Chapter 67
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Florence, Now
Clara brought the flame to the candle that represented Florence and Evie, then to the candle for the house, and Florence felt something deep inside her begin to shift.
At first, the tapers burned slowly. The fire worked its way down, embers sparking along the wicks.
When the fire finally met the twine that tied the two candles together, there was a burst of heat.
The flame erupted, engulfing string and wax.
The black candle melted, the wax pooled, and the fire sputtered out. Smoke rose from the spent wick in tendrils.
The honeysuckle vine withered.
The fluttering curtains stilled.
The lights resumed a normal, yellow glow.
As the fire went out on the table, it roared in Florence’s heart.
The ember of her magic that lay deep inside—the warmth of her power she’d tried her best to push aside and ignore these past thirteen years—caught flame.
Possibility and hope whirled together. Florence staggered at the strength of it, bracing herself against the dresser.
When she looked up, she found her sister doubled over, too.
“It’s just like before Dad died,” Evie said breathlessly.
But Florence had never felt this. She’d never known the full strength of her power—siphoned first by her mother, then by the house. With this much potential, it was no wonder her bookstore had come to life. Tears pricked her eyes. She leaned her head back and let them fall.
The fire of their cord-cutting spell had burned away the last hold her mother had on her. And though Florence knew it might take a lifetime to heal from the other wounds her mother had inflicted, for the first time, Florence thought she might be able to do just that.
They met the others downstairs. Owen stood over the stove whisking a pot of hot chocolate.
Angela had procured pumpkin pie from the festival that had carried on in downtown Burdock Creek without them.
Ink lapped up oat milk from a saucer. All of them ate and drank their fill, and though the room was full of life and love and hope, the house was quiet in a way that made Florence’s heart ache.
“Are you staying the night?” Clara asked as she looked up from her now-empty mug.
“If that’s okay with your mom.” Florence wasn’t quite ready to be alone.
“You know there’s always a place for you here,” Evie said. “Your old room …?”
But Florence shook her head. There were too many hard memories behind those walls.
“You can stay in my room!” Clara said.
Florence’s eyes strayed toward Owen.
“I think your aunt might want her own room tonight,” Evie said. “Why don’t you take the Honeysuckle Suite. It’s on the second floor above the kitchen—the one with the bay windows.”
“That sounds perfect,” Florence said.
Evie stood from the table and reached for Clara. “Come on, honeybee. I’ll tuck you in.”
“Where’s Angela going to stay?” Clara asked.
Evie and Angela shared a smile.
“In Mommy’s room,” Evie said.
Clara looked from her mom to Angela then back to her mom before she nodded. “A best friend for kissing and sleepovers.”
“I know someone who’d love to have a sleepover with you,” Florence said as she lifted Ink from her lap and handed him to her niece.
Clara held him close, and he rubbed his head against her chest. “Come on,” she said to him, “I never got to show you my room.”
Once the kitchen was empty, Florence turned to Owen.
She took a step toward him, and when he opened his arms, she relaxed into his hold.
They stood there for several long moments, the smell of chocolate and nutmeg and cinnamon all around them, and though Florence had lost someone dear to her, she didn’t have to bear that loss alone.
Owen pressed a kiss to the top of her forehead.
She pulled back and looked up into his eyes.
There, she found an open sort of kindness that she was finally coming to realize wasn’t only something she wanted in her life, but something she deserved.
“I know you have your own room here,” she said, the words slow and careful. “And I know it’s still early between us, but it might be nice to not have to sleep alone.”
His lips curved up into the same grin that had first gotten her in trouble with him when he’d taken her sister’s job offer and walked into her shop.
“Are you asking me to bed, Florence Caldwell?”
She rolled her eyes but flushed. “Not like that. Not tonight anyway, and certainly not in my sister’s house.”
He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Then, he pressed his lips to her cheekbone, just below her eye, where her witch’s mark had once been, and said, “Don’t worry. You don’t have to be alone tonight.”