“Yeah,” I huff and cross my arms. “Me neither.”
“Do you know what it means?” Clementine asks. Her interest is tamped down but still present.
I shake my head. “No, not yet.”
The two sisters look at each other for a long moment, sharing some sort of silent conversation, before their heads turn at the same time.
Suddenly scared of that familiar sting of rejection, I say, “I meant what I said—you’re welcome to stay here. Even if it’s for a night. I don’t expect anyone to stay and pick up my family’s mess.”
Clover sits taller, an unexpected strength settling over her features. “Our mom taught us that anything worth having wouldn’t come easy.”
Clementine nods silently from her side.
Continuing, Clover adds, “I’m not sure why we received the beckoning, but we did. Lem and I have been looking for a home for a long time. So if you’re offering to give us that, we’ll fight for it.”
Rowyn leans forward, grabbing the Green Witch’s hand and squeezes.
“I can’t even guess what ‘fighting’ would look like,” I admit.
As if on cue, the pot of mashed potatoes still resting on the stove, is thrown to the floor.
“Oh!” Rowyn mutters in surprise. She stands, subtly pushing my plate closer to me again, and goes to pick up the pot. As she begins to clean the mess, she ruefully asks over her shoulder, “Did we mention the ghost? At least we think it’s a ghost.”
“No,” Clover answers with a small shake of her head. “A curse, a doppelgänger, and a ghost. Sounds like a good time.”
“Or a bad joke,” Clementine mutters before glancing at me.
I let out a dry laugh, lightly shrugging because she’s not wrong.
“Well, I’m more than thankful you’re here,” Rowyn says in a commanding voice. “We were going to start tackling some of the bedrooms. We can each choose ours, and maybe go to a few shops this week.”
Other than when I drove to the Dreaming Willow Inn a few days ago, I haven’t had a chance to explore the town. There’s even morebusiness than what I saw on my short drive through town. Rowyn talks about the town proudly, clearly close to many of the residents. It seems like everyone is doing well enough to get by, but not thriving like Briarhollow used to.
After our long lunch, I give the Foxglove sisters a tour, showing them the hallway Rowyn and I were thinking of inhabiting. Rowyn insists on cleaning up the kitchen and finishing the den while I do so. We find her setting out two more makeshift beds next to ours before getting started on the first of many rooms.
Chapter 11
Renata
Three days later, and we’re each sleeping in our new rooms.
Well, new is a bit of an overstatement.
They’re new tous,but that’s as far as the adjective can be used. Thankfully, Rowyn’s grandfather is close with a lot of the town members, so he was able to scrounge up some donations for us—a couple new mattresses and linens, along with random pieces of furniture that needed to be replaced. He’s a sweet, old man who apparently tried to help Cordelia restore as much of the inn as she would allow.
Now as I’m walking through the halls, loneliness is setting in again. It’s different than anything I’ve felt before. This is a type of nostalgia, which is ridiculous since the women are in the three rooms directly next to mine.
I’ve been mindlessly wandering the west wing for the last hour. We haven’t spent much time over here yet, so I hoped it would distract me, but it’s doing a poor job. It only fills me with dread because it’s in much worse conditions than the central rooms and east wing. My relationship and plans with the inn are in a constant battle.
If Briarhollow was a non-magical town, we could glamour pebbles and leaves, making them look realistic to a human’s eye. The merits surrounding it are iffy, and I’m not sure Rowyn or Clover would bekeen on the idea. In a town like Briarhollow, the glamour would be discovered before I entered the first shop.
Once I’ve lost hope, I turn out of the room and plan to make my way back to my bedroom when something outside catches my eye. I cautiously walk closer and gingerly push the threadbare curtain to the side. A short, sharp scream rips out of me before I can cover my mouth.
A half-decayed body is digging itself out of the ground. More of the soil starts to upturn, and hands pop out of the ground, pulling themselves out. There are at least a dozen grotesque bodies in the field now.
Deadwalkers are similar to the media’s version of zombies. They have to be enchanted by a Gray Witch and bound to someone who controls them. Their bite doesn’t turn a person into one, but it is lethal if not treated quickly.
As a group, they turn to look directly at me—one points in my direction and moves forward.
