Barrett and I had never spoken before tonight, but he walked me there and home.
He’s nice too.
January 25, 1916
The most magnificent thing happened today! While I was out walking with Rhiannon, a skunk ran straight toward me. Yes, we were frightened at first—worried it would spray us right before meeting the other witches—but it didn’t. He simply stood there, staring.
Waiting.
For me.
Today, I met my familiar. A skunk named Pippan.
At seventeen, I’m the first of my friends to meet their familiar.
February 14, 1916
Nestor and I promised one another that we would someday make the Soul Tie Bond.
We are not so foolish to attempt it now, knowing our parents would strongly object. They wish for us to marry sooner rather than later, yes—but this is a far greater commitment, one that witches ceased to practice centuries ago.
Not soon. After we are married, but preferably before we have a child.
Would that not be something?
December 31, 1917
It has been three months since I last found the time—or the strength—to sit and write.
This is the first moment of true silence and isolation I have had in which to grieve my mother.
She was not particularly affectionate or encouraging, but she was present, steady, and protective. Qualities I did not appreciate enoughthree months ago, and now I miss them so fiercely that I sometimes feel I cannot breathe.
Before her body had even gone cold, I was forced to make decisions. Hundreds of them. Not only about her death, but about everything. Within the span of hours, I had lost my mother and inherited an inn already broken and burdened. There has been no room for grief.
I thank whatever powers may be listening for my friends—Rhiannon, Cassia, Isadora, Everly, and Barrett—but most of all, for my Nestor.
July 22, 1919
As time passes and my grief begins to settle, I feel my soul hardening all the same.
Everyone within the coven can sense it. The Blackthorns have kept a coven at the Dreaming Willow Inn since the town first formed, and I find myself buckling beneath the weight of it. I may only step back so far without forcing my burdens upon someone else, yet I walk that line each day. They all seem happier together—happier without me.
Nestor may believe I do not notice the way his gaze lingers on Cassia, or how fond he has grown of spending his afternoons in the gardens. Can I truly blame him? I have always thought of Cassia as a ray of sunlight sent to bless our coven. Beside her, I have become little more than a gathering storm at a Sunday picnic.
Perhaps I would resent her, if she had not been made a widow so young, left alone with two small children.
My Nestor has always been good with children.
Besides—how can I fault either of them, when I myself have begun seeking companionship elsewhere?
Barrett’s quiet strength, his observant nature, bring a steadiness I find myself clinging to. His magic is a gentle comfort, ever-present when my grief grows too heavy to bear alone.
Nestor will always be my love—my husband—but perhaps we were right not to be reckless when we were younger.
December 15, 1921
Cassia’s magic has grown increasingly erratic over these past months. It has been generations since anyone in her family succumbed to decay fever, yet it is painfully clear she now shows its earliest signs.
