Chapter 4
Renata
Parking my car outside of the large main gate, I try to ignore the anxiety bubbling in my gut and take in as much of the house I can.
That word is too meager for the residence I’m currently looking at. It’s a three-story manor that is in much better shape than I expected. Some of the windows are cracked and the stairs need some patching up, but it’s beautiful. I can only imagine what it looked like in its prime.
The steps lead up to a large porch that wraps around one side of the house with an intricate wooden railing. The front door appears to be in good shape, making me wonder how much Cordelia tried to restore the Dreaming Willow on her own.
On the other side of the house, there’s a bay window under what looks like some sort of watch tower. My eyes follow it all the way to the top, taking in the tall towered roof and the dark green fascia with the carcass of some sort of vine plant—maybe climbing roses.
The thought of blood-red or soft pink roses along the dark green accents, white brick, and light gray wood panels is breathtaking. There are more vines creeping along the foundation, handrails and siding. Even dead, the color looks a little different making me think the ones closer to the ground are possibly Virginia creepers.
Please don’t let it be English ivy.
My magic wouldn’t be able to control that hardy, invasive plant. Only a Green Witch would be able to without a struggle.
To the far left of the front garden is a huge, bare tree. The base is large, close to ten feet in diameter, and it stands at a height of at least forty, maybe even fifty, feet. The extended branches shrink into thin individual twigs that reach for the ground.
The inn’s namesake is enough of a clue, but it’s the largest weeping willow I have ever seen in person, even without its leaves. Whatever witches my ancestors had in their coven must have been very talented.
Now that I’m taking in the rest of the lawn, I realize how delusional it would be to think I could restore this entire place by myself. The front looks like the graveyard of a once beautiful garden. There are the corpses of bushes along the balcony and trees planted throughout the space.
It’s peculiar how the dead plants dried up. All of the leaves, buds, and color have been drained out of them. Yet the trunks and stems have ossified, taking on a bone-like appearance.
The strangest part is how the dirt looks dry, yet simultaneously mushy. It’s probably just an unusual tint to the mud or a mirage from the sun, but I’ve never seen anything like it.
Hexate and I look at each other, both wondering what we’re getting ourselves into.
Closing the few feet between us and the iron gate, I take a deep breath and steel my shoulders to take one look around the Dreaming Willow Inn before making a decision to sell it or not.
Maybe getting rid of the whole thing is exactly what any future Blackthorn witches will need.
Even in its abandoned state, there’s a natural allure to it. It would call to any witch or magical being.
When I look up, I catch Poppy landing on the top of the gate. She settles herself and watches us. She’s calmer now than she was at Edmond’s house, but her beady stare is assessing, making my skin prickle under the attention.
Shaking my nerves off, I push the gate open but my hand freezes around the iron picket, stunning me in place. A sudden wave of emotion washes through me.
Anger.
Fear.
Despair.
Each one sends a rush of bitter cold through my bones—the kind that hits you when you jump into the lake too early into the spring without checking the temperature first.
Hexate tightens her hold, wrapping her body around my neck in a protective stance, but it is a whisper of a touch.
The sensation freezes me in place for nearly a minute before the grief settles. With that comes the realization that I felt someone else’s emotions on a visceral level. An ability that should only belong to Divination Witches. It felt different from anything I’ve read—almost like pacing through a ghost, but their essence lingers.
My brain is screaming to get back in my car and drive home.
My instincts are telling me that I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.
Ultimately, what pushes me forward is the bitter stubbornness to prove my mother wrong.
I thought the exterior and front gardens would be the worst of the deterioration, but that was uncharacteristically hopeful of me.
