Chapter 9
Renata
Two days have passed since Rowyn showed up. When she said everything was in her car, she meant it.
The trunk is charmed to expand four times its size, but it’s still impressive how much stuff she was able to stuff in the compartment.
Without a second thought, she brought in all of her clothes, personal items, and valuables. There were also a few pieces of furniture, like a rocking chair her grandfather made, and a floor-length mirror set in a gorgeous, hand-carved wooden frame.
The most striking items were the last two. One was a beautiful quilt hand -stitched with an intricate design. There are a pack of wolves howling at the full moon with a large bonfire alit behind them.
The other item was a large iron cauldron—the one that now sits upon the inn’s hearth, and is used to cook meals for the residents of the house, permanent or visiting.
Its presence is a grand declaration of permanency.
Unfortunately, the main hearth in the kitchen won’t spark for Rowyn either. Just like me, she was able to light the other fireplaces in every other room. Unlike me, she was able to charm them to turn on when someone enters a room, and then off when the room is empty.
We spent the afternoon cleaning it up and made a quick dinner with the groceries she brought. She came prepared. I was thankful, considering how impulsively I left, and how little I brought.
Rowyn kept apologizing for not being able to help more.
It’s much more than I could have done. She later admitted that she isn’t the strongest Hearth Witch, but I’m not sure where that belief came from.
There’s an essence of power that radiates from her with every move she makes.
Our auras aren’t always the best indicators of our magical strengths—and many powerful beings tamper it to avoid attention.
I didn’t pry into her life further, knowing I wouldn’t appreciate that practice. I’m still not convinced.
The main den was not in nearly as good of shape.
We spent all of yesterday cleaning the large space, but it probably needs more work than I anticipated.
A lot of new furniture will need to be ordered but Rowyn assured me the family who owns the custom furniture shop are masters at their craft.
Textiles are easy enough to come by, so Rowyn and I can fix most of the couches and curtains.
I have no idea how we’re going to get the money for any of that.
Poppy stays close, but out of the way. Since Rowyn opened the window for her, I’ve made sure to keep doors and windows open for her in hopes that she may come inside.
There aren’t any guides about what to do with a familiar after their bonded witch passes away, but I would hope someone would open a door for Hexate after I’m gone, even if she never decides to use it.
Rowyn has no idea what happened to the soil either. Her gran, Sylvie, and Cordelia spent a few years trying to figure it out to no avail.
The inside seems to be deteriorating from natural causes and neglect. Like I suspected, it’s worse on the upper levels, but appears to be repairable—if we had the money.
Small wins, I sarcastically remind myself.
Some things are a bigger inconvenience than others, like the outdated outlets that need to be replaced. My phone died yesterday, but the reception here is spotty at best. It’s kind of nice not worrying about whether my family will text me, knowing they won’t.
The plumbing in half the rooms is completely fucked, and a lot of the windows are cracked, letting in cold air and bugs. However, the inn will be livable with a lot of TLC until we can find the funds.
We were both hesitant going into the attic this morning. There are a lot of things that could be hiding in a witch’s attic—especially when said witch’s family line is cursed. Thankfully, we really haven’t come across anything at all. Not unless you count empty jewelry boxes and rotting furniture.
“Oh,” Rowyn calls, pulling me from my thoughts. “Look at this!”
I hold the candle up to get a better look at her face. “What is it?”
“Some old photos! Like really old… March 1916, summer of 1920,” she starts to rattle off the dates. “There’s a few in this box.”
The protection charm on those held, at least.
“We can take those downstairs and look at them later,” I tell Rowyn, about to turn back to my pile of junk.
“Wait,” she quietly demands and moves her candle closer, almost enough to burn the photo.
“Hey,” I scold and snatch it from her hand. “Watch out.”
Rowyn’s head snaps up. Instead of anger, all I see is fear and confusion.
“What is going on with you?” I snap. An eeriness has settled across the attic, somehow stronger and more potent than the dust from over the years.
She doesn’t say anything and bobs her chin in the direction of the photo I’m clutching.
Reluctantly, I hold it up and see what has her in such a fright.
It’s an old photograph of three people dated December 15, 1925—less than a month before her first journal entry.
There’s a serious, handsome man on the right, and another man whose face is obscured. It looks like the flash went off, but only caught him. I can’t explain it, but something is familiar about him. It courses through me and lights my veins on fire, even though I can’t see his features.
The grim woman standing between the two men, with both of her hands folded on her abdomen, sends a freezing rush of anxiety through me. Because she looks…
“She looks exactly like me,” I mutter.
I can’t look away from my face—her face.
The white-blonde hair hangs in a wispy curtain around our shoulders, as pale as our complexion.
The top half of her hair is pinned back in a pretty up-do, accentuating her high-cheek bones and piercing black eyes.
The exact shade of her hair, skin and eyes is only a guess since the photo is in black and white.
I’d bet on my black opal if I took a photo and enchanted it to match the coloring, all three would be identical to my features.
The words of the strange woman from years ago rings through my head…
You look like someone.
My great-grandmother.
That doesn’t make sense. How would it be possible? Unless that woman—could she have been…?
“Renata…” Rowyn cautiously starts, pulling my attention away from my spiraling thoughts. “You realize what this means, don’t you?”
I nod sharply. It’s a stupid question. Any magical being would know what this means. Hell, I bet even the humans suspect that having a doppelg?nger isn’t a coincidence.
My frustration isn’t due to Rowyn’s fearful interest. When Cordelia said I’m “the only one who can fix this,” she meant in every sense of the words: I am the only one.
As I stare at the twin of my own face, I want to scream and beat my hands on the floor again. Whatever this woman did in her lifetime has officially and irrevocably become my problem to deal with.
With the box of photos, I stomp down the stairs, back to the main den where Rowyn and I are camping out. She’s hot on my heels, as anxious to get out of the attic as she is to figure out what is going on with me, I’m sure.
It isn’t until we get into the main room and I drop down next to the fire, letting the box hit the floor unceremoniously when Rowyn practically throws her body on top of the crate.
“You can’t burn them!”
“What?” I ask incredulously. “I’m not going to burn them. But I’d prefer to never go up to the attic again, at least not until we actually get this whole thing figured out.”
“When you say thing, do you mean the generational curse?” she asks but steamrolls on before I can answer. “Because I think it’s officially time we stop tip-toeing around this.”
When she leans off the pile, sitting back on her heels, I pull it a little closer to myself.
“I’m not avoiding anything, Rowyn,” I spit. “I’m here—even before I saw that goddamn picture, I was here. You don’t have to be.”
My mouth snaps shut and my shoulders straighten, waiting for her anger and abandonment. I doubt Rowyn would ever physically hurt me. Emotionally, all it would take is her walking out the door. After having her by my side for half a week, the very idea of being alone again might kill me.
Offense crosses her features before they steel into something strong and resolute. “I know I don’t have to be here, but I am too. Not even a cursed doppelg?nger with an attitude problem is going to run me back to my family’s coven.”
Staring at her for a moment, I try to bite back my laugh but it’s a fruitless effort. Starting as a low, raspy snicker before breaking out into a louder, genuine cackle, I let the sensation wrap through me. Rowyn starts to laugh too.
“You sound like my sisters,” I tell her. “Except I think you like me more than they do.”
She grins wide. “My sister would say I have an attitude problem too.”
“Yeah, right. You have an attitude,” I say sarcastically.
“Don’t mess with me,” she retorts and puffs out her chest. “Even a small flame can get the job done.”
Shaking my head, another laugh easily falling from my lips, before that familiar chill creeps into the air.
Looking around, I almost expect to see Mary Agnes, knowing the thought is ridiculous.
Ghosts are tied to the place they died, and hers just happens to be Hemlocke’s main square.
There’s no question what is here, even if I can’t see them yet.
Picking up on my newfound awareness, Rowyn sits up straighter and watches me.
We almost miss the photo flying off the box.
Almost.
If any of the doors were open, I would try to blame it on a strong breeze from the patio but the room is completely shut off to the rest of the world.
From the wide-eyed stare Rowyn is giving me, this most likely means one thing.
A ghost.
Some spirit that’s been locked in purgatory for who knows how long, but my guess would be a century. They haven’t made themselves visible yet—maybe they’re only waking up and aren’t sentient enough to do so.
Lifting the photo and holding it to the crackling light, Rowyn and I lean in to get a closer look. There’s the woman again but she has new company in this one.
She’s sitting on the porch steps with a drink in her hand and a gorgeous, curvy woman next to her. The woman has dark hair and soft, round features. Her skin has a slight contrast to Petra’s, appearing more tan.
My doppelg?nger is in a loose fitting skirt paired with a long sleeve shirt with a lace collar and a small round hat. It’s weird to see someone who is an identical image of you, yet I can point out a million differences from this one photo.
We both have the same high cheekbones and sharp features. Even in the last photo, when she was standing between the two men, she looked tall. I’m five-foot-nine, but our wispy, lithe frames accentuate it. She has the same, sad dullness in her eyes I see every day when I look in the mirror.
However, her white-blonde hair is shorter than mine, stopping below her shoulders, whereas mine falls to the middle of my back.
Her eyebrows are shaped in a thin line, unlike mine, which I keep trimmed but natural.
And she’s wearing a wedding ring instead of a silver choker with a black tourmaline charm.
Her friend is wearing a pretty chiffon dress with a drop-waist, accentuating her full curves and breasts.
The long, straight sleeves end in a cuff at her wrist, and the square neckline is high.
She wore it with more sensuality than I ever could.
The look she’s giving the photographer is downright saucy.
My doppelg?nger is hiding her smile behind the wine glass she’s holding.
She doesn’t look nearly as apathetic in this photo.
“Now,” Rowyn starts, “that’s a Love Witch, if I’ve ever seen one.”
My guess would be the same for the other woman’s powers, assuming she is a witch. She could be a wolf or vampire. Maybe even a human. Mermaids are said to be nearly as alluring as a water witch.
Something about that devastatingly gorgeous look she gave the camera makes me agree with my new friend.
Laughing, I nod and flip the photo. “I was thinking the same thing.”
“June 19, 1921,” Rowyn notes the date on the back.
My eyes are honed in on a different piece of information written above that.
Petra and Isadora
Dreaming Willow Inn, June 19, 1921
“There aren’t any names written on the other picture,” I blurt.
Reaching for a small pile, she hums in confirmation. “Maybe there’s a photo of the other men in here.”
I’m not sure how we’d know if we’re looking at the man with the obscured face, but I am quickly distracted as I flip through the photos of our ancestors.
Even with the charm, it’s clear these photos are antiques. The one of Petra and Isadora is only a few years older than the one of Petra and the two men.
Before Rowyn and I can get further into the memories, a knock nearly startles us out of our skin. Simultaneously, our heads turn toward each other. She shrugs lightly so I stand and walk to the door, with Rowyn and our familiars protectively behind me.