Chapter 23
Renata
Mindlessly, I move a piece of baked potato around my plate.
It’s not that I don’t like our dinner tonight.
Quite the opposite, actually. Rowyn’s roasted chicken is a perfect mix of herbs—rosemary, thyme, sage and a few others I can pick up in the palate.
But it’s the faint, floral notes of chamomile and lavender that adds to the richness and a little bit of magic to help us all sleep well tonight.
Somehow, she is perceptive when one of us needs it the most…
Usually me.
The lavender-honey tarts cooling on the counter are a dessert specially made for the Foxglove sisters, though it goes without saying.
If they weren’t Green Witches, I’d wonder if they knew what Rowyn was trying to accomplish with those crescent moon-shaped pastries.
I’m positive they’re both aware of Rowyn’s goal to help ease some of their emotional turmoil as they continue to grieve their mother and grandmother.
Both women passed away within the last ten years, but their mother Sienna’s death is still a fresh wound, only two years old.
The lavender to soothe their anxiety. Honey to bring a little bit of warmth into their souls.
Grounding lemon zest and transformative violet petals.
The secret ingredient is the hint of chamomile she adds to the flaky crust to represent the comfort of a mother.
Nothing could replace the real thing for the sisters.
Rowyn always serves them in the waning moon state, never waxing, to promote emotional healing and surrendering.
“Are you not hungry?” Rowyn asks.
I look up at her as if I’ve been caught with my hand in the potion cabinet. When I see the faint lines of offense on her features, I kind of feel like I have been.
“Sorry—I am,” I promise and take a bite to prove it. Her brows wrinkle, clearly not convinced. “I’m just lost in my thoughts.”
Clementine clears her throat. “Anything you’d like to share with the coven?”
With a deep breath, I sit up straight. “You were right,” I say and look directly at my best friend.
In the days that she wasn’t talking to me, I realized that I have come to see all four of these women as family—sisters, even. But Rowyn is my best friend.
Her head tilts, and she lightly shakes her head in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“I guess I can’t run from my fate forever,” I tell her with a nonchalant shrug. It comes off more convincing than it feels. “I met Archer today.”
There’s a deafening silence that falls across the room. It’s heavy, drenched in anticipation. I appreciate when Esme finally breaks it.
“You met him? Man of Your Dreams?” Her excited, giddy smile doesn’t surprise me in the slightest.
“I did,” I confirm with a nod. Picking up my fork, I add, “Then I ran away—well, here.”
Before I can take my bite, continuing with the aloof facade, my wine glass is flying across the room and shattering against the wall.
My head whips in the direction of the glass, but all four of their gazes glued to me.
“Nestor,” I calmly but firmly call to the room. “Calm dow—”
Another glass—this time Clementine’s juice—goes shooting across the room, hitting the same spot.
Clover protectively puts an arm around her sister and says, “I don’t think that’s going to work.”
Rolling my eyes, I turn and give her a look that screams, obviously! She mimics the gesture and uses her free hand to wave toward the mess, silently telling me to do something about it.
“He doesn’t seem to like when I bring up Archer or Barrett—it’s partly why I avoid talking about them when I can,” I say. As if to prove my point, my plate goes flying off the table, shattering at my feet and splattering food all over the wood.
Rowyn yells, shocked and angry, “Ahh! What the hell, Nestor?” Her eyes are moving across the room, trying to see him.
It’s easier for him, or any ghost, to hide their appearance from other types of witches.
That natural connection between them isn’t there like it is for me.
Nestor is currently in his small, glowing orb-like shape that he takes on when he’s chaotic and aggressive—that would be even harder for someone to spot in a room.
“Okay, okay,” I shout, raising my voice to an unfamiliar octave. It must shock everyone because even the women grow silent and Nestor doesn’t make any more moves. He floats and faintly glows above the fireplace.
Holding my hands out in a placating manner, I slowly start, “Let’s all calm down. Nestor,” I call toward him, “We need to talk about this. So please, don’t ruin any more dishes until we’ve had time to figure it out.”
I watch his orb start to lightly shimmer, like he’s contemplating my words. A couple seconds later, the glowing ball breaks apart like smoke caught in a bubble before he takes on his ghostly appearance again, the one that looks more reminiscent of his human body.
He tilts his head at me.
“Hi there,” I gently coax like I’m approaching a moody child.
“Oh,” Rowyn mutters quietly, sounding surprised and a bit scared.
I turn to look at her and realize all of their attention is on the fireplace as they sport wide-eyed expressions like…
Like they’ve seen a ghost.
“Oh,” I repeat, looking between the four women and my long-passed ancestor. “He’s finally made himself visible to you guys, I’m guessing.”
“Honestly,” Esme says slowly, but there’s lightness in her tone, “I kind of wondered if you were making the whole ghost thing up… or you know, you really were—” Instead of finishing the sentence, she points at her head and circles her finger to mean “crazy.”
Rowyn gasps and looks at me as Clover leans over and slaps Esme’s shoulder.
“You’re not crazy,” Rowyn insists.
Laughing lightly, I shrug and reach for my drink, remembering that Nestor threw it across the room. With a quick stink eye thrown his way, I tell Rowyn, “We aren’t sure of that yet,” and grab her wine glass.
Esme smiles, clearly appreciating my dark humor.
Honestly, I’m thankful to have her and her sense of humor here.
I love that all four of them are choosing to stay by mine and the inn’s side through this, but Esme is the only one who isn’t scared to casually talk about the curse.
Her easy-going nature takes some of the fear out of the conversation when she makes jokes or mindlessly mentions it.
Rowyn and Clover always make it seem like a big family meeting whenever they bring it up. I can tell Clementine is interested, but she’s only a kid—everything about this is so out of her realm.
“Well,” Rowyn says, ignoring my comment, “I went to the library earlier. My grandfather let me see the more restricted texts.”
“What makes them restricted?” Clementine asks in a dry voice.
I’m wondering the same.
“Usually, it means that the author didn’t charm it, so it began to deteriorate before anyone noticed. They’re charmed now, but the damage has been done,” she says with a sad shrug.
“I thought you would say they were cursed or had ancient magic in them,” Clementine rolls her eyes. “You know, something interesting.”
Shaking her head, Rowyn says, “There are definitely those—” the young witch perks up, “—in cities much older and less forgotten than Briarhollow.”
Clementine deflates and sits back, ready to listen.
From the corner of my eye, I assess Rowyn. It’s because of Briarhollow’s history I assume there are texts about dark magic and other dangerous things. It is better not to encourage Clementine’s mischievous nature sometimes.
Rowyn’s eyes move along each woman, stopping at Nestor for a beat too long, before settling on mine. “I can’t say the books brought us any new information, but it did confirm a lot of things.”
“Like what?” I ask when she pauses too long.
She glances over at Nestor again before looking at me inquisitively.
I sigh and turn toward his floating body.
“Nestor,” I gently chide him. “We’re all going to stay calm, right?”
He looks around the room, not making any move.
Turning to the coven, I shrug and tell them, “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Rowyn scoffs indignantly but continues, “It confirmed what we know—that no one is actually sure what happened that night. No one in our families ever spoke about it, and apparently it was forgotten at some point for all of us?”
She looks around the room. Esme, Clover, and Clementine all nod.
Esme asks, “What about Barrett? Where did he go?”
Rowyn opens her mouth before promptly shutting it, knitting her brows in thought. “I’m not sure. His body was never found, so I guess he ran off?” Her eyes move to mine in question.
I shrug and say, “You officially know as much as I do—but I’ve always had the feeling my mother is aware of more than she’s letting on. It’s a lost cause, though.”
“Your sisters?” Clementine asks. It’s the most cautious and innocent I’ve heard her.
I shake my head and simply answer, “No.”
She doesn’t say anything, but I catch the way she grabs her sister’s hand under the table. I offer her a small smile, hoping it comes off comforting.
“Okay, so let’s just assume it’s forgotten history,” Rowyn compromises. “There are multiple books detailing the return of Nestor, whom the town assumed to be dead after he went missing for three years, and the theories about what happened that night.”
“Can you remind me what those are again?” Esme asks. “I’m doing my best to keep up with everything but it’s a lot to take in over a couple weeks.”
“It is,” I admit. “Rowyn knows more about this than I do.”
Rowyn sighs and crosses her arms over her stomach, leaning back and looking tired. “The two theories from that night both come back to one source: Barrett was in love with Petra, and he killed the couple in a fit of jealousy.”
Esme gasps, clutching her chest. Despair crosses her features, and I can’t help but wonder what types of emotions a Love Witch would connect to. It can’t only be the positive ones.
“The question is,” I continue, “Did Petra curse the land in spite, or did the curse breed from the betrayal of a coven member?”
“I guess either of those make sense,” Clover muses, “but there are a lot of holes when you question why Petra would curse her family’s inn and her legacy.”
“I don’t know how logical I’d be in death,” Esme refutes.
Clover tilts her head, half agreeing but still unsure.
Biting my lip, I glance at Nestor and wonder how good his ghostly hearing is. In a whisper, I admit, “Some of Petra’s journal entries make me question her feelings for everyone involved.”
None of them say anything, so after another look at Nestor floating by the fireplace, I ask, “What do you think about the possibility of some psycho murder-suicid—”
Before I can finish the question, Nestor evaporates back into his orb state and goes crashing around the room.
“Okay, okay,” I yell, standing up with my hands raised. “That was a horrible, unfair suggestion.”
He doesn’t pause, but he does move slower, stopping back by the fireplace. Once he’s there, he transforms back into his full body, and begins pacing back and forth—floating would be a better word.
The speed is erratic, like he’s growing more impatient. What startles me the most is I’ve never seen him do this. Every few seconds he’ll shake his head like he’s trying to get something out of there.
My heart cracks, sympathetic to how the growing panic of your own madness feels—even if he’s the cause for most of mine.
“Hey,” I start and slowly walk toward him. “Nestor, hey.”
I reach out to him, aware that we won’t be able to make contact, but I’ve heard that ghosts can take some of the warmth from the living when they pass through them. It’s temporary, but ancient Gray Witches believed it was the only sense of comfort someone could find in purgatory.
I may be the only living person, other than Archer, to understand how desperately it hurts to want someone’s physical affection and to be unable to get it.
I lightly run my hand along his arm. He startles at my touch, stopping in place to look at me.
Only my finger tips brush along the wispy outline of him, so the cold is barely noticeable. It’s hard to distinguish his features, even from this close, but I can still make sense of his thick brows and strong, crooked nose.
I hold my hand between us to let him decide what he wants to do.
After a moment of contemplation, he moves closer until my palm is near his chest—his heart.
The sharp pain of coldness shoots up my arm.
I fight the urge to pull away from him, especially when I see the soft expression of contentment settle on his features.
It’s the most at peace I’ve seen him, even with his translucent color flicking in and out from the lingering agitation.
Clementine steps up next to me and tilts her head, taking in his appearance. She doesn’t hesitate to reach her hand out and place it next to mine, not over his heart but still at his chest.
I’m positive the look of surprise on his face matches mine, and probably the other women in the room.
Almost immediately, his body stops flickering and the relaxed expression returns.
Clementine wiggles her fingers but doesn’t pull away.
Clover and Esme follow suit a few seconds later, standing behind him and each putting a hand on his shoulders. It takes Rowyn a little longer. Finally, she walks up to the group. Cautiously, she reaches forward and sets her hand in the air on the other side of mine.
I meet each of their eyes, trying to communicate how deeply I appreciate them in this moment.
Clementine tells him, “We’re going to figure this out. For you and Petra.”
For the first time, he nods.
I have to admit, I’m a little jealous she’s gotten such a clear interaction from him when all I ever get is confusion and chaos.
However she did it, she seems to have brought him more peace than he’s received in a hundred years. For that, I’m grateful.