“No, I—” My mind flashes to last night. My desperate pleas and the careless requests I made. Lifting my hands, I process the cuts along my palms.
A beckoning spell of this magnitude usually requires some sort of incantation, and I didn’t purposefully recite any last night. At the heart of all spells, the intention is truly all that matters—and I did have that.
Blood magic is a fickle practice, and one that shouldn’t be used carelessly.
Or accidentally.
“I don’t think I meant to,” I mutter to Rowyn. I’m not sure why I confide in her. Maybe it’s because she’s here. She showed up—this seemingly kind-hearted stranger—when no one else ever has.
Throughout my life, I’ve learned to trust two things: Hexate and my magic. Those little nudges from the spirits around me are poking at me again, similar to when I arrived in town yesterday. Everything I’ve come to rely on, including Hexate’s calmness, is telling me to trust this moment. To trust Rowyn Connor.
With a wary glance around the front lawn, she gently grabs my hands and tugs me toward the front door. “Show me to the kitchen and we can get this all cleaned up.”
When I first brought Rowyn inside, she was stunned. I’m assuming she lives in Briarhollow, since it’s only an hour or so after sunrise.
There must be hundreds of rumors and tales about the Dreaming Willow Inn, so I don’t blame her. She takes her time as we walk down the long hallway to the east wing. I’m still noticing new things by the second. Like the candles hanging on the kitchen walls hadn’t caught my attention yesterday—not until Rowyn swipes her hand through the air and they all light, brightening up the room better than the grimy, cracked windows.
Her bear comes clobbering in as she offers me a shy, sweet smile. “That’s Feralia, by the way. I hope it’s okay she’s inside…”
I nod. “I’d never banish Hexate out of the house, nor someone else’s familiar.”
Centuries ago, familiars were far more respected than they often are among witches today. They’re bonded to us as protectors, highly aware of our surroundings, emotions, and well-being. There are times when familiars are used in rituals, but it’s extremely rare in modern times. Magic has gotten weaker along with the earth, so our spellwork isn’t as grand as it used to be.
Her smile grows again. “Hexate. That’s a pretty name,” Rowyn muses and cautiously runs a finger down her scales.
Most people are afraid of her simply because she’s a snake, so she preens at the attention. After a moment, Rowyn turns back toward the cupboard.
Feralia stumbles closer to me, giving me an expected look and tilts her head in my direction. With a tired lift of my lips, I reach out and pet her head. She lets out a low, satisfied huff.
“Thank the Gods Cordelia kept a few common ingredients lying around,” Rowyn mutters, more so to herself.
“You knew her?” I ask, my head perking up. “Cordelia?”
With a sympathetic smile, Rowyn shrugs. “I did. She moved here a few years before I was born, but was close friends with my grandmother my entire life until Gran passed away a little over a year ago. She was one of the few people Cordelia would let inside other than Edmond.” She smiles at me over her shoulder. “He was a sweet man, andveryhospitable.”
He must have been a Hearth Witch too.
She rinses out a random pot before dropping a couple blocks of beeswax into it and lighting the wood-burning stove with a snap of her fingers. Abandoning whatever ingredients she found for the time being, she rests her back against the counter.
“How did she die?” I ask quietly, looking down at the shallow scabs.
Rowyn is silent for a moment, but I’m too nervous to meet her eye.
Finally, she says, “Any of the healers in town would classify the cause of her death as witch’s fray.”
The mental illness that causes memory loss and hallucinations when someone becomes consumed by their magic. It happens most often to Gray and Divination Witches. It deteriorates the mind until there’s nothing left of the person they once were.
Rowyn’s giving me a pointed look, like there’s more to it than that.
“What would the locals call it?” I ask, familiar how gossip in small towns work. Hemlocke may be one of the largest magical cities in the country, but it is miniscule compared to a human city.
“The Blackthorn Curse,” she answers instantly, but not harshly.
I bite my lip and look away, thinking about the lightning strike again.
“I’d say the same thing,” I admit. Before she can respond, I change the subject. “What was Cordelia like?”
Her smile grows as she recalls the memories. “She was kind. Always the first to check on someone in need or help decorate for the solstice events. But she was quiet—not as outgoing as my gran, or as dramatic as Edmond.”
