Chapter 34
Renata
Flipping through a box of photos with Clementine, I glance at the young witch and smile appreciatively toward her.
She came bounding into my room this morning, asking if I would go to the local bookstore, The Enchanted Word, with her and grab lunch. I’m no longer avoiding the town, but I have reverted back to avoiding Archer for the last couple of days. He hasn’t found me in our dreams either.
He was waiting for me when I got back with Cordelia’s familiar, and went to find Rowyn with me.
Since he was there when I found the cat, it only felt fair to let him learn her name.
As suspected, Rowyn did recognize Jezebel.
Apparently, the town didn’t know where she went after Cordelia’s death.
Unlike Poppy, who has stayed close to me and Edmond’s home, she hasn’t been seen anywhere.
She sure is getting comfortable and spoiled at the inn now.
I told Rowyn and everyone else about how I had met Cordelia. There wasn’t a lot to say, considering it was a brief interaction, but each of their appreciation was clear at how forthcoming I was with the details.
Afterward, Archer watched me while we all talked about Cordelia a little longer. I could see him waiting, expecting me to tell the coven more. To tell them what I saw that made me act so weird before we left.
I didn’t.
It’s not new information, it’s further confirmation of what we have suspected since the beginning. If he and Sybil hadn’t been there, I would have shared everything. Maybe that counts for something.
I knew it would be good to get out of the inn for a few hours, since visiting Edmond’s home only brought more dread. Clementine’s youthful personality was just the influence I needed. I laughed more today than I have in a long time, enjoying her snarky, unserious comments.
She’s a lot like Esme in that way—always willing to break the tension with a well-timed joke. And far too interested in spirit magic as well. It’s why, despite trusting me to take care of Clementine, Clover and Rowyn were hesitant to let the young witch spend time with me alone.
I don’t blame them, and have made a great effort to steer the conversations away from my magic. She’s too curious for her own good—and for her sister to ever have any peace of mind. Spirit magic is the most dangerous to dabble into, yet so often calls to rebellious young witches.
Overall, it was a good day. I even treated Clementine to a new pair of shoes and some short overalls that are perfect for summer gardening. They were on sale—at least that’s what we told Clover.
The truth is, I wanted to make sure the youngest Foxglove sister was comfortable since we all see it as our responsibility to take care of her. We respect Clover’s rules—the few she has—but she isn’t alone in caring for the well-being of her sister anymore.
While we had lunch at The Wolf & Flame, she told me more stories about her mom and grandmother. Apparently, the men in their family all pass away young, and most of the women have succumbed to illnesses. Both of the matrons in her family got sick with decay fever.
Where witch’s fray is caused by the mind’s deterioration from using too much magic, decay fever is the opposite.
It grows from the imbalance of suppressing your powers.
In rare cases, it can grow organically, creating the disproportion for an ideal environment, like a virus. A magical one with very limited cures.
Everoot is free to obtain from the source—at least financially—but it costs money to get to Calista’s secluded island. Once you’re there, you pay in different ways than money. It’s a price that weighs down your soul, at least from what I observed through Agatha’s experiences.
So it isn’t necessarily accessible to all.
I made a mental note to talk about all of this with Rowyn, remembering the small stash in a kitchen cabinet. It’s barely enough for two doses, so we need to save it for the Foxglove sisters. Just in case.
The little witch was able to weasel more information out of me than I had planned to tell anyone—like the kiss in the library.
She got the censored version—the one Esme will see through immediately—but her adolescent giddiness was contagious, making me feel like a school girl whispering with Agatha about her first crush again.
It sparked something warm in my chest, reminding me of the days when I was close with my own sister, and making me appreciative of my coven sisters.
Agatha’s letter sits in my bedside drawer, along with Petra’s journal and the first photos we found.
I’ve read over her words multiple times, creating small holes in the paper from folding and unfolding it so many times.
I long to write back to her, to close some of this emotional crater formed between us.
Every time I sit down with a pen, words leave me.
There’s too much to say and I don’t know where to start, especially when there’s no telling what will happen to me on any given day. Not when the fates have taken a keen interest in me.
When we got back to the inn, Clementine grabbed my hand and dragged me up the stairs to my room. I knew without asking she was helping me avoid Archer, and deflecting the attention onto herself.
She somehow convinced Rowyn to let us have dinner in my room.
On her way back up, she grabbed the box of photos Rowyn and I had found months ago. We all forgot about it, but one of the Vexley twins must have found it while cleaning, so we’ve been flipping through those for the last couple of hours.
We’ve mostly pieced together which of the former coven members were ancestors to who.
Petra and Nestor Blackthorn, of course.
Isadora with her two lovers—Esme will enjoy that.
Cassia Foxglove who is present in most of the photos, but not seen again after winter of 1923.
Rhiannon Connor and her unnamed husband—either she’s as short as Rowyn, or he’s tall as hell. Possibly both.
Everly Vexley is present in many of the photos, though hardly ever the center of attention. She looks similar to Sybil but not identical to Barrett. He’s not in many of the photos. The few there are of him take the breath out of me each time.
Seeing his face takes me back to last night in the library, and then my thoughts inevitably turn to Archer.
Both of which I am trying desperately to avoid.
When the moon begins rising through the sky, Clover peaks her head through the door and gives us a kind, but authoritative, smile. “Lem, it’s time for bed. You promised to help Rowyn start pulling off the wallpaper in some of the bedrooms, and she’s going to want an early start.”
She rolls her eyes and flops on her back. It’s more playful than anything. “Why couldn’t the full moon last longer?”
Laughing, I playfully kick her leg and Clover chuckles from the door.
The full moon technically lasts for two to three days, and werewolves feel the effect of it throughout that period. However, it reaches its peak for only a few seconds, making that night more powerful the closer it is to that moment.
Apparently that’s how it applies to Rowyn’s sleep cycle as well. One night of deep, restful sleep before she is back to her normal schedule.
“Maybe you’ll find your own ghost down there,” I say.
She perks up, leaning on her elbows. “Do you think there are more? You would know better than anyone.”
“I haven’t seen any other than Nestor,” I say with feigned disappointment, “but if anyone could find one, it would be you.”
She hops off the bed and points excitedly at me. “You are so right. I’ll report back tomorrow.”
Clover scoffs and rolls her eyes. Very little nonsense gets past Rowyn.
“Good night, Ren,” Clover says. The nickname slides off her tongue easily.
“Good night,” I say and begin cleaning up the scattered photos.
One catches my attention.
It’s a shot of Petra and the women in her coven—Cassia, Isadora, Rhiannon, and Everly—sitting on the front steps of the inn. They’re all smiling and have their arms wrapped around each other.
Petra is at the center, and it’s the happiest I’ve seen her. Her smile is glowing with her hair gently blowing in the breeze. It was taken four years before Nestor went missing.
I stare at it for ten minutes, taking in every little detail and connecting them back to my own coven, when a sudden, numbing cold shoots through my shoulder.
Flinching, I turn around and quickly cover my mouth to hide my scream.
“Fuck,” I quietly seethe. “You scared me.”
Nestor doesn’t acknowledge me, but his eyes stay trained on the photo in my hand. Looking back down, I realize he probably had to watch his coven flee after their deaths and generations worth of Blackthorn witches going mad.
Partly due to the prolonged exposure to his presence.
“Oh, Nestor,” I murmur.
Turning back to him, I reach for his chest, prepared to give him all my warmth for the rest of my days, as numbered as those may be. Rejection shoots through me when he backs up, avoiding my touch.
He floats toward my door, the apparition of him flickering in and out. I’m sitting on the edge of my bed confused by his sudden departure when he goes through the door without stopping.
Staring, I jump in surprise when he comes back through in his glowing orb form. Quickly, he knocks Petra’s journal off the nearby desk and disappears behind the door again.
“Hey,” I call after him before thinking better of it.
With an annoyed sigh, I grab my cardigan and slip on a pair of rainboots. It’s better I keep an eye on him before he destroys a room, getting us both in trouble.
Waiting for me at the top of the stairs, he’s back to his full apparition and moves down them. As carefully as I can be on the rickety old steps, I follow him.
He goes through the east wing and into the kitchen. Stopping at the door, I wait at the threshold, hoping he isn’t in a destructive mood tonight.
“No!” I whisper-shout and lunge in his direction when he shrinks into his orb-state and moves toward the top cabinets.