Chapter 16
Renata
Walking into the kitchen, I mentally shake off the anxiety that hasn’t let up since I woke up five hours ago. The metaphorical claws have sunk deep into my skin like a cat clinging to a curtain. The more I pull away, the deeper the cuts grow.
I didn’t bother trying to go back to sleep after my last dream. There wasn’t any point; I’d either toss and turn for hours thinking about it or end up back there. Instead, I grabbed a book I found a week ago in the inn’s library but hadn’t had a chance to start reading.
It’s titled The History of Gray Witches in Society, which says enough about the contents. There’s no mention of spells or how to control one’s magic, but it’s beautifully written and makes me feel a little less alone.
More than anything, it was a distraction from my thoughts—as tragic as much of it was.
The evidence of my very early morning is painted on my face—my already pale skin takes on a sickly pallor, and the circles under my eyes are the color of bruises.
I considered avoiding the other witches and staying in my room for the day, hoping I could bribe Clementine to sneak food away from Rowyn’s watchful eye if I asked. It would’ve only been so long until someone came knocking, so I pulled myself out of bed.
As the days wear on, just over a week since Esme arrived, I find myself seeking out their company the way I used to desperately cling to any moments away from my family.
The Love Witch is a welcome addition to the coven.
The natural sensuality that cloaks her like a tailored coat is less overwhelming the longer I spend with her.
She has a brighter disposition than I do.
Esme isn’t sunshine-personified like the Foxglove sisters, nor does she carry the comforting warmth of a fireplace during winter like Rowyn.
She’s snarky and turns everything into an innuendo.
Esme’s presence is the equivalent of getting caught in the summer rain, but it’s cleansing rather than an inconvenience. She makes a person want to take their time instead of rushing, letting their head fall back on a laugh and enjoying the small beauties in life.
The girl also sleeps like the dead, and I won’t find her awake at this hour.
“Good morning,” Rowyn calls over her shoulder as I step into the kitchen. Her back is to me, but Rowyn seems to be nearly as in tune with the property as I am—especially this room.
She turns around with a cup of tea in hand and takes one look at me before asking, “Something stronger today?”
I glance at the pitcher of coffee on the stove. Clover prefers that to tea in the mornings, Esme too, and today, so do I.
Nodding, I walk up to the island and pour creamer into the mug she passes me. The small bowl of everoot on the edge of the counter catches my eye. I assume Rowyn is using it, so I push it back a few inches and don’t say anything.
It’s an extremely rare herb that’s used for only the most serious of ailments, like decay fever and injuries sustained by other magical creatures.
It also has strong healing properties when used for salves.
Due to the price, it hardly ever is used for such.
Not when there are hundreds of other plants that can clean and close a wound.
I recognize it because my mom likes to keep a small stash in her cabinet at all times.
Dealing with pregnancy and fertility, as Old Wives’ Apothecary does, there isn’t much of a need for something like everoot.
However, complicated childbirth isn’t unheard of and there have been times when the herb was used to bring a mother, or child, back from the edge of the veil more than once.
Only the richest or most desperate of patients can afford it. A small dusting costs thousands of dollars, even though the herb is technically free.
If you don’t count having to travel by boat to a small, cloaked island two-thousand miles off the coast of Massachusetts, then hike to the notorious Calista’s cottage and give her something worth more than money.
My mother has only taken Agatha, which didn’t start until my father passed away and wasn’t there to protect us from her manipulation. By that time, Agatha and I weren’t speaking to each other anymore, and the entire thing was extremely secretive.
What I do know is that Calista is a succubus demon, and they are some of the most spiteful and erratic types of demons there are.
Their powers work in ways outside of the natural magical order on Earth.
All magical creatures are tied together, like our own little ecosystem.
Demons are from other worlds, summoned here by people too weak to banish them.
Calista could ask for anything in exchange for everoot, even if it doesn’t benefit her—only harming the witches in need—and has the ability to force compliance.
I figure it can’t be anything sexual in nature, which was something I worried about after the first time Agatha returned with a dead look in her eye and a chill she couldn’t shake for weeks.
However, my mother is very concerned about her daughters’ purity, seeing it as a bargaining chip when she decides who to marry each of us off to.
My two younger sisters are far more rebellious than Agatha, or even me, but have perfected the art of doing it quietly.
I assume, like our eldest sister and I, Clara and Prudence abandoned their purity a long time ago—one of the few ways to silently fight against our mother’s watchful eye.
Just as my butt hits the chair, Rowyn comes around and takes a seat next to me with a full cup of tea for herself.
The Foxglove sisters are already enjoying a plate of classic breakfast items when I grab the serving spoon full of eggs and start making a plate for myself.
Rowyn hums in approval next to me and takes the plate from me, arranging it with food the way she sees fit.
“I made a whole spread today,” she excitedly announces. “Woke up energized and got right to it!”
“Who sleeps during a full moon?” Clementine asks with a sour tone.
I perk up at her comment, feeling the stickiness finally sliding off my bones. It doesn’t answer a lot of the questions I’m left with after my nightmare, but it does shine light on what prompted my dreams.
“I forgot that was last night,” I mutter more to myself. Clover catches my eye but doesn’t say anything.
Laughing her off, Rowyn shrugs. “I’ve always found a lot of comfort from them.”
My brows furrow, as I’m sure Clover and Clementine’s do as well.
It’s a strange declaration for a witch.
There’s plenty of power to harness during a full moon, though the energies are prickly and intentions have to be very clear.
Overall, it’s agreed upon by most magical beings that full moons belong to the werewolves—as much as a cosmic being can belong to a group of people.
Werewolves are drawn to the full moon like Gray Witches are drawn to the witching hour.
Anyone can go out and play at three in the morning, but shouldn’t come crying when they find a resurrection in the graveyard. It’s the same idea for witches and the full moon—we’re taught to be cautious of what goes bump in the night for a couple days every month.
Esme will probably sleep until early afternoon, considering she’s the last to wake on a normal day.
“The people in this town are so weird,” Clementine mumbles.
The three of us laugh, and Rowyn nods in agreement. “Very odd, indeed.”
“Thank you,” I quietly tell Rowyn when she hands me my plate of food. I take a big bite of hashbrowns. “You know, we can serve ourselves.”
She waves her hand in the air. “One day, when the Dreaming Willow is thriving again, I’ll be too busy to personally charm each of your plates, but for now, let me enjoy it.”
“Charm, huh?” Clementine asks, suddenly reluctant to take another bite.
Rolling her eyes, Rowyn tells her, “With protection and luck for the day.” Pointing at Clementine’s plate, she adds, “Now eat.”
The explanation seems good enough for the young witch because she takes a bite and zones out, staring out the window longingly. It has to be hard for her, locked in this house with four wardens and no one her age.
“Is that what the everoot is for?” I ask.
Rowyn slowly turns in my direction. “We have everoot?” she asks and points at the table. “Here? Are you sure?”
“Yes, my mother made sure to keep some on hand at all times.” Pointing toward the bowl with my fork, I tell her, “There’s nothing else that dries to that golden color.”
I look at her and Clover for confirmation, in case they have information I don’t.
“I’ve never seen it in person,” Clover admits. She stays in her seat but leans to look at the bowl behind me.
Rowyn stands, ready to see for herself, as I’m realizing something is wrong. She isn’t just curious about seeing this herb, she looks confused.
Before she has taken a step, the bowl goes flying across the room.
All four of us scream in unison.
Clover and Clementine sound mostly surprised, but Rowyn sounds heartbroken as she runs to the crushed up remnants scattered across the floor. My shout is in frustration.
“Nestor,” I scold the ghost. He isn’t making himself visible to me right now, probably because of the other women in the room. I get the sudden rush of freezing cold as he moves through me.
“Ah!” Clementine shouts again, jumping out of her seat. Taking a step closer to her sister, she rubs her hands up and down her arms. “What was that?”
From the wide-eyed expression she’s currently sporting, she already knows, so I don’t bother answering her. Especially not when I have an angry Rowyn staring at me from across the room while she tries to sweep up as much of the herb as she can.
“Please, for the love of Mother Earth, tell me that Nestor is not who I think he is,” Rowyn scolds.
She’s a month younger than me, and maybe it’s the maternal energy every Hearth Witch is born with, but it’s worse than anytime my mother has looked at me with disappointment.