“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 heishappy 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 boxclanksagainst 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.
