My husband’s concern deepens as swiftly as the illness itself.
I have never believed them to be unfaithful to me—at least not in body—but it remains a humiliation, all the same, for the matron of this coven.
July 1, 1922
Today is the happiest day of my life.
For twenty-four hours, the weight of grief has lifted enough for me to truly hold this moment—the day my daughter was born.
Gemma Faye Blackthorn, born at 1:23 in the morning.
If only her father were alive to see how beautiful she is. I relinquished hope for his return two months ago. I held on three months longer than any reasonable soul should have, but for my sake—and for hers—I had to let go, so that we might begin our life together.
We have the coven, which feels like more than I deserve on most days.
Strangely, Cassia and I have found great comfort in one another, each grieving my husband in our own way. In many respects, I find myself mourning her as well—though she still lives.
And we have the man seated across from my bed.
Barrett has been sitting in the rocking chair by the hearth, holding Gemma for nearly forty-five minutes now. He insists it is so I may rest, but there is more to it than that. Nestor was his dearest friend, and there are days when his grief feels heavier than even my own.
She is the last living piece of Nestor left to us. Barrett is as undone by the sight of her as I have been since the moment I first laid eyes upon her.
January 1, 1924
I believe it happened slowly.
Falling in love with Barrett.
His quiet comfort became a necessary companionship. As I grew into motherhood, he stepped forward to be the man Gemma and I required. That steadiness has not faltered for a single moment since the night she was born.
With it, I find my soul beginning to warm once more—much as my skin does beneath the gentle breath of his sleeping body beside me.
I flip each journal open to a random page, too exhilarated to think straight.
Everything about Petra—about her life—is here.
So many of the missing pieces are finally fitting into place.
Yet I am left with so many more in their place.
Slowing down, I grab the first one, dated ten years before the curse, and start at the beginning.
Her stories consume me. Petra and I have lived such different lives yet we are so similar.
Growing up misunderstood by our mothers, in different ways. Our desires for soul covens rather than only blood.
However, there is so much history that I’d never learn without these entries.
What happened to the wolf pack that was bound to the Dreaming Willow Inn? Mayumi, the mayor, is mentioned often. I think that’s the name of Briarhollow’s mayor now, so it must be the same woman. Does she have any recollection of that night? Rowyn has said she’s quite the recluse.
Each page is filled with new names, new memories, new perspectives of Petra’s that shift many of my own.
Pushing through the journals, looking for the next one now that I have a nearly complete timeline, I don’t expect anyone to come to my door. The moon is already lowering from its peak when the soft knock startles me.
Hexate uncoils from her spot by my legs and quickly slithers toward the noise. The little traitor has taken a liking to Archer and his coyote familiar.
When I don’t make a move to follow, she turns her head and gives me an inquisitive look with the flick of her tongue.
