Chapter 33 #2
I glance around the lived-in space with so many memories to be discovered. I never expected to have a companion when I came to visit the house, but I am thankful to have Archer here. It’s eerie being in the home of witches I never met, unsure of what skeletons may be hiding in a closet.
I don’t want him to accidentally come across any new information without me. Just because I didn’t come here looking for answers doesn’t mean I’m not expecting something to happen. Not with my luck.
“Let’s start upstairs,” I say suddenly.
He raises his eyebrows and sweeps his arm in an after you gesture toward the stairs.
They creak with each step I take. It’s unsettling in the silent, abandoned house.
From the thick layer of dust, it’s clear the house hasn’t been disturbed in months, left by itself in the wake of its owners’ deaths.
The loud groans the house makes are almost as deterring as Poppy’s previous reaction to me, feeling more like I’m disturbing the memorial of Cordelia and Edmond’s life.
At the top of the stairs, I pause, taking in the small landing.
The walls are a pale, butter yellow, illuminated by the sunlight shining through the stained glass window.
There’s a raven and black cat design. It’s clearly Poppy, but the cat…
My brows furrow, remembering the one who visited Old Wives’ with that strange woman.
It has to be a coincidence.
Shaking off the thought, the wall of photos grabs my attention next. There aren’t any faces in view, but it’s a collage of their lives captured through film.
There’s a pile of notes and coffee mugs on the dining room table.
Hands holding over a meal. Milkshakes at the Wolf & Flame.
A silhouette in front of the morning sun on the patio.
A small, lit hearth with a cauldron to match the size.
A sweater draped over the passenger seat of an old car.
A hand setting the needle on the record player.
Years of memories forever captured in one of the most intimate ways I’ve ever seen.
“This was their life—her life,” I murmur with blurry vision.
Archer’s quiet for a long moment, but his eyes are on me. “Seems like a pretty happy one.”
I swallow and nod, unable to form words. He’s right.
Cordelia was happy.
Despite our family and the curse, she got to experience everything I’ve ever dreamed of.
A small, cruel spark of hope lights in my chest, and a quiet question echoes in my brain.
Could I have that life too?
Maybe there is another way to end the curse, some sort of explanation that doesn’t end in the death of anyone.
Clover had the hardest time accepting our theory, and there’s lingering doubt in Rowyn’s eyes when we talk about it.
She wants me to spend more time with Archer, as if the cure for all this could be found in our slowly built intimacy. It felt so hopeless, so stupid.
But now…
Maybe not.
Turning away from the photos, I step through the door to my right.
The bedroom is cloaked in shades of pinks and purples from the floral curtains, making it feel more intimate and cozy.
There’s still a pair of slippers by the foot of the bed and a cotton robe hanging over the frame.
For some reason, it’s the dried bouquet on the nightstand that frees the first tear. I swat it away and take a step inside.
Archer stays by the door, leaning against the frame and watching me. His presence brings me comfort, a familiar warmth I’ve experienced in our dreams many times. It’s headier when we’re awake.
I walk through the bedroom, taking in the little details. Like her homemade perfume that smells like rosemary and spice, my favorite tea blend. It scratches at something at the back of my head, too far away to grasp.
Not wanting to violate their privacy, even after death, I don’t look through any of the drawers or closets. I leave everything exactly as it is while I walk through the small upstairs and back to the foyer with Archer close behind me.
The house is small. There’s only one bedroom and a bathroom upstairs.
On the first floor, there is the kitchen, a guest bedroom, the den and an office.
Each room has evidence of their life together.
House keys on a tray by the front door, coffee mugs in the sink, throw blankets on the couch, and endless glimpses into their lives.
As I suspected, there hasn’t been anything related to the curse or the inn. Despite Cordelia’s interest in the matter, she seems to have kept her life away from our history.
Can’t say I blame her.
Now in the office with Archer, we both skim through the titles on the large, built-in bookcase. It’s an eccentric mix of magical texts, witches’ autobiographies, and a few books written by humans. It ranges from all sub-genres of fiction to non-fiction that covers a variety of topics.
“How peculiar,” I say and grab a random book off the shelf. “How do you think they got these?”
He’s looking through a random book of his own and shrugs. “No idea. If Edmond was able to send me books from the library, who knows what he was able to access?”
Briarhollow hasn’t been quarantined from the rest of the world. Rowyn has said visitors come and go, they just never stay.
I half-heartedly nod, thinking it over. It makes sense and explains why it’s such a vast collection of work.
As I pull another book off the shelf, a drawer scrapes open. Twirling around, I catch Archer going through a pile of papers.
“What are you doing?” I ask tersely and walk up to his side.
He smiles at me, taking in the small space between us. I swear he leans closer. Maybe I’m imagining it.
“I want to find a picture of them,” he answers honestly. “Aren’t you curious?”
I roll my eyes. Of course I’m curious what she looked like. Did she resemble Petra and me with white-blonde hair and dark onyx eyes? Not all Gray Witches share our traits, so I’ve imagined a hundred different possible faces.
His attention goes back to the papers as he shuffles through them. A faint meow comes from the den. We were just in there and hadn’t come across any animals. When I hear it a second time, curiosity gets the best of me.
Stepping away from Archer’s side, I approach the threshold into the living area and come to a halt.
On a window ledge, a black cat sits, licking her paw and staring at me. We noticed it was open, but assumed it was for Poppy. Unlike the raven, this cat is much more calm at the sight of me. She almost looks like she expected it.
“Wait,” I mutter and lean closer. “Have we met?” I ask what I am positive is a familiar.
She sets her paw down and jumps from the window to the couch, closing a few feet between us.
“What was that?” Archer asks, coming up behind me. I open my mouth, trying to process if this cat is who I believe it may be. Before I can, Archer holds something in front of me and says, “I think I found a photo.”
Snapping out of my stupor, I grab the print and hold it up.
I’d recognize this face anywhere. After only minutes with the old woman five years ago, her features have been engrained in my memory.
Dark eyes and thin lips against pale skin. Cordelia is younger here than when I met her. She looks the same minus some wrinkles that come with time. Her hair is black with a few gray streaks, unlike when I met her.
My gaze moves back to the cat, who is watching me expectantly.
“Oh,” Archer says, surprised by the new presence. “I didn’t realize anyone else was here.”
“I didn’t either,” I admit, keeping my eyes on the cat. “She lives here. She belonged to Cordelia.”
His body turns toward me with crossed arms. “Are you sure? I didn’t see any pictures of them together anywhere.”
“I met Cordelia,” I whisper and slowly turn to look at him. “I met her, Archer. And I had no idea.” My voice cracks at the same time a tear slips down.
“Hey,” he murmurs and hesitantly steps closer. His calloused hand finds the small of my back, landing on the sliver of skin. “Renata, talk to me. What do you mean?”
“I—I met her,” I say again and try to take a breath. I’m not inconsolable, but my breath is shaky, making it hard to form words without stuttering. “She came to my mother’s apothecary once. She said…” I let out a dry laugh. “She said I looked like her great-grandmother.”
He huffs out a breath. “She could have been more specific.”
A wet laugh breaks free, and I nod. “She totally could have been.”
We fall into silence while I take in the picture of Cordelia and Edmond as Archer takes in me, making sure I’m okay. I don’t think he’s using his magic to manipulate my emotions, but I wonder if he wants to? I kind of wish he would.
“I wish I knew her,” I admit.
I’ll never be satisfied. First, I wanted to see what she looked like. One single meeting would have been enough, I told myself. Then I realized I did meet her, and it wasn’t enough. Not anywhere close to it.
“Why didn’t she tell me? She asked my age, then said something cryptic about coming back another time. Why didn’t she just take me then?”
Cordelia knew how my family treated me, at least to a degree. She said so in her letter, and she experienced something similar based on what my grandmother used to say. She harbored a deeper level of disdain than my mother has for me.
My anger simmers into a darker, more consuming emotion. One I’ve experienced almost daily from my family.
Rejection.
I’m not expecting an answer when Archer’s hand slides up my back and gently grips the back of my neck. He tilts my head to meet his eye. “Maybe she was protecting you. If she saved you from one fate, it would only be to bring you to another cruel one.”
Sighing sadly, I look up at him with uncertain, hopeless eyes. His expression almost cracks in response but he holds it together, becoming a standing pillar in the midst of my internal storm.
“I think,” I whisper, “I think she said something in her letter to me. That she… She wanted answers before bringing me into all of this.” I close my eyes, trying to imagine the words, but I only read it once. “I’m not sure—my mother burned it.”
His hand flexes against my neck and protectiveness creeps along his features.
“You have been let down by so many family members,” he says in a soothing voice, “but let’s believe Cordelia wasn’t one of them. At least not intentionally.”
Holding his gaze, I roll over the words despite my instinct to believe the worst of her. “She wanted answers first,” I breathe out.
He nods and smiles encouragingly. “She wanted answers first.”
We stay like that until I catch my breath and remember our new companion.
Turning to look at the black cat, still in the same spot, I say, “I don’t know her name. We never officially met. Rowyn probably does.”
“What do you say?” He coos at her as she stretches in a ray of sunlight. “Want to come with us? There’s plenty of witches and familiars at the Dreaming Willow Inn.”
Much more agreeable than Poppy, she jumps off the couch and leads us toward the door.
With a smirk over his shoulder, Archer follows after her.
I trail behind, taking in the house one more time.
As I pass the desk, I swipe my hand across the pile of papers Archer was looking through.
They spread out across the wood but one in particular catches my attention.
Making sure that I’m alone, I pull a sheet with my name on it.
Renata? Eye for an eye?
My breath catches as I read over the random note Cordelia must have written to herself. The handwriting is much shakier than I remember from her original letter, so she could have written this closer to her death.
She knew, or at least suspected it. A Vexley life in return for the two Blackthorn lives Barrett assumingly took that night.
The porch steps creak and the heavy footfalls of Archer’s boots come closer.
“Fuck,” I mutter and haphazardly fold the paper before slipping it in my waistband.
I’m already walking to the front door as Archer peeks his head in, checking on me.
Doing my best to hold my emotions together, I offer him a small smile and step past him.
He stands in the doorway, seeing through my poor attempt at acting.
Or he’s using his magic to read my emotions.
Either way, he doesn’t believe me, but accepts how stubborn I can be because he lets out a heavy, frustrated breath and steps to the side.
After quickly locking the door and slipping the key next to Cordelia’s note, we make our way off the property and stop on the other side of the gate.
“I’m going to walk,” I tell Archer.
His brows crinkle and frustration brews in his eyes. “Or you could let me drive you. I promise it isn’t a marriage proposal.” His tone is light, but exasperation bleeds through.
The expectant gleam in his eyes makes my stomach curdle. He probably had the same thought I did: could Renata Blackthorn have a happy, full life?
Would I even be able to allow myself to do so?
No.
I can’t allow myself to, not when his life is the price I have to pay. I don’t deserve it.
Shaking my head, I take a small step back.
He groans and throws his head back. “You… You are so…” he mutters and roughly runs his hands through his hair. “You are so goddamn infuriating, do you know that?”
I bite my lip and nod. “I know.”
He drops his arms helplessly and shakes his head before walking to his motorcycle. “I’ll see you at home.”
Cordelia’s familiar, Hexate and I stand there, watching him ride further away from me, Whisper closer behind, before we make our way back to the inn. I dread each step as much as I crave closing another food of distance between us.