Chapter Three
Bridget Winslow
For a Moment I Forgot
The road from Ash Hollow to White Fork hugs the river like a lover, each curve revealing another breathtaking vista bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun.
I grip the steering wheel of my rental car tight.
The tension in my body isn’t just from the unfamiliar mountain roads, it’s also from the weight of my mission and the lives hanging in the balance.
I’m torn between awe at the beauty surrounding me and frustration at how different this is from Salem.
The familiar streets and centuries-old buildings of my home seem a world away from this wild, untamed landscape.
A pang of homesickness hits me, unexpected and unwelcome.
I push it down, burying it beneath layers of duty and determination.
As I round yet another bend, White Rock Lake comes into view, its surface a mirror of liquid fire, reflecting the vibrant oranges and pinks of the sunset.
The towering pines and craggy peaks that surround it are silhouetted against the darkening sky, like sentinels guarding ancient secrets.
For a moment, I allow myself to feel a spark of wonder at the sight.
What would it feel like to wake up every day and see this majestic beauty? To live free from the constant weight of the Mathairs’ expectations? I understand the temptation, but unlike my sister, I’m aware of my place in this world.
Then I ruthlessly quash the feeling, shame and anger warring within me. How dare I entertain such thoughts? Lives depend on me. Mine. My sister’s. I can’t afford to be seduced by pretty scenery and impossible dreams.
The road continues to wind along the lake’s edge, and I can see White Fork nestled in the valley ahead.
In the fading light, the town looks almost magical, its windows beginning to twinkle like fireflies against the deepening twilight.
It’s picturesque in a way that almost seems unreal, like a painting come to life.
But I know better than to trust in pretty facades.
Salem taught me that beauty often hides the darkest secrets.
As I enter the town, I notice a subtle but distinct change in the atmosphere. The streets aren’t crowded, but there’s an energy in the air, a sense of anticipation mixed with something else. Tension, perhaps?
A few cars with out-of-state plates are parked along the main street, and I spot small groups of people carrying bags into local inns and bed-and-breakfasts.
Their excitement is palpable, faces flushed with the thrill of escapism.
It would be so easy to lose myself in their enthusiasm, to pretend for a moment that I’m just another tourist here for a fun weekend.
I pull into the parking lot of a rustic three-story building.
The Firefly Cottage Inn looks like it was plucked straight from a postcard, all warm wood and glowing windows.
It’s the kind of place my sister would love—cozy, inviting, full of charm.
The thought of her, trapped in a cold cell while I’m here surrounded by warmth, sends a wave of guilt through me.
I clench my jaw, using the pain to focus.
I’m here to do my duty and save her. She’ll learn her place too—she just needs another chance.
Finding a spot to park is a challenge, though.
I end up wedged between a mud-splattered pickup and a van with a giant wooden dragon strapped to its roof.
The dragon’s eyes seem to follow me as I gather my bags, and I have to resist the urge to cast a warding spell.
It’s just wood and paint, I remind myself, but the line between reality and fantasy already feels dangerously blurred in this town.
Inside, the lobby is a chaotic swirl of activity that assaults my senses.
The scent of pine and cinnamon mingles with the earthy smell of unwashed travelers.
The line at the reception desk stretches nearly to the door, a serpentine mass of impatient guests.
Tired-looking families cluster on overstuffed leather sofas, their voices a low murmur of worry and exhaustion.
While excited groups in partial costume chatter loudly about upcoming Faire events, their joy is almost obscene next to the obvious distress of others.
The line inches forward, and I catch fragments of other conversations. Excitement about jousting tournaments mingles with worried discussions of property damage and insurance claims.
When I finally reach the reception desk, the clerk—a young man with dark circles under his eyes—greets me with a weary smile. His name tag reads Tyler. “Welcome to the Firefly Cottage Inn. Do you have a reservation?”
I shake my head, summoning my most charming smile. “I’m afraid not. I was hoping you might have a room available?”
He taps at his computer, frowning slightly. “You’re in luck. We have one room left, a cancellation from just a few minutes ago.”
“I’ll take it,” I say quickly. “It doesn’t look like everyone is here for the Faire.”
The clerk glances around before answering. “No, ma’am. Plenty are here for the Faire, of course, but we’ve also got some local families staying with us. There was a fire up on the mountain, burned through the Gallagher ranch. Lot of people displaced.”
“That’s terrible. Was anyone hurt?”
“Thankfully, no. But the Gallaghers lost just about everything.”
I nod sympathetically, even as my mind races. There’s more to this story, I’m sure of it. But before I can press further, a very large man entering the inn draws my attention.
A tall, broad-shouldered man with salt-and-pepper hair strides into the lobby.
Despite the warm day, he wears a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms corded with muscle.
His presence seems to fill the room, and several of the displaced families turn to him with obvious relief.
“Dave!” one of them calls out. “Any news?”
The man—Dave—shakes his head grimly. “The fires are all out now. Cattle are safe. The houses are a complete loss, but we’ll rebuild.
” He makes his way through the lobby, stopping to offer quiet words of encouragement to various families.
He’s clearly someone of importance, though whether that importance extends beyond the fire victims, I can’t be sure.
The way they defer to him speaks of leadership.
Our eyes meet briefly as he passes, and I’m struck by the intensity of his gaze.
There’s a wildness there, barely contained beneath a veneer of steady calm.
For a moment, I feel like prey being sized up by a predator.
Then he nods politely and moves on, leaving me with a chill I can’t quite explain.
I collect my room key from Tyler and make my way to the elevator, weaving through the crowd of Faire-goers and displaced families. I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve stumbled into something far more complex than a simple hunt for a runaway witch. Something that might slow me down on my mission.
The elevator creaks and groans as it carries me to the top floor.
My room, when I find it, is cute but small.
A quilted bedspread in cheerful yellows and blues covers a queen-sized bed.
A small desk sits beneath a window that looks out over the main street.
The bathroom is quaint, with a very inviting claw-foot tub.
I set my bag down and move to the window.
From here, I can see White Fork’s main street, already transforming for tomorrow’s festivities.
Colorful banners hang between streetlights, medieval pennants fluttering in the evening breeze.
Vendor stalls are being erected along the sidewalks, their unfinished frames like skeletons in the twilight.
Turning away from the window, I begin to unpack, my mind whirling with possibilities. Somewhere in this mess is Meredith Banfield, I’m sure of it. But how does she fit into all this? Is she connected to the fire? To the Gallaghers? To the Faire?
The Mathairs warned me that she would be difficult to find.
That she was smart and powerful. A worthy adversary for any, even a well-trained assassin like myself.
But this is my true test. Taking Meredith Banfield down will prove my loyalty to the Mathairs and earn my freedom—and more importantly, the freedom of my sister.
My hand clenches around a shirt I’m unpacking. She’s depending on me. We were supposed to graduate together. Serve the Mathairs together, twin assassins. We were better than anyone else in our class.
Then a boy changed her mind and she decided running away from the Court was a better destiny. Except no one runs from the Court.
No one except Meredith Banfield.
I force myself to breathe, to relax my grip on the now-wrinkled shirt.
Anger won’t serve me here. I need to be calm, collected, the perfect instrument of the Mathairs’ will.
Completing this mission will earn my sister forgiveness for her sins.
The Mathairs gave me their word. I won’t let them down.
I won’t leave Brianna in that cell to rot.
I will find Meredith Banfield, no matter what it takes.
I pull out my toiletry bag, carefully extracting a small pouch hidden within.
Inside are herbs and crystals—tools of my trade.
Each one carefully chosen, imbued with power through rituals known only to the Salem Court.
I sprinkle a pinch of dried rosemary on the windowsill, whispering a spell of clarity and insight.
The herb glows faintly before fading, its magick seeping into the room.
Breathing it all night will help me see the truth in things tomorrow.
As night fully descends, the sounds of the bustling town drift up to my window. Laughter mingles with the distant strains of medieval music—someone practicing for tomorrow’s performances, no doubt.
Tomorrow, I’ll dive into the chaos of the Renaissance Faire. I’ll mingle with the crowds, eavesdrop on conversations, and see what I can learn about both the fire and the local witch population. I’ll start with Rachel from Ash Hollow. She’s likely my best lead to finding Meredith Banfield.
I change into sleepwear, my movements mechanical as exhaustion begins to set in. But as I slip between the sheets, sleep eludes me. Always the vision of my sister chained in a cell, bruised and bloody—and alive if I do what the Mathairs say.
There is no freedom without the Mathairs’ blessing. No life outside the Court unless they decree it so. I will have their blessing and my sister.
And I will not fail.