15. That’s Not Ominous At All
That’s Not Ominous At All
That’s not ominous at all.
Journals lost in a fire? Virginia dying of a heart attack at eighteen?
The math ain’t mathing.
Something was up with her magic, and I have a feeling it was because she was a Fire witch. Maybe this is why we’re the rarest type of elemental. Most of us don’t make it that far in life.
I have to keep learning magic. I can’t let Draven show up and fuck my family up even worse than he already has. No matter that I’ve had permanent goosebumps and a lump in my throat ever since I read the words ‘heart attack.’
This is turning into a perfect fucking day. And it’s going to get worse.
Because I have to talk to Hazel and Grandma about this. It’s pretty clear I’m in over my head, and as stubborn as I’d like to be about it, I’m not trying to end up dead.
What even is my life at this point?
The flame on the scented candle next to me flickers and snaps, as if it’s trying to get my attention.
“Don’t you fucking start with me,” I hiss at it. “I am very much not in the mood.”
Now I’m fighting with fire. Awesome.
I need a shopping break. Shopping is second nature to me, if I’m shopping I don’t have to think. I don’t have to fixate on heart attacks and burned journals and the fact that Virginia was only eighteen.
With a nod, I stand. I place the ‘back in fifteen minutes’ sign on the table and stride off toward the accessories.
There’s a yearning in my gaze as I look at all the bits and bobs, seeing part of the dreams I used to have. But I can’t stay away from them. I can’t help noticing the shifts in patterns, materials, and techniques.
I can’t help wondering why I can’t have my dreams.
The bags I drag home from the market don’t help me feel any better. I’m dreading this conversation, and no amount of shopping can change that.
Despite how desperately I tried.
My new purchases land with a thunk on my bed, rattling Belle, who decided to stay home today. She pointedly stares me down, then goes back to sleep.
Lazy princess.
The scent of dinner wafts up the stairs and into my room, an overwhelming amount of garlic. Not that I’ll ever complain about there being too much garlic.
Here goes nothing.
The house creaks and groans in what I decide is solidarity as I quietly move through the home to the kitchen.
Hazel’s and Grandma’s voices float through to the dining room.
They’re happy, talking about some details for Hazel’s upcoming booth at the market.
It’s only a couple weeks until the new year and I haven’t even gone Christmas shopping yet.
I tried to find some things today, but I didn’t find anything that I didn’t overthink myself out of purchasing.
Fear of the impending conversation, of what is potentially happening to me, threatens to keep me standing here like a statue forever.
Belle is at my feet, nudging me forward. She seems much more aware than I give her credit for.
“Okay, okay, I’m going,” I whisper-yell at her as she smushes her face into the backs of my knees.
She’s at my side as I walk through the arch into the kitchen.
Hazel looks up, smile on her face. “Hey!”
“I—” I want to say it, but the words stick to the roof of my mouth like peanut butter. How do I tell them that I’ve barely learned anything, but what I have learned looks like an automatic death sentence?
Grandma turns at my tone, and now they’re both staring at me.
“Here,” I say instead, stuffing the book into Grandma’s hands. “Virginia Pruitt.”
Grandma reads quickly, Hazel mouthing along with the words over her shoulder. It’s when Hazel’s mouth stops moving and she’s just standing there with her mouth hanging open that I get the distinct urge to run.
It’s probably why Belle is standing directly behind me.
Traitor.
Grandma calmly closes the book, placing it beside her on the countertop.
“I have known plenty of Fire witches in my day that have not died young. This ancestor lived over three hundred years ago and we have learned much since then. While I understand how scared you must be in this moment, I promise you’re more worried than you should be. ”
“Plenty? How many is plenty?” My voice is slightly hysterical. Shrill and not as detachedly confident as I prefer.
She wraps me up in her arms and I soak in her scent. Lavender and smoke. “At least ten. We will figure out the whispering, and we’ll do so in a way that keeps you safe.”
I melt into the hug. I don’t get enough hugs in a day.
Hazel wraps around me from behind and I’m in a Pruitt-witch sandwich. And I think I like it.
I’m becoming sentimental. Ew.