I let out a dry laugh, remembering how Eden described him similarly.
“And,” Rowyn continues, “she was secretive. It’s the only negative thing Gran would say about Cordelia. I don’t think it would have bothered her so much if they weren’t trying to reunite the ancestral coven of the Dreaming Willow Inn.”
I sit up straighter. “They were trying to reunite the old coven? How would that even be possible?”
“By tracking down the descendants, I suppose,” Rowyn says. Tilting her head, she asks, “Isn’t that what you were trying to do?”
Shaking my head, I say, “I wasn’ttryingto do anything—not really. It was just an emotional moment with a few untimely drops of blood.”
She hums, watching me with uncertainty now. “I don’t mean to show up on your doorstep like a confused ghost,” she insists. “I figured you had the same goal as them—and I’d do anything to know my gran was resting peacefully.” She thinks it over before adding, “And I’d love to get away from my sister.”
Without meaning it, Rowyn is tugging on my cold, neglected heartstrings.
Damn Hearth Witches.
“It wasn’t my plan last night, but maybe there was a bit of intention behind my words,” I say.
Rowyn nods, red curls bouncing around her soft features. She doesn’t say anything or push the subject. Once a witch’s powers have matured, it’s less common for us to cast random spells like I did last night. But for almost every one of us that has gone through puberty, we aren’t strangers to the experience either.
Running a finger along one of the shallow scrapes, I tell her, “My entire life has been flipped upside down in the last few days. One thing I’m certain of is that I don’t want to go back to my mom’s coven if I can help it.”
Glancing up, Rowyn offers me another smile. This one isn’t filled with the same giddy excitement she had when she arrived, but instead, a silent understanding.
“This place isn’t much—” I shrug, “—but you’re welcome to stay.”
She perks up and sets her hands on her hips. “That’s great to hear! Because all my stuff is in the car anyway.”
Huffing out a breath, I shake my head. I silently watch her—this stranger who somehow feels more familiar than my own family.
Once the wax has melted an acceptable amount, she hums to herself and opens the glass jars. Instantly, I recognize the familiar warmth of St. John’s Wort and the calming aroma of lavender.
Honestly, the beeswax alone would’ve been fine for how minor these cuts are. Yet I can’t find it in myself to stop Rowyn. She seems to enjoy this task, and I selfishly want to enjoy being doted on.
It’s second nature to her. For me, it’s the first time I’ve received simple affection like this in a decade. I can’t think of a single time my mother ever stopped to tend to my scrapes, not even as a child. It was always my father who came running when I called, offering hugs and spells to stop the crying.
Now there’s this stranger who has offered me more kindness in an hour than I typically receive in a year. And she wants to form a coven withme.
My family always kept our coven to immediate members. After Agatha takes my mother’s place, Clara and Prudence will marry and start their own families. It’s an uncommon practice, and for us, one that has caused a deep crater of distance between us sisters.
Chosen covens often have stronger bonds. They’re built on the foundation of trust and acceptance of each other. Sometimes they are elemental, but not always.
Mine and Rowyn’s can be for anyone who needs a home—for the misfits like us.
“I would’ve preferred calendula over lavender, but this is good enough,” she huffs out.
Letting out a low laugh, I shake my head. The herb does everything lavender does but promotes new skin growth better. “They’re barely even scrapes.”
She takes a look at them, examining closer than she did when we were outside. With a resolute nod, she points to the sink and continues to stir the salve while I wash my hands.
Staring out the window, I’m focused on the back copse of trees, wondering what’s on the other side, when a large, black blur flies into my line of vision and startles me. I let out a little gasp and realize it’s only Poppy, Edmond’s familiar.
“Oh, Poppy,” Rowyn calls in a sweet voice. She walks up beside me and lifts the window, requiring a hard push to get through the built-up grime. “You don’t have to stay out there.”
Poppy makes no move to come inside, but she perches on the window, watching me. I offer the raven a small, sympathetic smile before grabbing the hand towel.
Meeting Rowyn back at the small kitchen nook, I rub the oil into my palms.
“This should have them closed within the next hour or so,” she insists. “Which is perfect since you’re going to help me clean this place while we have a few nice, long talks about whatever is going on here.”
