Chapter 18
Hannah
I’m seeing through Rebecca’s eyes, much younger, watching my sister through our bedroom doorway.
Charlotte sits at her vanity, brushing her long blonde hair with slow strokes.
The lamplight catches the strands, turning them to spun gold.
Eighteen years old and grown into her womanhood, she’s the kind of beautiful that makes men stop in the street, that makes our parents keep the curtains drawn and insist she never walk anywhere alone.
But right now, she’s not looking at her reflection. She’s looking at my grimoire, which lies open on her bed.
“Becca?” she calls softly. “When you cast spells, what does it feel like?”
I lean against the doorframe, the floorboards creaking beneath me.
In truth, it’s like I lived my whole life underwater, and coming into my power gave me the first real breath of air I’ve ever taken.
It’s like being the storm instead of the sea, the flame instead of the moth.
Everything responds to me, bending to my will, and every day I awake excited to learn what else I am capable of.
But I don’t want my sister to feel worse than she already does, so I search for more mundane words. “It is like the world is an instrument and I am learning to play it.”
This was, evidently, still the wrong thing to say. Her face crumples, but she smooths it away quickly. “That must be wonderful.”
“Charlotte…”
“I am happy for you.” She sets down her brush and closes the grimoire reverently. “Truly.”
But I can see it in her eyes—the hunger for something beyond these walls, beyond being decorative and protected and powerless. She wants to be feared instead of desired. She wants magic in her veins.
Charlotte is hunched over my grimoire in the kitchen, surrounded by herbs and candles. The house sleeps around us, silent except for the ticking parlor clock and Father’s distant snoring. I should stop her, but something makes me wait in the shadows, watching. Wanting to see what happens.
She lights the candles with trembling fingers. Wax drips onto the scarred wooden table where Mother kneads bread each morning. Carefully, she arranges the rosemary and sage in a circle, then recites the words for a simple charm to extinguish a flame, her voice barely a whisper.
Nothing happens.
She tries again, louder this time, and I can hear the desperate plea in her tone. My heart cracks a little.
The candles flicker. For one brilliant second, I think it might work.
But it’s no more than a draft from the window, and the flames keep burning bright.
Charlotte’s shoulders shake. She presses her hands over her mouth to muffle her sobs, and I slip away before she knows I saw.
Charlotte is retching into a chamber pot, her whole body convulsing. The acrid smell of vomit mixes with the lavender sachets Mother keeps in our linens.
Mother holds her hair back, shooting me an accusatory look. “What did she drink, Rebecca?”
I examine the empty vial on Charlotte’s nightstand, my shoulders slumping. “A courage potion. Poorly made.”
“I only wanted—” Charlotte gasps between heaves, “—to feel brave—”
“You might have killed yourself,” I say, trying to sound angry instead of terrified.
“What is the point of living if I can never truly live?” she whispers.
Mother shakes her head, her jaw tight. “Stop speaking nonsense.”
That night, I hide my grimoire beneath a loose floorboard in the corner. But it doesn’t stop her from peeking through the window whenever I leave for coven circles, her face pressed against the glass like a child watching adults at a ball she cannot attend.
I’m Charlotte now, following Rebecca through dark streets. My heart pounds with rebellion and excitement. I shouldn’t be here, but I cannot stay in the suffocating safety of the house one more night.
Ahead, Rebecca slips through a gate into a walled garden. I creep closer, peering through the iron bars.
Nine women stand around a fire. The garden is wild and untamed, nothing like the plots our neighbors tend. Their voices rise and fall in a language I do not understand, and the flames dance in impossible shades of green, purple, and silver. Power crackles in the air.
And then I see her.
She is older than Rebecca, in her thirties, with thick dark hair that falls past her shoulders and winter-blue eyes that seem to see through everything.
She moves with a confidence I have never witnessed, as if the world bends around her instead of her bending to fit it.
She wears trousers and a blouse instead of a dress, unconstrained by corsets or bloomers.
I must know her name. I must know more about her.
She laughs at something another witch says, and the sound makes my chest ache with longing. She is powerful, free, and beautiful in a way men fear instead of in a way they think they can control.
The gathering ends. I should run home before Rebecca catches me.
But I cannot stop watching that woman as she says her goodbyes and leaves for home.
Before I can think about what I’m doing, I follow her.
I’m Julia, walking home from the coven circle. The street is empty, fog rolling in from the river and clinging to the cobblestones. Gas lamps cast pools of weak yellow light that barely penetrate the mist.
A young woman appears beside me like a ghost, and I stop in my tracks. She is breathtaking, her blonde hair catching the moonlight, a thin shawl draped loose over her curves, her green eyes wide. Her dress is mud-splattered at the hem, as if she has been sneaking through the forest.
“I—” Her voice shakes. “I saw you. At the gathering. I’m Charlotte. Rebecca’s sister.”
I should keep walking. Rebecca would be furious if she knew I was talking to her little sister. But there is something in the way she looks at me—like she’s starving for something and I’m the only one who can offer it to her.
“Does Rebecca know you’re out here?” I ask, eyeing her up and down. “Or are you in the habit of following strange women in the dark?”
She flushes but holds my stare. “Only the ones worth following. What is your name?”
“Julia Moreau. And you ought not to be out here alone.”
She lifts her chin. “I’m not alone. I’m with you.”
She’s bold.
I chuckle. “You think I shall keep you safe?”
“My parents think I require a husband for that, but men are vile and fragile creatures who have never interested me.”
Fascinating. I’m beginning to like this woman.
“What do you want, Miss Cooper?”
“I want…” She swallows hard. “I want to know what it feels like. The power. Being free. Being you.”
I step closer until we’re nearly touching, curious what she’ll do. Her breath hitches. She shivers, but she doesn’t back away.
“And what makes you think I would show you?”
“I don’t know.” Her eyes meet mine, and there’s such desperate hunger there. “But I hope you can find it in your heart to help a woman who is tired of being small and decorative and safe.”
She’s right. The thought of this beautiful woman wasting away as the wife of some brutish man makes my jaw clench.
“I saw how the other witches look at you,” she whispers. “With respect, not pity. No one has ever looked at me that way.”
I reach out and trace my fingers along her jawline. Her pulse jumps beneath my touch. “If you want to feel power, I can show you. But sanguine magic comes at a price.”
“I’ll pay it,” she breathes.
I shouldn’t. But her willingness is intoxicating, and it’s been years since I’ve had someone offer themselves freely.
I smile, holding out my hand for her to take it. “Come.”
In my cottage, I light the fire with a wave of my hand, letting its heat flood the small space. The flames catch eagerly in the hearth, illuminating shelves lined with bottles and herbs.
“Sit,” I command.
Charlotte obeys, choosing my bed instead of a chair. She’s trembling in anticipation, looking up at me through her lashes.
I move to stand in front of her, and she has to tilt her head back to meet my eyes.
“This might frighten you,” I warn.
“I am not afraid of witches or magic.”
Foolish girl.
I sit beside her and angle toward her, close enough that our knees touch.
Outside, an owl calls, and the wind rattles the windowpanes.
I place my fingers on her temples and begin feeding slowly. Her skin is feverishly warm. The incantation flows from my lips, and her eyes widen as she feels the first pull of her essence.
“Oh—” She gasps. Her back arches, pressing closer to me. “That’s—it’s—”
“Good?” I murmur.
Her hand comes to rest on my waist, gripping my bodice. “Yes,” she moans. The sound goes straight through me, and I have to force myself to maintain control and take only what I intended.
But the feeding is as good for me as it is for her, and I let my eyes flutter closed as I drink in her sweet, pure essence.
“Julia,” she whimpers, and hearing my name on her lips like that nearly undoes me.
I drink in just a taste—enough to make her dizzy, but not enough to hurt her. When I pull back, she makes a sound of protest, her fingers tightening on my waist to keep me close.
“Finished,” I say, extracting myself.
She groans and lets herself flop back onto my bed, boneless, her lips parted as she catches her breath. She looks at me with stars in her eyes.
“That was divine,” she whispers. “Can we continue?”
And there it is: that dangerous question that should make me refuse.
Instead, I smile down at her, this beautiful woman who’s splayed on my bed with a dazed look on her face. “Tomorrow night.”
I’m Rebecca again, confronting Charlotte in our bedroom.
“You have been slipping out every night for a fortnight.” I grab her wrist as she tries to leave. “Where do you go?”
Her wrist is so thin beneath my fingers that I pause, studying it. Her bones are protruding, and her skin is so pale I can see blue veins.
Charlotte notices my gaze and wrenches free. “That doesn’t concern you.”
“You are my sister. It is very much my concern. Charlotte, you look ill—”
“I am perfectly well.” But dark circles have formed under her eyes, which are wide and feverish.