Chapter 25 #2
Narrowly avoiding more physical contact, I twist the doorknob behind me and step to the side, swinging the door open as I do.
He stops before walking through the threshold and looks at me, so much hurt and confusion warring on his features.
“Why are you fighting this?” he asks, breaking my heart. “I know it’s complicated but… does none of it mean anything to you?”
He means the nights we spent together.
It is complicated.
Those nights meant everything to me—often being the only thing that got me through another day living in my mother’s home.
How do I explain that simply being in his presence is the safest I’ve felt in my entire life, even without being able to see or hear him?
What words do I use to tell him that not only have I waited for him my entire life, I can’t let myself enjoy even a second of time with him?
“No,” I answer honestly, even though my gut tells me to lie. “It’s not that, Archer, I promise. I—I need you to leave.”
He steps forward, and more than anything I wish I could pull him closer. “I don’t understand,” he murmurs.
Blinking back tears, I steel my shoulders and tell him, “I don’t need you to understand… I need you to leave.”
He doesn’t try to cover the hurt that graces his handsome face. It’s short-lived once Nestor sends a bookcase tumbling over in the den.
Turning back to Archer, I try to school my anxiety when I see the growing concern on his face.
“It’s fine, I’m fine,” I promise him, but grab the front of his shirt and push both of us through the door at the same time Rowyn runs around the corner and skids into the den.
As soon as Whisper is through the door and circling to look back at me, I slam the door shut.
“He’s—uh, temperamental,” I offer lamely.
Right as he’s about to say something, Hexate uncoils enough to look up from the step she’s sunbathing on.
Her forked tongue flicks out before she lets out a low, inquisitive hiss. She’s more concerned about what’s going on inside than our company on the patio.
I shake my head at her. “Nestor.”
The one word is enough of an explanation for anyone who lives at the inn, especially for the one soul who has truly been with me through everything.
She tilts her head, acknowledging Archer and Whisper, before deciding they aren’t a threat and going back to her nap.
When I look back at Archer, there’s a sad resolve radiating off of him. As he takes a step backward, he says gently, “Let me find you tonight.”
My only response is to bite my lip, forcing myself not to eagerly agree without thinking. He lets out a sigh and nods, turning around and walking away.
Each step away hurts more until I follow him down the stairs.
“Renata,” I yell out. “My name… Renata.”
A smooth, appreciative smile splits across his face as he takes me in, fitting that piece into the puzzle of the crazy witch he found in his dreams.
“Pretty,” he muses in a smooth, low voice before turning and walking off the property with a little more swagger in his step.
I watch until he gets to the end of the street and takes a right, back into town and probably toward the library. Turning back to the inn, I don’t notice Poppy until she stops in the air in front of me.
“Oh my Gods,” I mutter and take a step back.
The bird’s presence gets more of a reaction from Hexate than Nestor’s tantrum and Archer’s presence. So much for protection.
She drops an envelope and hovers in front of me. Confused, I pick it up, wondering if it’s meant for one of the other witches, or another posthumous letter from Cordelia.
The letter isn’t from her.
It’s from Agatha.
My lungs constrict from reading her name. A small ache blooms, but I’m mostly anxious.
“How did you get this?” I ask Poppy, knowing she can’t answer. She can’t even send a wave of confirmation to me like Hexate can.
Poppy continues to spend time around the inn. She never enters, but she’s usually nearby. Relay systems are implemented in all lofts across magical towns, but Poppy isn’t a part of that. She only carries personal letters for Edmond—and now me.
Taking a seat next to Hexate, Poppy lands on the porch railing. It’s the closest she’s gotten to me yet. Carefully, I open the envelope and prepare myself for anything.
Renata,
I hope this reaches you. Mother let it slip where you went, It’s impossible to get an official address for that place. I’ve tried to call and text you, but your phone must be off. Unless you decided to block all of us from calling. That would be understandable.
If you haven’t realized, she canceled your phone plan anyway.
When you never came down that morning, I swore she was going to drive to Briarhollow and pick you up herself like that time you snuck into the city. She threatened to do it, but she never did.
I think she’s terrified of the Dreaming Willow Inn and our family’s history. She’s always been hateful. For the first time, I realized it comes from fear. Grandmother Marie instilled it in her, and she is determined to do the same.
There’s a lot I should have said sooner. Hopefully it’s not too late.
I’m not afraid of you, Renata. I never have been.
Most days, I ask myself whether it’s better to be neglected by our mother than it is to have her attention. Please believe me when I say that every inch of distance between us is there to protect you. Hopefully even Clara and Prudence, despite how peevish they are.
I hope you’re happy—free.
Don’t feel pressured to write me back, but expect a letter from me every so often.
Forgive me,
Agatha
I’m stunned into silence for a few minutes, re-reading Agatha’s letter and staring off into the woods. It doesn’t surprise me that my phone won’t work when I finally charge it. Though I wish I could see the evidence of Agatha’s worry—even for a second. This letter is proof of its own.
A tear slips down my cheek, followed by another, and another until there’s no hope of stopping them.
It’s not too late for me to forgive Agatha.
The hurt and memories of her disdain will linger, as all emotional wounds do, but the bitterness and resentment melt away.
I’ve asked myself that same question thousands of times: is my mother’s neglect better than her attention?
Is there such a thing as a better option in our situation?
I think about the first time my mother took Agatha to collect more everoot from Calista, and the dead look in her eye when she returned. The way she was a lifeless husk of herself for days until her magic brought the familiar glow back to her cheeks.
Agatha and I were dealt a terrible hand of cards. They were different, sure, but it all came from the same deck.
Gently, I fold up the letter and go inside to hide it in my nightstand, next to the photos I kept of Petra and her coven.