At the top of the stairs, I pause, taking in the small landing. The walls are a pale, butter yellow, illuminated by the sunlight shining through the stained glass window. There’s a raven and black cat design. It’s clearly Poppy, but the cat… My brows furrow, remembering the one who visited Old Wives’ with that strange woman.
It has to be a coincidence.
Shaking off the thought, the wall of photos grabs my attention next. There aren’t any faces in view, but it’s a collage of their lives captured through film.
There’s a pile of notes and coffee mugs on the dining room table. Hands holding over a meal. Milkshakes at the Wolf & Flame. A silhouette in front of the morning sun on the patio. A small, lit hearth with a cauldron to match the size. A sweater draped over the passenger seat of an old car. A hand setting the needle on the record player.
Years of memories forever captured in one of the most intimate ways I’ve ever seen.
“This was their life—herlife,” I murmur with blurry vision.
Archer’s quiet for a long moment, but his eyes are on me. “Seems like a pretty happy one.”
I swallow and nod, unable to form words. He’s right.
Cordelia was happy.
Despite our family and the curse, she got to experience everything I’ve ever dreamed of.
A small, cruel spark of hope lights in my chest, and a quiet question echoes in my brain.
Could I have that life too?
Maybe there is another way to end the curse, some sort of explanation that doesn’t end in the death of anyone. Clover had the hardest time accepting our theory, and there’s lingering doubt in Rowyn’s eyes when we talk about it. She wants me to spend more time with Archer, as if the cure for all this could be found in our slowly built intimacy. It felt so hopeless, sostupid.
But now…
Maybe not.
Turning away from the photos, I step through the door to my right.
The bedroom is cloaked in shades of pinks and purples from the floral curtains, making it feel more intimate and cozy. There’s still a pair of slippers by the foot of the bed and a cotton robe hanging over the frame. For some reason, it’s the dried bouquet on the nightstand that frees the first tear. I swat it away and take a step inside.
Archer stays by the door, leaning against the frame and watching me. His presence brings me comfort, a familiar warmth I’ve experienced in our dreams many times. It’s headier when we’re awake.
I walk through the bedroom, taking in the little details. Like her homemade perfume that smells like rosemary and spice, my favorite tea blend. It scratches at something at the back of my head, too far away to grasp.
Not wanting to violate their privacy, even after death, I don’t look through any of the drawers or closets. I leave everything exactly as it is while I walk through the small upstairs and back to the foyer with Archer close behind me.
The house is small. There’s only one bedroom and a bathroom upstairs. On the first floor, there is the kitchen, a guest bedroom, the den and an office. Each room has evidence of their life together. House keys on a tray by the front door, coffee mugs in the sink, throw blankets on the couch, and endless glimpses into their lives.
As I suspected, there hasn’t been anything related to the curse or the inn. Despite Cordelia’s interest in the matter, she seems to have kept her life away from our history.
Can’t say I blame her.
Now in the office with Archer, we both skim through the titles on the large, built-in bookcase. It’s an eccentric mix of magical texts, witches’ autobiographies, and a few books written by humans. It ranges from all sub-genres of fiction to non-fiction that covers a variety of topics.
“How peculiar,” I say and grab a random book off the shelf. “How do you think they got these?”
He’s looking through a random book of his own and shrugs. “No idea. If Edmond was able to send me books from the library, who knows what he was able to access?”
Briarhollow hasn’t been quarantined from the rest of the world. Rowyn has said visitors come and go, they just never stay.
I half-heartedly nod, thinking it over. It makes sense and explains why it’s such a vast collection of work.
As I pull another book off the shelf, a drawer scrapes open. Twirling around, I catch Archer going through a pile of papers.
“What are you doing?” I ask tersely and walk up to his side.
