Flipping through a box of photos with Clementine, I glance at the young witch and smile appreciatively toward her.
She came bounding into my room this morning, asking if I would go to the local bookstore, The Enchanted Word, with her and grab lunch. I’m no longer avoiding the town, but I have reverted back to avoiding Archer for the last couple of days. He hasn’t found me in our dreams either.
He was waiting for me when I got back with Cordelia’s familiar, and went to find Rowyn with me. Since he was there when I found the cat, it only felt fair to let him learn her name. As suspected, Rowyn did recognize Jezebel. Apparently, the town didn’t know where she went after Cordelia’s death. Unlike Poppy, who has stayed close to me and Edmond’s home, she hasn’t been seen anywhere.
She sure is getting comfortable and spoiled at the inn now.
I told Rowyn and everyone else about how I had met Cordelia. There wasn’t a lot to say, considering it was a brief interaction, but each of their appreciation was clear at how forthcoming I was with the details.
Afterward, Archer watched me while we all talked about Cordelia a little longer. I could see him waiting, expecting me to tell the coven more. To tell them what I saw that made me act so weird before we left.
Ididn’t.
It’s notnewinformation, it’s further confirmation of what we have suspected since the beginning. If he and Sybil hadn’t been there, I would have shared everything. Maybe that counts for something.
I knew it would be good to get out of the inn for a few hours, since visiting Edmond’s home only brought more dread. Clementine’s youthful personality was just the influence I needed. I laughed more today than I have in a long time, enjoying her snarky, unserious comments.
She’s a lot like Esme in that way—always willing to break the tension with a well-timed joke.Andfar too interested in spirit magic as well. It’s why, despite trusting me to take care of Clementine, Clover and Rowyn were hesitant to let the young witch spend time with me alone.
I don’t blame them, and have made a great effort to steer the conversations away from my magic. She’s too curious for her own good—and for her sister to ever have any peace of mind. Spirit magic is the most dangerous to dabble into, yet so often calls to rebellious young witches.
Overall, it was a good day. I even treated Clementine to a new pair of shoes and some short overalls that are perfect for summer gardening. They were on sale—at least that’s what we told Clover.
The truth is, I wanted to make sure the youngest Foxglove sister was comfortable since we all see it as our responsibility to take care of her. We respect Clover’s rules—the few she has—but she isn’t alone in caring for the well-being of her sister anymore.
While we had lunch at The Wolf & Flame, she told me more stories about her mom and grandmother. Apparently, the men in their family all pass away young, and most of the women have succumbed to illnesses. Both of the matrons in her family got sick with decay fever.
Where witch’s fray is caused by the mind’s deterioration from using too much magic, decay fever is the opposite. It grows from the imbalance of suppressing your powers. In rare cases, it can grow organically, creating the disproportion for an ideal environment, like a virus. A magical one with very limited cures.
Everoot is free to obtain from the source—at least financially—but it costs money togetto Calista’s secluded island. Once you’re there, you pay in different ways than money. It’s a price that weighs down your soul, at least from what I observed through Agatha’s experiences.
So it isn’t necessarily accessible to all.
I made a mental note to talk about all of this with Rowyn, remembering the small stash in a kitchen cabinet. It’s barely enough for two doses, so we need to save it for the Foxglove sisters. Just in case.
The little witch was able to weasel more information out of me than I had planned to tell anyone—like the kiss in the library.
She got the censored version—the one Esme will see through immediately—but her adolescent giddiness was contagious, making me feel like a school girl whispering with Agatha about her first crush again. It sparked something warm in my chest, reminding me of the days when I was close with my own sister, and making me appreciative of my coven sisters.
Agatha’s letter sits in my bedside drawer, along with Petra’s journal and the first photos we found. I’ve read over her words multiple times, creating small holes in the paper from folding and unfolding it so many times. I long to write back to her, to close some of this emotional crater formed between us. Every time I sit down with a pen, words leave me.
There’s too much to say and I don’t know where to start, especially when there’s no telling what will happen to me on any given day. Not when the fates have taken a keen interest in me.
When we got back to the inn, Clementine grabbed my hand and dragged me up the stairs to my room. I knew without asking she was helping me avoid Archer, and deflecting the attention onto herself.
She somehow convinced Rowyn to let us have dinner in my room.
On her way back up, she grabbed the box of photos Rowyn and I had found months ago. We all forgot about it, but one of the Vexley twins must have found it while cleaning, so we’ve been flipping through those for the last couple of hours.
We’ve mostly pieced together which of the former coven members were ancestors to who.
Petra and Nestor Blackthorn, of course.
Isadora with hertwolovers—Esme will enjoy that.
Cassia Foxglove who is present in most of the photos, but not seen again after winter of 1923.
Rhiannon Connor and her unnamed husband—either she’s as short as Rowyn, or he’s tall as hell. Possibly both.
