Chapter 4 #2
I chuckle at the genuine offense on my bestie’s face. “Don’t be salty. I have a feeling this door is meant to allow family in but to keep everyone else out.”
We step into a room bathed in golden light from tall windows that face east. The space smells of dried herbs, beeswax, and something else—something old and earthy that makes my skin prickle with goosebumps.
“Holy shit,” Asher breathes beside me. “Hello, Hogwarts, meet Martha Stewart.”
In the center of the room stands a massive harvest table, its pine surface worn smooth by years of use. Deep knife marks, stains of varying colors, and burn marks tell stories of work done here… important work.
Along one wall, bundles of dried herbs hang from the ceiling beams: lavender, rosemary, sage, and dozens I can’t name but somehow recognize by scent.
Shelves line the remaining walls, filled with books, strange instruments, and dozens of mason jars. Some contain dried plants or hold powders or crystals, while others house things I can’t identify.
There are glowing liquids, small bones, and in one particularly large jar, something that might be moving.
“Is that an eye?” Asher points to a jar on the top shelf.
“Don’t touch anything,” I warn, though I’m drawn deeper into the room myself.
My fingers brush the table’s surface, and images flash behind my eyes. I see hands working a mortar and pestle, a jeweled athame chopping roots, the precise measuring of powders on a brass scale that sits in the corner.
I recognize the woman’s hands in my mind’s eye. They are my mother’s hands.
“This was her workroom,” I whisper.
“Whose?”
“My mother’s.” I turn slowly, taking in every detail. “She spent hours in here. Days sometimes.”
Asher picks up a leather-bound book from the table. “You remember?”
“Not exactly. It’s like... the room remembers, and it’s showing me.” I close my eyes, letting the sensations wash over me. “She used to sing while she worked. Something in a language I didn’t understand.”
The humming energy I’ve felt throughout the house is stronger here, vibrating through the soles of my feet. It’s not threatening. It feels like the room itself is purring with pleasure at my return.
I open my eyes and move to a cabinet with glass doors. Inside are dozens of small bottles, each labeled in elegant handwriting: Sleep Ease, Heart’s Mend, Truth Seeker, Winter Protection.
“Poppy.” Asher holds up a thick, leather-bound book he’s found on a shelf. “I think this is spell book.”
He sets it on the table and carefully opens it, revealing pages covered in the same elegant script, alongside diagrams of plants, phases of the moon, and intricate symbols. “I think your mom was a witch.”
The words should sound ridiculous, but they ring true, settling into place like the last pieces of a puzzle.
“Not just her.” I move to another shelf, where framed photographs sit among crystals and dried flowers. I pick up one showing three women standing before the stone circle we saw from the kitchen window. They’re holding hands, laughing at the camera.
“My mother.” I touch her face through the glass. “And her sisters… the witches of her coven. They were her sisters.”
“And you have two sisters.”
“I do.”
“You’re a wizard, Harry,” Asher says in his best Hagrid impression.
“I’m a witch,” I correct.
I say the words and feel the truth of them deep in my soul. I set down the photo and walk to the center of the room, where the humming is strongest. Closing my eyes, I extend my hands, palms down over the table. The vibration increases, rising through my arms, filling my chest with warmth.
I breathe it all in, letting the idea settle into my bones. When the vibration settles, replaced by a tingle, I straighten and meet Asher’s gaze. “Are you freaking out?”
He laughs. “Pops, a man stopped time, sucked us into a purple vortex, and portaled us into an enchanted or possibly haunted house that is either holding us prisoner or keeping you safe. I’d say finding out you come from a family of witches is the least alarming thing that’s happened to us in the past twenty-four hours.
“I guess you’re right.” I laugh, the sound echoing around the room. “Holy hell. I’m a witch. This is my house. And I know who my family are.”
I run to Asher and jump, my arms out and my heart racing. He catches me and twirls me around. When he sets me back on my feet, he bends to press his forehead to mine. “I’m happy for you, P. Congratulations.”
And as much as I know he is happy for me, I know he’s sad, too. Because there will never be a moment like this for him. His parents are dead. He knows his past, and it’s sad and lonely.
“Hey, you know you are my family, too, right? There is no Poppy without Asher. I may be a super cool, magical witch bitch, but you will forever be my hero.”
He gives me a quick hug and kisses my forehead. “Thanks, P. And yes, I love you, too.”
When we break apart, I scan the room with fresh eyes, and my attention falls to the worktable. Sitting there—and it definitely was not there a moment ago—is a wooden box with my name carved into the lid.
“What the—”
Asher follows my attention and frowns. “This place really takes some getting used to, doesn’t it?”
It does. It’s absolutely magical, but yeah, things keep popping up out of nowhere. My hands tremble slightly as I brush my fingers over the engraved ‘Poppy’ and unhook the little latch.
“I think it’s like a witch starter kit. Is that a thing?”
Asher laughs. “How should I know?”
The lid of the box clanks against the table as I flop it open.
The contents seem to be a collection of witchy treasures—a small crystal hanging on a silver rope, a river stone with a hole worn through it, a sachet of dried flowers, half-a-dozen crystals, a deck of tarot cards, a notebook, silver pendant on a chain, and a letter sealed with wax.
I lift out the pendant first. It’s a tree, similar to the one carved on the door but smaller, more delicate. When I hold it in my palm, it warms instantly, and the humming in the room intensifies.
“I think this was mine.”
Without hesitation, I slip the chain over my head. The pendant settles against my chest, and a wave of calm washes over me. The world comes into sharper focus, colors more vibrant, scents more distinct.
“Whoa,” I whisper.
“What?”
“Everything just got... more.” I pick up the sealed letter next, turning it over in my hands. My name is written on the front in the same elegant script.
“Are you going to open it?” Asher asks.
I shake my head, tucking it back into the box. “Not yet.”
I pull out the notebook and flip through the pages. It’s weird to see my printing in the notes and not remember writing any of it. There are little drawings of jars and numbered steps to take when mixing things…
The book is barely used, and it makes me sad to realize my journey of discovery ended so soon. Scanning back to the beginning, I find an inscription.
To my little wildflower,
On this, your sixteenth birthday, I give you all the tools of our people. May you learn and grow and love the life of a Hallowind as I always have.
Blessed be.
“She was teaching me… before whatever happened.”
Asher has moved to one of the tall windows and is looking out at the stone circle. “I bet those stones are important.”
“They’re a focus point… to gather ancestral energy.” The knowledge comes from somewhere deep inside me, as natural as breathing. “My family has been using them for generations.”
I join him at the window, gazing out at the circle of standing stones. In the morning light, they cast long shadows across the grass, like the spokes of an enormous wheel.
“So now what?” Asher asks quietly.
I turn back to the room—my mother’s sacred space—feeling a new sense of purpose blooming inside me. The pendant warms against my skin, and the humming of the house seems to harmonize with my own heartbeat.
“Now we find out what happened to my family.” I take a deep breath, drawing in the scent of herbs and magic. “And I reclaim who I really am.”