Chapter 19 #2
I can’t help but wonder whether he’d be able to see the differences between Petra and me, if given the chance. Embarrassment, and a little bitterness at the situation, follows in that thought’s wake.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I can see Barrett’s face now.”
“Barrett,” Clementine practically spits out. “Great. We’re collecting family members like fireflies now.”
That sours something in my stomach, the thought of what being related to Barrett would mean in context to my no-longer-faceless stranger.
“He isn’t my family member,” I tell them.
Rowyn eyes me. “You’re sure about that?”
“He was Nestor’s best friend,” I say, opening the journal and finding the vague entry I read over a week ago.
They each read it quickly, but Rowyn holds onto it, skimming through the pages before that.
I don’t love the idea of sharing this with her, but it’s only fair. She’s proving again to understand me better than anyone else by not going past the page I showed them, marked with how far I’ve gotten through so far.
Once she’s caught up to me, she closes the journal and sets it on the table between us.
“How did you recognize the man in the library?” Rowyn asks.
“What the fuck?” Clementine mutter. Her attention is glued to the ongoing events now.
“That’s…” I let out a shy laugh. “That’s a bit more complicated.”
Clementine raises her eyebrows in disbelief.
“I’ve known him for eleven years, but this afternoon was the first time I’ve ever seen him.”
This time, the young witch turns to her sister, waiting for her response. Her expression almost makes me laugh; it’s communicating, she’s truly gone mad.
“What does that mean?” Clover asks.
With less tact, Esme asks, “Isn’t part of the curse that you’ll lose your mind?”
Rowyn leans forward and swats her leg in a very maternal manner. “Be nice.”
I shrug. “She’s right. I might be losing my mind.”
“You aren’t,” Rowyn argues, turning to face me.
Shaking my head, I look between them and take a deep breath. I explain how the man from my dreams ties into all of this. The long, weird history we have with each other, and how I wouldn’t have been able to find him if the universe didn’t want that.
I can’t think of a way to explain the amount of comfort his presence brings me. Some weeks, the only thing that got me through the day was knowing he’d find me for a few hours in our dreams.
As I got older and the grief from my father’s death began to settle, I learned how to deal with my mother’s abuse and sisters’ hatred better.
It wasn’t easy—and there were a lot of days when even running away didn’t feel like enough distance from them—but that resilience came after years of the lowest depression I’ve ever faced.
The black hole is always there, even now after spending weeks with my coven and being accepted for the first time, but it’s smaller.
It’s more manageable, like I was able to shove it into a closet to get it out of the way, except I never forget it’s there.
Sometimes the door is left open, and it starts to spread again.
How do I explain that most days, the hope of seeing him again, of experiencing that acceptance from someone I would never meet, was what got me here? With them?
I focus on the facts rather than my emotions.
Once I’m sure that they’re fully caught up, and there truly aren’t any secrets left, I cross my arms, instinctively curling into myself. I’d never expect any of them to physically hit me like my mother, but my sisters were the ones that taught me words can hurt just as badly.
I still flinch when Rowyn raises her arm to gently wrap it around my shoulders.
“You aren’t going mad,” she promises again, with more resolution in her tone this time. “And you don’t have to carry this alone.”
Taking a deep breath, I force my muscles to relax, and try believing her words.
“I didn’t want to involve you more than needed—but it’s become abundantly clear you’re as fated to be here as I am,” I regretfully muse.
We’re quiet for a few minutes. Even with a million questions and problems to consider, all I can focus on is what the four of them must be thinking right now.
“His name is Archer,” Rowyn says suddenly, some sort of realization dawning on her.
“What?” I ask, turning to look at her.
“Yeah, it must be,” she says more confidently. “After Lorna mentioned seeing a man and woman walking into the library, I asked my grandfather about it.”
A man and woman.
Meaning he’s here with someone.
I swallow down the bitter taste and try to focus on what else Rowyn says.
“He was vague about it. He said they arrived a couple weeks ago and need time to acclimate to the town. But he’s encouraged them to venture out, meet other witches their age.”
She gives me a significant look, like we are the witches her grandfather wants them to meet.
“Why would he push his new employees toward us?”
With a deprecating smirk, Rowyn shakes her head and shrugs.
Wryly, Clover glances up and bites her lip, like she’s physically holding herself back from talking.
I’m about to ask what it is when she blurts out, “At least he’s hot, right?”
“What?” I ask, not sure I heard her correctly.
“Oh,” Esme laughs out and grabs her arm. “I was thinking the same thing. It would be so unfortunate if you spent the past eleven years dreaming about a man who was ugly.”
“I did consider that more than once,” I admit. Rowyn’s smiling like the cat that caught the canary. Pointing at the photo still in Clementine’s hands, I add, “We can all rest assured knowing he’s not ugly.”
Esme and Clover both let out a cheer, making all of us laugh.
“I bet he drives a motorcycle,” Rowyn eggs them on with a teasing smirk.
“Why?” I ask dryly. “Because he wears a leather jacket?”
Esme leans forward with raised eyebrows, growing more interested in this conversation.
“Now that’s what I’m talking about. You want me to whip up a little love potion for this bad boy?” she asks.
Clementine looks at her, impressed and intrigued.
Pointing a finger at the Love Witch, I remind her, “You shouldn’t administer those without both parties’ consent.”
She rolls her eyes. “Thanks, Mother, I know that. I’d make an exception for fated doppelg?ngers, though.”
My stomach drops at the reminder. “I’m not sure it’s a good thing.” At their confusion, I add, “She was married to Nestor, remember? The night I hallucinated him destroying my room was when I got to the first mention of Barrett. I think there was some kind of betrayal between them.”
Rowyn flips through the journal again. Skimming the page, she passes it around the circle. “Doesn’t sound like it was only his.”
Biting my lip, I think about that as the other women read the passage.
“It would make sense that the town always believed Barrett killed his best friend and wife because he was in love with her. I didn’t want to believe it would be something so petty…” I shake my head and trail off, not able to understand my spiraling thoughts.
Witches are vengeful. Even someone as kind as Clover would hold a grudge against anyone who spited her or her coven. It’s not a character flaw as much as it is a natural instinct.
The way our magic manifests mirrors that.
Curses don’t require any sort of offering or ritual, only intention. Pure, unadulterated intentions.
Even for a Gray Witch, whose magic naturally aligns with hexes and curses, the practice is unpredictable. It often comes with a price that the caster isn’t aware of at the moment, one that could take a hundred years to come to fruition.
I’m staring out the open double doors, but see them looking at each other from the corner of my eye. I can guess what they’re all thinking.
A life for a life.