Chapter 7 Winnie
Fleur came back down a few moments ago. Said she couldn’t sleep.
I haven’t even tried. The energy in the tavern is buzzing too loudly—too sharp around the edges. Once she pointed it out, I couldn’t shake it either. It’s like the walls are holding out for something, waiting for something we haven’t named yet.
We sit in silence, both drawn to the hearth like it might offer answers if we stare long enough. The fire’s burned low, embers cracking softly in the grate, but it still feels warm. Still feels…watchful.
Fleur doesn’t sit fully. Just hovers at the edge of the armchair, like part of her is still somewhere else.
Her gaze keeps drifting. First to the shadows, then to the flames, then back again.
Her cloak is finally gone, her shoulders wrapped in one of the old knit blankets I keep tucked near the stairs. But the tension hasn’t left her body.
I shift, reaching for another log, intending only to stir the fire a little, give us something to focus on besides the unspoken weight in the room. But my hand brushes something along the underside of the mantel—smooth and out of place against the worn brick and aged wood.
Click.
Faint. Almost lost beneath the fire’s hiss. But I sense it more than hear it, a soft give, like something unlatched.
Fleur sits up straighter. “Did you hear that?”
I nod slowly, already crouching. “Yeah.”
I set the log down carefully, brushing soot from my fingers before running my hand along the paneling below the hearth. My fingertips trace worn grooves, uneven grain, until—
There. A seam. Barely perceptible unless you’re looking for it.
My pulse skitters.
I press gently.
Click.
This time, the noise is louder. More certain. I catch something shifting—just a sliver of movement in the wood.
I glance up at Fleur. She doesn’t speak, but her gaze is locked on my hands, eyes wide and watchful.
“There’s something here,” I murmur, mostly to myself. “A drawer, I think.”
I dig my fingers into the shallow groove and tug.
It resists at first, sticking like it’s not been opened in decades.
But slowly, reluctantly, it begins to slide free, revealing a narrow compartment carved into the stone itself.
The wood inside is darker than the rest, dust-heavy and dry, like it’s been hidden away from air and light for longer than either of us has been alive.
The smell hits first—earthy and sharp. Dust, certainly, but something else, too. Cedar and old wax. A hint of something metallic and strange, like rusted silver.
Inside, nestled in a brittle scrap of yellowed linen, are two small objects. I reach for them with hesitant fingers, heart knocking unevenly against my ribs.
They’re heavier than I expect.
I unfold the cloth slowly, revealing what’s been wrapped inside with care and secrecy.
Talismans.
One is carved from what looks like bone, curved and worn smooth at the edges, the surface etched with sharp, looping sigils that catch the light like tiny rivers.
The other is simpler, a flat disc of dark, oiled wood, polished soft by time and touch.
Its design is more contained, more geometric, but no less deliberate.
I hold them in my open palm, staring at the markings. I don’t recognize either symbol, not consciously, but my body reacts before my brain catches up.
A strange tightness blooms inside me. Not fear. Something deeper. Heavier. A sensation of being looked at from a great distance. Or remembered by something you’ve forgotten.
Fleur leans in, her breath catching. Her fingers brush mine as she reaches, but she doesn’t take either object. Just hovers over them, eyes fixed on the wooden disc.
“That one,” she says, voice hushed and reverent, “is mine. That’s my family’s mark.”
Her eyes don’t leave the talisman, and for a second, she looks years younger. Or maybe just stripped bare of whatever guard she usually holds.
I glance back at the other. The bone talisman still sits in my palm, warm now from my touch. The lines carved into it curl and angle in ways that feel…too familiar.
I frown.
Fleur finally looks up at me. “And this one?” Her gaze is steady but searching, like she already knows the answer. Like she’s just waiting for me to say it out loud.
I swallow. “I don’t know how…but yeah. It looks familiar.”
We sit there for a long moment, suspended in quiet disbelief. The fire crackles behind us, sending sparks up the chimney, but the sound feels far away.
I set the talismans gently on the cloth, smoothing the fabric beneath them as if it might offer answers.
“Why were they hidden?” I ask, voice quiet. “If they’re meant for us, why bury them in the hearth?”
Fleur shakes her head. “Maybe they weren’t meant to be found. Not yet.”
“Or maybe someone hid them hoping they would be found.” I pause, glancing toward the fire. “Eventually.”
The flames flicker, casting light across the runes. The carved lines on the bone talisman shimmer faintly, like they’re still reacting to being touched.
Fleur tilts her head. “Do you feel that?”
I nod. “Yeah. It’s like…it’s not just carved. It’s holding something.”
We fall into silence again, the energy between us shifting—no longer just curious or afraid, but reverent.
I rise slowly, brushing my hands on my skirt. “Do you want tea? Again? I feel like we need tea.”
Fleur exhales, something close to a laugh softening her expression. “At this point, I think we’re fifty percent tea.”
“Could explain the vibrating,” I mutter, already heading toward the kettle. “Or the existential clarity.”
“Or the fact that I haven’t blinked in twenty minutes.”
We both glance at the talismans.
“Still worth it,” I say.
She nods. “Absolutely.”
By the time I return, the kettle steaming, she’s brought the talismans closer to the firelight and is studying them like they might rearrange themselves if she blinks. I set the cups down on the low table and sit beside her, our knees almost touching.
We each pick one up again.
I don’t know who reaches first, but somewhere between questions and guesses, our hands meet—bone in mine, wood in hers, palms pressed together like a seal.
The air around us shifts.
A faint hum thrums beneath my skin, soft and slow, like magic waking up. Not a spell exactly. Not yet. But a recognition. A resonance.
We both go still.
“Do you feel that?” she whispers.
“Yeah,” I breathe. “I do.”
And neither of us lets go.
The hum doesn’t stop. It settles into the space between us like a third heartbeat—subtle but insistent.
I’m suddenly aware of everything: the firelight flickering across her cheekbone, the soft brush of her thumb against mine, the way she’s still holding the talisman but not really looking at it anymore.
Her eyes lift to meet mine.
There’s something in them I haven’t seen before. Or maybe I have, and I just hadn’t let myself name it.
She swallows. The fire snaps behind us.
“I don’t think it’s just the talismans,” she says softly, her voice barely carrying.
My mouth goes dry. “Me neither.”
We’re still holding them, but it doesn’t feel like that’s the point anymore. The space between our palms feels electric, and I can’t tell if the magic is ours or theirs…whoever they were. Whoever left these behind.
Her fingers curl slightly; not pulling away, just anchoring.
I should say something. I should make a joke. Break the tension. But I don’t. I just look at her. Really look.
The blanket she’s wrapped in has slipped from one shoulder, and her hair’s fallen loose around her face, a soft halo of dark waves catching the gold light. Her eyes flick to my mouth for just a second.
And just like that, I forget every logical thought I’ve ever had.
“I keep thinking,” she says, voice a little unsteady, “if this is part of some story…some spell from before…maybe we’re not supposed to feel this.”
I don’t even realize I’m leaning in until I’m close enough to feel her breath.
“Or maybe we’re supposed to feel it again,” I whisper.
For a second, she doesn’t move.
Then her hand turns in mine, fingers threading between my own.
Not a kiss. Not yet.
But it’s something.
And it’s enough to make the talismans glow.
Soft. Steady.
They must have been waiting for this, too.