Chapter 51
Chapter Fifty-One
Florence, Now
When Florence and Owen got back to the bookstore, Ink sat waiting for them by the front window. The sign on the entrance read Finish your book tonight, and we’ll be back tomorrow to help you find the next one!
Florence turned the key in the lock. The lights flickered on as she pushed open the door. “Hello, Shop,” she called. In response, there came a sound from somewhere deep inside the building, like a person flipping through a book.
Ink pounced onto her jeans and climbed his way up.
Florence grabbed him before he reached her chunky sweater and cradled him in her arms. She brought her nose to his nose, his breath fogging up her glasses, and he let out a small, delighted meow.
She rested him gently on her shoulder, but rather than settle there, he squatted back and leapt for Owen.
Owen caught the kitten with a laugh, set him on his own shoulder, and said, “It’s nice to see you too.”
“I think we should start with a tarot reading,” Florence said. “The cards called me home. They foretold the house catching fire. Evie and I may have misinterpreted the reading thirteen years ago, but with all of us together, I think we’ll have a better chance at getting it right this time around.”
The register started to beep, and there beside it sat Florence’s tarot deck.
With a whispered thanks, she grabbed it and whirled around, smacking right into Owen’s chest. She pulled back quickly, almost falling over, when he steadied her with his hands on her forearms. The heat of them seeped through her sweater clear to her skin, and a flush made its way up her throat in response.
She tilted her head back to look up at him, and for a moment neither of them moved.
“Sorry,” he murmured.
Her eyes fell to his lips, and she swallowed.
“It’s my fault,” she said. “I didn’t realize you were right there.
I …” She almost rose up on her toes, almost pressed herself into him.
If they were right about the house murdering Tillie, then maybe the house wouldn’t kill someone Florence cared about.
Maybe it was only doomed to kill someone it loved.
But that wasn’t a risk Florence could take.
There was still a chance Owen was safe, that whatever this mess of emotions she felt toward him wasn’t enough to count, wasn’t enough to put him in danger if they couldn’t break the curse tonight.
But if she kissed him, she’d be done for.
She tore her eyes away from his mouth. Then she cleared her throat, and he dropped his hold on her.
“Tarot?” She held up the deck.
“Tarot,” he said, his voice deeper than it had been a few moments before.
Before they could start toward the ever-changing back room—before they even had a chance to recover from their almost-kiss—the door opened behind them. Clara barreled through the entrance then stopped short in front of Owen.
Ink hopped from his shoulder into her arms.
“Hello, Ink,” she said to the kitten.
Evie followed behind her with an armful of journals. “The festival is officially canceled. Let’s get reading.”
Angela stepped inside and locked the door behind them.
“We can use my room!” Clara said before she took off, darting between the shelves. Owen and Evie followed after her, but Florence lingered behind, falling in step with Angela.
“So,” she said. “You and Evie.”
Angela ducked her head and stared after Evie with so much love in her eyes that Florence had to look away. It wasn’t something meant for her to see. “I know she’s your sister.”
“I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner,” Florence said.
Angela shot her a glance. “Like you would’ve been okay with that.”
“You’ve been in love with each other for years,” Florence said. “I never wanted to admit it, but I knew. I’m sorry if I got in your way.”
Angela took Florence’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “It happened when it was meant to happen.”
Florence bumped her shoulder against Angela’s as they made their way to the back room.
They found the door flung wide, the room transformed into a cozy study space.
Squashy chairs big enough to sit cross-legged in surrounded a broad table.
Once again, a steaming teapot and a collection of mismatched mugs rested in the middle.
The overhead fairy lights had been replaced with lamps on small round tables, giving the room a homey, well-lit glow without any of the eyestrain of fluorescents.
A fireplace with a cozy fire burned in the corner of the room.
There was even a small cat bed, though Ink ignored it and jumped up onto one of the chairs.
Clara claimed the seat with Ink; Angela sat beside her. Evie took the chair next to Angela. Florence and Owen shared a look, and at his arched eyebrow and her answering nod, she took the chair next to her sister, surprised to find herself communicating with this man without a single word.
Florence opened her deck and started to shuffle.
“Tarot?” Evie asked. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? The last time we did a reading together …”
“The last time we did a reading together, we were at odds,” Florence said. “This time, we have the same goal.”
She fanned out the cards on the table in front of them, heat starting in her chest. She held her hand over each one. Like last night, it took the magic a moment to make its way down to her hand. Finally, her palm warmed. She glanced up at Evie.
“You want me to flip it?” Evie asked, surprise in her voice.
When Florence nodded, Evie leaned forward and did just that.
The seven of swords stared up at them. The card depicted a woman with shoulder-length brown hair standing on the front porch at Honeysuckle House.
She held a vine in one hand. In the other, a pair of gardening shears.
She’d cut the vine so she had five of the thorns on the piece in her hand, leaving only two on the rest of the plant.
“Remind me what this one means?” Owen asked.
“Resourcefulness and strategy!” Clara said from where she sat with Ink in her lap.
“Very good,” Evie said.
“Exactly what we’re going to need if we’re going to break this curse,” Florence said. “But it can also point to deception.”
“Like what my great-grandparents did,” Owen said. To Evie and Angela, he explained, “We think they punctured the brake fluid reservoir on Helen and Christopher’s car, causing the accident.”
“To what end?” Angela asked.
“To steal the shop,” Florence said.
“But how does this help us now?” Evie asked.
“Another card?” Angela suggested.
With a nod, Florence said, “How do we break the curse?” Then, she turned to her sister.
Evie leaned forward in her seat. She shook out her hand and held it over the fanned-out cards, moving it back and forth a few times until she paused on a single card; she flipped it over.
They were greeted by the sight of Honeysuckle House on fire.
“The tower,” Owen said.
“We do have to destroy the house.” Sadness threaded through Evie’s voice, and she slumped back in her seat.
“No!” Clara shouted, jumping up from her chair. “I love the house. We can’t hurt it. Mommy, you said the tower can be a meta … a meta …”
“A metaphor?” Angela offered.
Clara crossed her arms and nodded. Then, she started digging through her backpack.
“It wasn’t the last time it was pulled,” Florence said.
“But that fire also didn’t burn the house down,” Angela said.
Florence tapped her finger against her lip.
“Let’s say it is a metaphor. The tower is a card of destruction—of cutting ties with the past.” She leaned forward in her chair, her arms on her knees as she tried to suss out how that related to the house.
“I’d hoped things would be a little more clear.
That we’d have a direct answer or at least something to tell us how to do what the cards said. ”
“We have the journals,” Evie said.
But each book was filled with writing. There was no way they could get through every page, even with all of them reading.
Clara held up a small pink-and-blue candle. “I made a spell for us! Ink helped me.” She set the taper in a candlestick holder next to the cards, then looked up at Florence.
“You brilliant girl,” Florence said.
Clara beamed. Then, she frowned. “What about your rule?”
“I think it’s time we changed it,” Florence replied.
With a broad smile, Clara struck a match and lit the wick.
The candle burned faster than any taper Florence had ever seen or lit herself.
The blue and pink waxes pooled on the table.
As the fire went out, the journals opened, the pages flipping of their own accord, until almost all of the journals sat face up, waiting to be read.
Clara reached for one of them and brought a finger to the page, her lips moving as her brow furrowed. She looked up with a frown.
“I can’t read this. The words are all swirly.” At the despair in Clara’s voice, Florence almost jumped up to wrap her niece in a hug.
Evie took the diary from her. “It’s in cursive, honeybee. You’ll learn it soon.”
“But I want to help, now!” Clara said.
“Your magic got us this far,” Evie said.
“Why don’t you keep Ink busy?” Florence suggested.
Clara nodded slowly. “I can do that.” She scooped up the kitten and went to sit by the fireplace the shop had conjured.
Evie’s eyes met Florence’s, and the warmth Florence found there had her wishing they’d done all of this much, much sooner.
“This is Mom’s spell.” Evie opened the one journal Clara’s spell hadn’t. “I found it on her altar when the wall first burned down.” She held it out toward Florence. “Maybe you’ll see something I didn’t.”
At the sight of her mother’s handwriting, Florence’s heart rate kicked up. Her hands trembled, the notebook shaking.
“It’s okay,” Evie whispered, voice soft. “She’s not really here.”
Florence looked up at her sister. “I wish my body understood that.”
“One step at a time,” Evie said. “You made it to the house.”
“Not without help.”
Evie glanced past Florence to Owen and said, “Thank you.”
Then, Evie leaned forward in her chair and picked up her mother’s diary from 1986. “The house gave me this one thirteen years ago. It’s the reason I thought I needed to use my magic for good. But it disappeared before I could read it all.”
“The house hid it from you,” Florence said. “It didn’t want you to see it.”
She expected Evie to start reading right away, but her sister set the notebook back on the table and took their mother’s childhood journal instead. Florence almost reached for it, almost took it out of Evie’s hands.
“Are you sure you want to read that one?” Angela asked before Florence could.
Evie glanced up from the front page and shook her head slowly. “For so long I’ve wanted to know who my mother was before I came into her life. I wanted to understand why she became the person she did. But I think I’m done making excuses for her.”
Angela held out her hand. “I can read it.”
The warmth in Angela’s voice and the relief on Evie’s face made Florence smile. There was a bittersweet sadness in it as she realized sparing her sister from heartache wasn’t her job anymore.
Florence started to reach for her grandmother’s journal from 1959 when Owen cleared his throat.
“Do you think I could read that one?” he asked. “I’d like to see Regina’s side of things—compare it to Violet’s letter.”
With a nod, Florence handed it over. She glanced at her sister. “What do you think?”
Evie looked taken aback by Florence giving her the lead, and though it stung for Florence to realize she’d so rarely let Evie have the final say in anything, it felt right giving Evie this choice.
“Why don’t you start with Great-aunt Violet’s journal?” Evie suggested. “Since you use her tarot cards.”
“Good idea,” Florence said.
“I’ll take grandma’s other journal, from the year she died.” As each of them settled in to read, Evie said, “We only have a few hours until midnight. If you find anything at all that you think could help, speak up.”