Chapter 12
Renata
I know Nestor is trying. He’s a great husband, and an even better father. Even now, after everything he has endured, he remains the glue that holds this family—and this inn—together.
Yet in other ways, he’s the thing that drives me away from my heart’s desire: both through his presence within the coven, and through the secrets he keeps from me.
Just as I keep my own from him.
With tears sliding down my face, I flip the page and read Petra’s next passage.
February 12, 1926
Nestor asked if I wished to have another child. He said he wants to be present for the pregnancy and the birth this time.
What did he expect me to say?
We have not been intimate since he returned home.
He has never tried, and neither have I.
Each one is more heartbreaking than the last. It’s clear she held an immense amount of love for Nestor, but it simply wasn’t enough after he came back.
There’s still so many questions I have, and her journals are only adding to my confusion. Every night, I read three to five more—not able to take the despair that hits me on her behalf—but I wake up with more questions than the day before.
Yet I can’t stop.
It’s been three days since Nestor found me and I saw the deadwalkers. I’m still trying to convince myself that it was exhaustion and paranoia. Some moments I almost believe myself.
On the bright side, there haven’t been any more hallucinations. Sometimes it feels like one is about to happen, but it never does. Instead, I’m left with the growing anxiety of waiting for my brain to play a cruel trick.
As I expected, Nestor becomes more sentient by the day, and he’s growing increasingly agitated.
He pops in and out of rooms when I’m alone, now hovering by the window and staring outside.
It’s easier to hide himself from the other witches, since I haven’t told them about him.
He’s been calm today, which is a stark contrast to how I’ve been feeling since I woke up.
One thought has been popping into my head and leaving an unsettling pit in my gut: they’re on their way.
I didn’t bother telling Rowyn or the Foxglove sisters. There isn’t any reason to worry them, especially because I’ve never made an accurate prediction in my life–not even when I was young and my magic was chaotic.
The most logical explanation for my spiraling thoughts is anxiety—or that’s what I am trying to convince myself of.
Nestor is now standing in the corner of my room, watching me with his head tilted. He hasn’t gained any more of his corporeal body, so he’s a thin wisp of smoke in the shape of a tall man.
Glancing down at the journal, I skim over the words before I notice a new name—one that hasn’t been mentioned before.
“Nestor,” I call out, even though he can’t respond. I’m not even sure he can hear me. “Is this important?”
Since he isn’t going anywhere, I’ve taken to talking to him throughout the day. My hope is that I’ll get more comfortable with his presence, but it hasn’t worked yet.
“This one is dated March first of 1926,” I say.
Clearing my throat, I read the passage. “‘Today is Barrett’s twenty-seventh birthday. Nestor planned an entire celebration with many beautiful women invited. Each mention of it is a sharp wound to the heart. And yet I know Nestor does not do this to hurt me. He only wishes the best for his friend—convinced that Barrett is lonely, and it is time he settled down. It is not a wound any of those random women can heal.’”
“Barrett,” I say aloud again and look at Nestor in the corner.
His apparition flickers, looking more corporeal for a second before fading. It looks like his body is vibrating, which worries me. I’ve never seen any ghost or spirit do that. I’ve summoned my fair share of ghosts, and this is new behavior.
“Did he…” I start before scooting toward the end of the bed and asking gently, “Did Petra have a history with this man? This—your dearest friend?”
In the blink of an eye, Nestor’s body morphs into a small, bright orb of light that shoots around the room. He bounces off the walls, knocking old frames to the ground and sending glass vases across the room.
“Nestor!” I shout, crawling off the bed, quickly grabbing Hexate and protectively holding her to my chest. Standing in the middle of the room, I shout, “Stop, please. I didn’t mean to upset you!”
The orb pauses for a second before shooting through the bed’s canopy, pulling it to the floor.
Suddenly, the door flies open and Rowyn steps inside. Clover and Clementine are hot on her heels. The concerned looks from them make me stop in my tracks, momentarily forgetting the ghost in the room.
“What’s going on?” Rowyn asks in a panic.
“I—um.” I try to find an explanation—anything that makes sense but doesn’t cause a panic. My mouth opens and closes, at a loss for words. Vaguely, I feel Hexate slither down my body.
“Why are you just standing there?” Clementine asks. There’s a bit of judgment in her voice but it’s only that of a fifteen-year-old girl.
Holding my hands out to the side, I lift my shoulders helplessly.
Isn’t it obvious?
Except when I turn to look around the room, it isn’t. There’s not a single bit of proof of the tantrum Nestor had when reminded of Petra and Barrett.
It’s like the lightning strike. Like the deadwalkers.
For the first time in my life, I’m truly worried my mother was actually right about everything.
I’m destined to go mad.
I didn’t want to believe it, hoping it was just more of my mother’s cruelty, a way to control me. It’s true though. It has to be.
Panic sears through me and I can’t breathe. Looking around the room, my breath grows shorter and more shallow by the second. My hands fly to my chest and scratch at my skin, needing more air—or maybe out of my body.
It’s not even nine p.m. I can’t blame this on exhaustion or paranoia. Not when I have to look the three witches I’ve come to care for in the eye. As the seconds tick by in silence, the looks of confusion and worry cement their features.
Twirling in a clumsy circle, trying to find any evidence of what I witnessed, I don’t see Rowyn run up behind me until she wraps her arms around my chest.
“Shh,” she quietly murmurs. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Everything is fine.”
That’s the problem! I want to scream.
Everything was not fine less than a minute ago.
After a second, Clover walks up to our side and wraps her arms around both our bodies. Clementine follows their actions and comes around to my front, finishing off the circle around me. The pressure is nice—calming.
It takes a few minutes for my breathing to slow, but the tears don’t stop.
These are different from the first night here, when I accidentally casted that beckoning spell. None of what I’m feeling has anything to do with Petra and what I read tonight.
It has everything to do with the women who have wrapped me in their embrace.
Green, nor Hearth, Witches can control other people’s emotions, but their magic is strongly tied to healing properties—along with Love Witches. I’m wondering if that healing is extended to our emotional kind.
This moment is the unraveling of twenty-seven years of being alone.
I’m not sure how long we stay like this, but no one moves until my breathing evens out and the tension from my body has evaporated. Clover keeps an arm around me anyway, guiding me back to bed.
As she’s tucking me in, Clementine climbs onto the end and hesitantly pets Hexate with a finger. It’s sweet of her to worry about my familiar, and I can see the effort she’s making to be more comfortable around her.
My eyes catch on the now closed journal, and I meet Hexate’s gaze, offering her a tired, thankful smile. She flickers her tongue at me before coiling up closer to my ankles.
“I’ll make tea,” Rowyn announces and briskly walks out the door.
Chuckling, I look at Clover and joke, “Of course she’s going to make tea.”
With a strained lift of her lips, she sits next to me and says, “To be fair, tea does make everything better.”
I roll my eyes but don’t disagree.