The inside is just as bleak. Some fresh paint and a deep cleaning would help brighten the large spaces and bedrooms. A few needed repairs are obvious, like brand-new windows and fixing the doors that are hanging off the hinges.
There’s not a lot of evidence of Cordelia, or anyone over the last century, inhabiting the property, though a few signs prove she visited often.
The two rooms on either side of the front door have clearly been lived in based on the throw blankets and open books along the coffee table, as well as a pair of slippers that look too new to be anyone other thanCordelia’s. And the firewood is too fresh to have been left there for long considering the amount of rain the northeast gets.
The back of the inn has been forgotten. Most of the picture frames are falling off the walls, if they haven’t already crashed to the floor. The candles in the chandelier have melted but the wicks aren’t burned down, casualties of the summer heat and constant humidity. All the books seem to be charmed against deterioration, but even they’re starting to wear, having not been reinforced recently. There hasn’t been any evidence of termites, or really any pests, inside the house. Maybe someone thought to charm it against some natural factors, holding the building up.
With a sigh I pick up Hexate, not wanting her to hurt herself on broken glass or wood splinters, and turn down the hallway.
There’s one master bedroom on the first floor with fresh sheets. Er, maybe fresh isn’t the right word but there are no signs of dust mites or moth holes in any of the bedding, furniture or rugs in the few rooms I walked through.
The layers of dust on every surface tell me she stopped caring for the inn months before her death, but the scattered debris across the floor makes me wonder if that was due to her mental state as the curse took over her mind.
The kitchen is the cleanest room with a thin layer of dust covering the surface—no more than what makes sense for a month of abandonment. The dishes are in perfect condition, sans a good washing, and there are cabinets full of herbs and tea mixtures that are still consumable. However, the bowl of fruit on the counter has rotted, now accompanied by fruit flies.
Quickly, I grab the bowl, holding it out as far in front of me as I can, and kick open the cracked Dutch door. As I step through the threshold, I’m momentarily stunned by the back gardens—at least what’s left of them.
I walk to the edge of the handrail and mindlessly toss the fruit out of the bowl, setting it at the top of the stair’s bannister.
“Wow,” I murmur to Hexate, who is currently slithering up the wood and onto my arm. “What do you think this looked like a hundred years ago?”
As she settles around my neck, she leans forward and takes in the vast, dead property before us. A small wave of approval settles in my bones as Hexate is imagining the possibilities.
There’s a small seating area with tables and chairs—broken down by rust and weather—right before a pathway leads out to a fountain and breaks off into three more directions. It’s like an X that marks the middle of the main garden.
We can only assume what each of the sections between the stone paths once had. Based on the skeletons, it looks like a great variety—everything from flowers to shrubs to trees with vines tangled around their trunks.
“I’m sure you’d find some great prey around there,” I teasingly tell Hexate and carefully walk down the stairs.
She hisses in confirmation, making me chuckle. Hexate is probably the thing my mother liked the most about me because she kept out most rodents and other pests. As beautiful as my mother’s gardens are, they don’t hold a candle over the potential of the one we’re currently walking through.
It’s even more expansive than the maze in front of us. To the east, there are fields for vegetation with a few large sheds at the back corner. On the other side of the property is a large greenhouse and what looks like a barn.
At the back end, the path gets lost in a mess of tall grass and the ossified wild flowers—at least a half acre worth of land—that leads to a wooded area. I assume it’s a part of the property since it’s as lifeless as the rest of the foliage, but I don’t go past the dead flowers to explore.
I drop down to a crouch and hesitantly grab one of the dried, colorless petals. It breaks off easily but doesn’t crumble until I firmly press it between my fingers. The dust falls, some of it blowing in the wind, and leaves a faint daisy scent.
“Weird,” I murmur and wipe my hand on my long skirt.
Still, I can’t help but think how perfect this area would be for Hexate if I can figure out what happened to all the plants and soil.
Hexate isn’t native to the northeast part of the continent. When I first found her, I thought she was a timber rattlesnake until I noticed the pattern on her back. After some research, I learned she most likely traveled from somewhere central. A few towns are possibilities, likeJunimere in the foothills of Colorado’s Rocky Mountains. She always sends a wave of approval through our bond when I mention Junimere, so it’s safe to assume that I’m correct.
More often than not, a witch’s familiar is from the same general region. However, it’s not unheard of for a familiar to travel great lengths to reach their bonded witch. Our magic creates an enchantment that allows them to adapt to their environment, but itusuallycomes with some connection to that location.
After six years, I’m not sure what that could mean for us, so I chalk it up to my long-standing fascination with the quaint mountain town despite it being a smaller, quieter community than I’m used to. Other than that, there’s no reason why my heart calls to Junimere so deeply.
It’s been on my list of towns to travel to since I met a customer at Old Wives’ from there. He spent an hour entertaining me with stories of his community and his family.
Imagining Hexate’s from there only makes me yearn for it a little extra. That open field would be closer to her natural habitat than my mother’s garden.
Reading my mind—or emotions—she hisses again, longer this time. The thought makes her happy.
With a low hum in response, I turn on my heel, walking the perimeter of the garden. It isn’t until I go back inside and start looking at the rest of the rooms that I really begin to lose my last bit of hope.
Chapter 5
Renata
