“Why are you just standing there?” Clementine asks. There’s a bit of judgment in her voice but it’s only that of a fifteen-year-old girl.
Holding my hands out to the side, I lift my shoulders helplessly.
Isn’t it obvious?
Except when I turn to look around the room, it isn’t. There’s not a single bit of proof of the tantrum Nestor had when reminded of Petra and Barrett.
It’s like the lightning strike. Like the deadwalkers.
For the first time in my life, I’m truly worried my mother was actually right about everything.
I’m destined to go mad.
I didn’t want to believe it, hoping it was just more of my mother’s cruelty, a way to control me. It’s true though. It has to be.
Panic sears through me and I can’t breathe. Looking around the room, my breath grows shorter and more shallow by the second. My hands fly to my chest and scratch at my skin, needing more air—or maybe out of my body.
It’s not even nine p.m. I can’t blame this on exhaustion or paranoia. Not when I have to look the three witches I’ve come to care for in the eye. As the seconds tick by in silence, the looks of confusion and worry cement their features.
Twirling in a clumsy circle, trying to find any evidence of what I witnessed, I don’t see Rowyn run up behind me until she wraps her arms around my chest.
“Shh,” she quietly murmurs. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Everything is fine.”
That’s the problem!I want to scream.
Everything was not fine less than a minute ago.
After a second, Clover walks up to our side and wraps her arms around both our bodies. Clementine follows their actions and comes around to my front, finishing off the circle around me. The pressure is nice—calming.
It takes a few minutes for my breathing to slow, but the tears don’t stop.
These are different from the first night here, when I accidentally casted that beckoning spell. None of what I’m feeling has anything to do with Petra and what I read tonight.
It has everything to do with the women who have wrapped me in their embrace.
Green, nor Hearth, Witches can control other people’s emotions, but their magic is strongly tied to healing properties—along with Love Witches. I’m wondering if that healing is extended to our emotional kind.
This moment is the unraveling of twenty-seven years of being alone.
I’m not sure how long we stay like this, but no one moves until my breathing evens out and the tension from my body has evaporated. Clover keeps an arm around me anyway, guiding me back to bed.
As she’s tucking me in, Clementine climbs onto the end and hesitantly pets Hexate with a finger. It’s sweet of her to worry about my familiar, and I can see the effort she’s making to be more comfortable around her.
My eyes catch on the now closed journal, and I meet Hexate’s gaze, offering her a tired, thankful smile. She flickers her tongue at me before coiling up closer to my ankles.
“I’ll make tea,” Rowyn announces and briskly walks out the door.
Chuckling, I look at Clover and joke, “Of course she’s going to make tea.”
With a strained lift of her lips, she sits next to me and says, “To be fair, teadoesmake everything better.”
I roll my eyes but don’t disagree.
Chapter 13
Archer
Pulling into a parking spot, I turn to Sybil—still in her trance—and try to read her reaction. It’s harder when she’s in these states. I have to wade through the metallic-tasting apathy that plagues her, but I know her better than anyone else—maybe even myself.
