Chapter Twenty-Six
Lilith
Lilith stepped into the passage, the darkness so absolute her eyes ached.
Without thinking, she pulled her phone from her back pocket and clicked the flashlight on. Light washed over what appeared
to be an L-shaped room at the end of a short hall, set safely behind the hearth.
Lilith turned the corner and stopped short.
Shelves were embedded into the wall, filled with glass bottles layered in dust. The contents within bore signs of extreme
age—oils long since soured to yellow, desiccated organic matter that was indistinguishable. Herbs dangled from the rafters,
swaying at her disturbance, their brittle leaves rustling like whispered secrets.
But the herbs and bottles were not what captured her attention.
The table at the far end drew her with an undeniable lure, its length taking up the entire back wall, littered with various stones and flowers long since withered to a shade of brown that gave no hint as to their original color.
Three candlesticks bracketed the sides and back of the table, the wicks blackened from previous use.
At the center was a book, the pages spread wide, as if someone abandoned the room while in the middle of reading.
A feather lay on the table amid the dusty debris, the tip sharp and black.
A quill most likely.
Lilith bent over the handwritten script, the ink faded to almost nothing. Even squinting, she could barely make out a word
or two. Without thinking, she reached out to brush the top of the page. Dust came away on her fingertips, the vellum beneath
strangely warm to the touch.
Like something alive.
She hesitated, her palm hovering over the book. Her birthmark seemed to hum, heeding a soundless call.
As if she had been waiting for this moment her entire life.
With a shaking breath, she pressed the flat of her hand against the page.
The writing shimmered and fresh air swept through the room, bringing the crisp, verdant notes of herbs: rosemary, lavender,
sage, nettle, and so many more. Each identifiable in some memory she’d never created.
The candles flickered to life, sprouting flames that bathed the room in a golden light so bright, she no longer needed her
phone.
Maybe she should be afraid.
But a deeper, innate part of herself felt more right about this than anything in her life ever had.
The jars on the shelves shone as if new, their contents rich with ingredients necessary for anything Lilith might need.
But for what?
To heal? To save? To protect?
To make herself exist?
Was that even a thing?
She hoped it was…
Returning her focus to the book, she discovered the writing was no longer faded, but dark, as if freshly written. Even the
ink on the quill glistened. She touched the sharpened point and her fingertip came away black. Still wet.
The flowers on the table plumped into marigolds, their heads brilliant shades of gold and yellow. Among them, various stones
and crystals gleamed in the candlelight, power glinting from within.
A smooth purple one caught her attention. Amethyst?
She lifted the stone and the cool surface pulsed against her palm, imbuing her with strength. With certainty.
Her mind sharpened and she returned her focus to the book.
Grimoire.
The handwriting inside was some old-world jumbled mess of ornate letters with elongated s’s and f’s and sweeping tails on the p’s and y’s. Despite the unique writing, Lilith could still read the archaic script as easily as one of Essie’s texts.
Jacinda,
Read this from the beginning and you will understand.
Love eternally,
Sybil
Lilith’s breath caught, with disbelief and excitement entwined with everything she’d hoped for when she set out on this trip
for England.
She’d just won the creepy old house lottery.
Perhaps this book would tell her more about both women. And hopefully more about what was expected of her.
Lilith flipped to the front of the book—the grimoire—eager to read more, as Sybil encouraged.
For the answers she would find, for the path she must forge ahead with. There was no going back now.