Chapter 34 #2
Letting out a sigh of relief when he only opens the door before morphing back, I quickly move to close it when I see what’s in there: the everoot Rowyn had swept up after he threw the bowl in anger.
Shaking my head, I look back at him. “I don’t understand.
We can’t take that. I have to save it.” His apparition flickers, something I’ve come to take as disagreement.
If he’s not referring to the Foxglove sisters, then what?
“Can you show me something else? Anything? I’m trying. I just—I need help, Nestor.”
For the first time, he nods. It’s quick—one single bob of his head before he’s turning away from me and heading toward the back porch.
Rushing behind him, I lose his translucent form in the dark until he stops under a beam of moonlight, waiting for me.
I don’t let him out of my sight again, but I become wary of where he’s taking me.
We pass the garden and wildflowers at the edge of it.
Without stopping, he moves through the trees.
Looking around, I bite my lip and consider what to do.
It’s creepy as hell out here. Without the foliage, most of the light from the moon makes it through the branches.
Nestor stops and turns abruptly when he notices I’m not following anymore. He flickers, showing his agitation. Letting out a breath, I run to catch up and follow him to the other side of the tree line.
This has to be on the property because it’s just as dead out here as the gardens. The grass is yellow and brittle, crunching under my boots. Even in the dark, I can make out the dark murky brown water in the lake.
It’s familiar despite never venturing this far. It’s not somewhere I recognize, but I swear I’ve been here before… Maybe in a dream…
Or a nightmare.
When Petra told me to leave my mother’s home and never go back.
Spinning in place, confusion growing, I find Nestor standing by a tree off the trail we followed.
There’s a rusted shovel that looks like it corroded into the tree.
When he snaps into the glowing orb, he hits it repeatedly.
It makes a loud snapping sound as it breaks off from the trunk. It takes Nestor three attempts.
“Am I… Am I supposed to use that?” I ask.
He flickers once and watches me.
Grabbing it, I try to hide the disgust from my face and look around for any signs of where to begin. Growing impatient, Nestor, in his orb-state, hits the ground directly below him.
“Got it,” I mutter and roll my eyes at his dramatics.
It doesn’t take long. The large wooden box is less than half a meter into the ground, but it’s heavier than I expected.
Giving it a tentative shake, I can feel things sliding around inside. I glance at Nestor and hope there’s nothing dead inside.
Something alive would be worse, but unlikely.
The last thing I expect to find are books; at least eight that are bound in familiar, dark leather.
“Petra’s other journals…” I muse in awe. They’re replicas of the one I’ve stared at almost every night since arriving at the inn.
“Nestor,” I say and look up at him. “Did you find these? Is this why you haven’t been around the last few days?”
He bobs his head again, confirming my assumptions.
Then without a word, he breaks into a cloud of smoke before fading into the night air. I’ve never seen him completely disappear like that, though ghosts can hide their presence.
Not wanting to be out here alone, even if a ghost isn’t much protection anyway, I lift the box to my chest and run up to my room.
April 9, 1914
For such a horrible morning, the entire day turned around by mid-afternoon.
Mom refuses to hire more help at the inn, despite how desperately we need it. I spent the first half of my day running around town on urgent errands and lugging a cart with me. When I stopped for lunch, only halfway through my list, I ran into Nestor, and his friend Barrett.
I almost started crying on the spot when he asked me to attend his family’s dinner party that evening, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to finish in time!
Not when I had ten more stops to make and was in desperate need of a bath.
To my surprise, both boys offered to help me so I would have time to get home and shower.
Barrett and I had never spoken before tonight, but he walked me there and home.
He’s nice too.
January 25, 1916
The most magnificent thing happened today! While I was out walking with Rhiannon, a skunk ran straight toward me. Yes, we were frightened at first—worried it would spray us right before meeting the other witches—but it didn’t. He simply stood there, staring.
Waiting.
For me.
Today, I met my familiar. A skunk named Pippan.
At seventeen, I’m the first of my friends to meet their familiar.
February 14, 1916
Nestor and I promised one another that we would someday make the Soul Tie Bond.
We are not so foolish to attempt it now, knowing our parents would strongly object. They wish for us to marry sooner rather than later, yes—but this is a far greater commitment, one that witches ceased to practice centuries ago.
Not soon. After we are married, but preferably before we have a child.
Would that not be something?
December 31, 1917
It has been three months since I last found the time—or the strength—to sit and write.
This is the first moment of true silence and isolation I have had in which to grieve my mother.
She was not particularly affectionate or encouraging, but she was present, steady, and protective. Qualities I did not appreciate enough three months ago, and now I miss them so fiercely that I sometimes feel I cannot breathe.
Before her body had even gone cold, I was forced to make decisions. Hundreds of them. Not only about her death, but about everything. Within the span of hours, I had lost my mother and inherited an inn already broken and burdened. There has been no room for grief.
I thank whatever powers may be listening for my friends—Rhiannon, Cassia, Isadora, Everly, and Barrett—but most of all, for my Nestor.
July 22, 1919
As time passes and my grief begins to settle, I feel my soul hardening all the same.
Everyone within the coven can sense it. The Blackthorns have kept a coven at the Dreaming Willow Inn since the town first formed, and I find myself buckling beneath the weight of it.
I may only step back so far without forcing my burdens upon someone else, yet I walk that line each day.
They all seem happier together—happier without me.
Nestor may believe I do not notice the way his gaze lingers on Cassia, or how fond he has grown of spending his afternoons in the gardens.
Can I truly blame him? I have always thought of Cassia as a ray of sunlight sent to bless our coven.
Beside her, I have become little more than a gathering storm at a Sunday picnic.
Perhaps I would resent her, if she had not been made a widow so young, left alone with two small children.
My Nestor has always been good with children.
Besides—how can I fault either of them, when I myself have begun seeking companionship elsewhere?
Barrett’s quiet strength, his observant nature, bring a steadiness I find myself clinging to. His magic is a gentle comfort, ever-present when my grief grows too heavy to bear alone.
Nestor will always be my love—my husband—but perhaps we were right not to be reckless when we were younger.
December 15, 1921
Cassia’s magic has grown increasingly erratic over these past months. It has been generations since anyone in her family succumbed to decay fever, yet it is painfully clear she now shows its earliest signs.
My husband’s concern deepens as swiftly as the illness itself.
I have never believed them to be unfaithful to me—at least not in body—but it remains a humiliation, all the same, for the matron of this coven.
July 1, 1922
Today is the happiest day of my life.
For twenty-four hours, the weight of grief has lifted enough for me to truly hold this moment—the day my daughter was born.
Gemma Faye Blackthorn, born at 1:23 in the morning.
If only her father were alive to see how beautiful she is. I relinquished hope for his return two months ago. I held on three months longer than any reasonable soul should have, but for my sake—and for hers—I had to let go, so that we might begin our life together.
We have the coven, which feels like more than I deserve on most days.
Strangely, Cassia and I have found great comfort in one another, each grieving my husband in our own way. In many respects, I find myself mourning her as well—though she still lives.
And we have the man seated across from my bed.
Barrett has been sitting in the rocking chair by the hearth, holding Gemma for nearly forty-five minutes now. He insists it is so I may rest, but there is more to it than that. Nestor was his dearest friend, and there are days when his grief feels heavier than even my own.
She is the last living piece of Nestor left to us. Barrett is as undone by the sight of her as I have been since the moment I first laid eyes upon her.
January 1, 1924
I believe it happened slowly.
Falling in love with Barrett.
His quiet comfort became a necessary companionship. As I grew into motherhood, he stepped forward to be the man Gemma and I required. That steadiness has not faltered for a single moment since the night she was born.
With it, I find my soul beginning to warm once more—much as my skin does beneath the gentle breath of his sleeping body beside me.
I flip each journal open to a random page, too exhilarated to think straight.
Everything about Petra—about her life—is here.
So many of the missing pieces are finally fitting into place.
Yet I am left with so many more in their place.
Slowing down, I grab the first one, dated ten years before the curse, and start at the beginning.
Her stories consume me. Petra and I have lived such different lives yet we are so similar.
Growing up misunderstood by our mothers, in different ways. Our desires for soul covens rather than only blood.