Somewhere, wherever Cordelia is, she’s probably cackling at the storm that opened from the sky two hours ago and hasn’t let up for a second. I’ve never met her, so I’m basing that off my own petty sense of humor.
There was a secret part of me that wanted to be the person in my family to break the curse. Not only to try to gain my mother’s acceptance—there’s nothing I could do that would please her—but to hopefully give every other Gray Witch born in the Blackthorn family a better chance than I was granted.
It became instantly clear that I wouldn’t even know where to start with a place this size, and with so many problems.
The plants have dried up and appear to be carcasses of their old selves, and the soil—that’s my biggest worry. I’m not sure what the right word is for what’s going on out there, but my assumption about it being a weird tinted mud was true. It’s the color of sand but is gunky and greasy—like a healing salve gone wrong—yet it’s dry. It’s the most peculiar thing.
Neither is a good sign when trying to grow any type of plant.
There are wells, streams, and lines of irrigation along the property. None of them are flowing, and I can’t find any reason why.. The main house is hooked up to the town’s waterline, but larger properties likethis often depend on natural sources to maintain their gardens. That’s a problem a Green Witch could figure out, since their magic naturally aligns with water in a fundamental way.
A Love Witch would be the ideal person to call, since they have water magic. They could coax it out of the ground, even creating a small pond if needed.
The upstairs was far worse than the downstairs, too much work for one person, especially since my savings would only get me through a couple months before I’d be forced to find work. My boots left footprints through the grimy floor, and that was only a taste of what I found in most of the bedrooms. Whatever is deteriorating the protection charms appears to be starting from the top down.
The biggest problem, and one I am certain I need a witch with fire magic for, is the Dreaming Willow’s hearth. Most of the rooms have small fireplaces, which is normal for a building this size that hasn’t been updated in decades. We’re lucky proper plumbing was installed before the curse was cast.
Every magical home has a hearth—the metaphorical heart. Lighting it is a complicated matter and usually depends on the house itself.
After coming back inside, I spent half an hour trying any spell I could think of—not that I should need one. Every young witch is taught about the importance of the home’s hearth from a young age. It’s something thatshouldcome naturally as the legal and magical owner of the property.
I’ve never had trouble lighting a wick or fireplace. Other than spirit magic, fire has always been the element that comes easiest to me. If I weren’t inheriting a cursed inn, I might actually be offended by its refusal to light.
I was hopelessly walking back to the foyer, when I made the decision to sell the property. Most likely for pennies. Still, I could take that and try starting over somewhere new. Maybe in one of those magical cities Cordelia mentioned in her letter, or I could go find whatever is calling me to Junimere.
As I walked through the dusty, dark hallway, it was like someone heard my silent resolutions, and the storm started without a warning. The clouds moved in within minutes, with the first flash of lightning appearing seconds before the rumble of its impact.
That’s not what’s holding me hostage here—it’s the thick curtain of rain pelting down as far as I can see, which is less than two feet in front of me.
I stand on the barrier between the main deck and the back, uncovered patio, still wondering where I should go next. The large double doors are thrown open, and I let the rain soak my front, flooding into the room behind me. The freezing water is seeping through to the back by now, but I don’t move.
My mother would scold me for being so dramatic, but it feels appropriate for this strange grief I’m experiencing at the thought of selling this place. Even if I was offered a million dollars, I’m not sure the decision would be easier.
I close my eyes and lean my head back, considering my options for keeping the Dreaming Willow Inn. Without witches whose powers have a different affinity than mine, I can’t imagine a way this will work out. It’s wrong to leave this once beautiful building to continue to rot, though.
Would ending my family’s curse be the solution to fixing the inn? While exploring, I assumed the two would be connected. What if they aren’t?
A sudden burst of light and an earsplitting crack tear me from my spiraling thoughts, and I throw myself backward, fumbling for the doors. Blinking through the water dripping into my eyes, my hand slips along the glass until I find enough purchase to slam one side closed. It cuts off enough of the wind to stop whipping my hair around, and I close the other door with more ease.
Twirling around and huffing out a breath, I make a hopeless effort to wring out some of the water from my sweater. Even though the main hearth won’t light, I thankfully haven’t had any problems with the other fireplaces.
I notice a pile of books on a nearby table. By the time I made my way back in here as the storm broke, I had lost most of my interest in what I could find lying around, and hadn’t noticed it before.
Stopping on my way to the warmth, I pause to shuffle through the books before landing on a diary of someone named Petra Blackthorn.
I don’t worry too much about bugs or grime, grabbing one of the throw blankets off the armchair and placing it on the floor near thefireplace. Hexate, slithering from her dry spot on the couch, curls up closer to the fire near my feet.
I chuck off my thick sweater and slip out of my skirt—thankful that Agatha taught me to always wear shorts underneath no matter the length—I open the diary to the first page and read about another Gray Witch in my family.
January 4, 1926
Each day, I wake and pray this ache in my chest will lessen. I once believed nothing could be worse than the years Nestor disappeared—nearly four endless years of uncertainty—until all that followed his return proved me wrong. Still, the pain deepens with every passing day.
It has been only two tense months since he returned. How much longer must I endure this?
The heartbreak pumping through my veins is just as strong as the grief I felt when I pushed the gate open. This is different. I’m nearly paralyzed by the anguish Petra must have felt while writing this entry.
The date… One year before the curse was cast.
