Chapter Fifty-Three
Lilith
Lilith stared down at the new pages the grimoire had revealed to her, a confession not meant for her, but one she could not
stop reading regardless.
I, Sybil Brantham, have a confession to make in these final pages of the grimoire. A confession to Jacinda.
I am to be arrested. The earth has whispered signs to me that this will come to pass and this may be my only chance to offer my admission.
I must tell you about a man named John Griffin, a landowner’s son whose future had already been laid out for him until he
fell in love with me.
What we write for our hearts is not always read kindly by the world. His father wanted more for his son than the daughter
of a local healer. He wanted a good name, reputation. A dowry.
I had none.
When our relationship was no more, I vowed none would ever think less of me. I rode high on my convictions, until reality struck.
Until the day the child quickened in my womb, and I realized I had not bled for several moon cycles. My heartache had been
great, too distracting to notice the changes in my body.
I created a tincture that would bring my courses once more, but the idea sat bitter upon my soul.
Because it was not just a babe growing within my womb, but love. This child was a piece of the man who I loved, a child created
through an act of selfless affection and admiration.
Such beauty could not be allowed to end. Instead, I let our love grow within me, knowing the result would be a soul I could
cradle in my arms and cherish for all eternity.
However, when the babe was born, my mother feared persecution for myself. I begged her to allow me to keep the babe, but she
said her reputation was already sealed and mine was still open. There was so much more of my life to live.
And there was.
I met Henry when he took a fascination in my mother’s herbal remedies, citing her cures as fascinating and ingenious rather
than provincial. He did not know of her death until sometime later. When he found out, he immediately offered marriage to
care for me, to educate me. Not only me, but also the child who had been raised as my sister.
The Book of the City of Ladies by Christine de Pizan was one of his favorite books. In it, women were educated as men, resulting in brilliant minds and
creations that might never have been otherwise. The text is now one of my favorites as well.
But the girl he knew as my sister was actually my daughter. Jacinda, you are of my blood and my heart.
I ought to have told you before this moment, but the time was never correct, and as you grew older, so too did your resentment toward me, simmering under the surface. I was afraid that rage would make me lose you.
Someday you will read this, and I hope you will understand.
But what I want you to know without question is the depth of my love for you, the way our hearts cleaved together when you
were in my womb and how we are still connected.
I love you, my beautiful daughter. I wish I could teach you all you need to know. Mayhap I am wrong and this letter is for naught.
You will find the learning you need in these pages. I was hesitant to come into my gifts, just as I have been hesitant to
impart such wisdom upon you with yours. Fortunately for both of us, my mother was prepared.
She always knew what to do.
What I will close with is the reminder she always whispered to me:
No matter what happens, seek solace in the honeysuckle grove.