I murmur to Hexate, who is currently slithering up the wood and onto my arm. “What do you think this looked like a hundred years ago?”
As she settles around my neck, she leans forward and takes in the vast, dead property before us. A small wave of approval settles in my bones as Hexate is imagining the possibilities.
There’s a small seating area with tables and chairs—broken down by rust and weather—right before a pathway leads out to a fountain and breaks off into three more directions. It’s like an X that marks the middle of the main garden.
We can only assume what each of the sections between the stone paths once had. Based on the skeletons, it looks like a great variety—everything from flowers to shrubs to trees with vines tangled around their trunks.
“I’m sure you’d find some great prey around there,” I teasingly tell Hexate and carefully walk down the stairs.
She hisses in confirmation, making me chuckle. Hexate is probably the thing my mother liked the most about me because she kept out most rodents and other pests. As beautiful as my mother’s gardens are, they don’t hold a candle over the potential of the one we’re currently walking through.
It’s even more expansive than the maze in front of us. To the east, there are fields for vegetation with a few large sheds at the back corner. On the other side of the property is a large greenhouse and what looks like a barn.
At the back end, the path gets lost in a mess of tall grass and the ossified wild flowers—at least a half acre worth of land—that leads to a wooded area. I assume it’s a part of the property since it’s as lifeless as the rest of the foliage, but I don’t go past the dead flowers to explore.
I drop down to a crouch and hesitantly grab one of the dried, colorless petals. It breaks off easily but doesn’t crumble until I firmly press it between my fingers. The dust falls, some of it blowing in the wind, and leaves a faint daisy scent.
“Weird,” I murmur and wipe my hand on my long skirt.
Still, I can’t help but think how perfect this area would be for Hexate if I can figure out what happened to all the plants and soil.
Hexate isn’t native to the northeast part of the continent.
When I first found her, I thought she was a timber rattlesnake until I noticed the pattern on her back.
After some research, I learned she most likely traveled from somewhere central.
A few towns are possibilities, like Junimere in the foothills of Colorado’s Rocky Mountains.
She always sends a wave of approval through our bond when I mention Junimere, so it’s safe to assume that I’m correct.
More often than not, a witch’s familiar is from the same general region.
However, it’s not unheard of for a familiar to travel great lengths to reach their bonded witch.
Our magic creates an enchantment that allows them to adapt to their environment, but it usually comes with some connection to that location.
After six years, I’m not sure what that could mean for us, so I chalk it up to my long-standing fascination with the quaint mountain town despite it being a smaller, quieter community than I’m used to. Other than that, there’s no reason why my heart calls to Junimere so deeply.
It’s been on my list of towns to travel to since I met a customer at Old Wives’ from there. He spent an hour entertaining me with stories of his community and his family.
Imagining Hexate’s from there only makes me yearn for it a little extra. That open field would be closer to her natural habitat than my mother’s garden.
Reading my mind—or emotions—she hisses again, longer this time. The thought makes her happy.
With a low hum in response, I turn on my heel, walking the perimeter of the garden. It isn’t until I go back inside and start looking at the rest of the rooms that I really begin to lose my last bit of hope.