Small wins, I sarcastically remind myself.
Some things are a bigger inconvenience than others, like the outdated outlets that need to be replaced. My phone died yesterday, but the reception here is spotty at best. It’s kind of nice not worrying about whether my family will text me, knowing they won’t.
The plumbing in half the rooms is completely fucked, and a lot of the windows are cracked, letting in cold air and bugs. However, the inn will be livable with a lot of TLC until we can find the funds.
We were both hesitant going into the attic this morning. There are a lot of things that could be hiding in a witch’s attic—especially when said witch’s family line is cursed. Thankfully, we really haven’t come across anything at all. Not unless you count empty jewelry boxes and rotting furniture.
“Oh,” Rowyn calls, pulling me from my thoughts. “Look at this!”
I hold the candle up to get a better look at her face. “What is it?”
“Some old photos! Like really old… March 1916, summer of 1920,” she starts to rattle off the dates. “There’s a few in this box.”
The protection charm on those held, at least.
“We can take those downstairs and look at them later,” I tell Rowyn, about to turn back to my pile of junk.
“Wait,” she quietly demands and moves her candle closer, almost enough to burn the photo.
“Hey,” I scold and snatch it from her hand. “Watch out.”
Rowyn’s head snaps up. Instead of anger, all I see is fear and confusion.
“What is going on with you?” I snap. An eeriness has settled across the attic, somehow stronger and more potent than the dust from over the years.
She doesn’t say anything and bobs her chin in the direction of the photo I’m clutching.
Reluctantly, I hold it up and see what has her in such a fright.
It’s an old photograph of three people dated December 15, 1925—less than a month before her first journal entry.
There’s a serious, handsome man on the right, and another man whose face is obscured. It looks like the flash went off, but only caught him. I can’t explain it, but something is familiar about him. It courses through me and lights my veins on fire, even though I can’t see his features.
The grim woman standing between the two men, with both of her hands folded on her abdomen, sends a freezing rush of anxiety through me. Because she looks…
“She looks exactly like me,” I mutter.
I can’t look away from my face—herface. The white-blonde hair hangs in a wispy curtain around our shoulders, as pale as our complexion. The top half of her hair is pinned back in a pretty up-do,accentuating her high-cheek bones and piercing black eyes. The exact shade of her hair, skin and eyes is only a guess since the photo is in black and white. I’d bet on my black opal if I took a photo and enchanted it to match the coloring, all three would be identical to my features.
The words of the strange woman from years ago rings through my head…
You look like someone.
My great-grandmother.
That doesn’t make sense. How would it be possible? Unless that woman—could she have been…?
“Renata…” Rowyn cautiously starts, pulling my attention away from my spiraling thoughts. “You realize what this means, don’t you?”
I nod sharply. It’s a stupid question. Any magical being would know what this means. Hell, I bet even the humans suspect that having a doppelgänger isn’t a coincidence.
My frustration isn’t due to Rowyn’s fearful interest. When Cordelia said I’m “the only one who can fix this,” she meant in every sense of the words: I am theonly one.
As I stare at the twin of my own face, I want to scream and beat my hands on the floor again. Whatever this woman did in her lifetime has officially and irrevocably become my problem to deal with.
With the box of photos, I stomp down the stairs, back to the main den where Rowyn and I are camping out. She’s hot on my heels, as anxious to get out of the attic as she is to figure out what is going on with me, I’m sure.
It isn’t until we get into the main room and I drop down next to the fire, letting the box hit the floor unceremoniously when Rowyn practically throws her body on top of the crate.
