“The people in this town are so weird,” Clementine mumbles.
The three of us laugh, and Rowyn nods in agreement. “Very odd, indeed.”
“Thank you,” I quietly tell Rowyn when she hands me my plate of food. I take a big bite of hashbrowns. “You know, we can serve ourselves.”
She waves her hand in the air. “One day, when the Dreaming Willow is thriving again, I’ll be too busy to personally charm each of your plates, but for now, let me enjoy it.”
“Charm, huh?” Clementine asks, suddenly reluctant to take another bite.
Rolling her eyes, Rowyn tells her, “With protection and luck for the day.” Pointing at Clementine’s plate, she adds, “Now eat.”
The explanation seems good enough for the young witch because she takes a bite and zones out, staring out the window longingly. It has tobe hard for her, locked in this house with four wardens and no one her age.
“Is that what the everoot is for?” I ask.
Rowyn slowly turns in my direction. “We have everoot?” she asks and points at the table. “Here? Are you sure?”
“Yes, my mother made sure to keep some on hand at all times.” Pointing toward the bowl with my fork, I tell her, “There’s nothing else that dries to that golden color.”
I look at her and Clover for confirmation, in case they have information I don’t.
“I’ve never seen it in person,” Clover admits. She stays in her seat but leans to look at the bowl behind me.
Rowyn stands, ready to see for herself, as I’m realizing something is wrong. She isn’t just curious about seeing this herb, she looksconfused.
Before she has taken a step, the bowl goes flying across the room.
All four of us scream in unison.
Clover and Clementine sound mostly surprised, but Rowyn sounds heartbroken as she runs to the crushed up remnants scattered across the floor. My shout is in frustration.
“Nestor,” I scold the ghost. He isn’t making himself visible to me right now, probably because of the other women in the room. I get the sudden rush of freezing cold as he moves through me.
“Ah!” Clementine shouts again, jumping out of her seat. Taking a step closer to her sister, she rubs her hands up and down her arms. “What was that?”
From the wide-eyed expression she’s currently sporting, she already knows, so I don’t bother answering her. Especially not when I have an angry Rowyn staring at me from across the room while she tries to sweep up as much of the herb as she can.
“Please, for the love of Mother Earth, tell me that Nestor is not who I think he is,” Rowyn scolds.
She’s a month younger than me, and maybe it’s the maternal energy every Hearth Witch is born with, but it’s worse than anytime my mother has looked at me with disappointment.
Biting my lip, I glance around the room to try finding him. He’s nowhere to be seen.
“Depends on who you think he is,” I quietly admit.
She scowls and answers in a sharp tone, “Either of the men from that photograph.”
Nodding, I look at her, avoiding whatever reactions the Foxglove sisters have. “He’s Petra’s husband,” I admit. “I saw him the first night we each slept in our own rooms.”
Her mouth drops. “That’s been weeks, Renata. What the fuck?”
I’m startled by her reaction. Rowyn is hard to provoke, but I shake it off and try to grasp at any reasonable explanation.
Before I can think of anything, Clover leans forward. “You weren’t going to tell us about this? Is that the type of coven this is?” She shares a look with her sister, who is still shivering, before adding, “If that’s the case, we’ll need to discuss if this is the right place for Lem and me after all.”
My heart immediately drops as I look at the three confused, hurt faces all staring at me. I’ve tried convincing myself that I didn’t tell them to protect them from the curse—trying to keep them as uninvolved as I can despite their agreement to be here. The pressure of the Dreaming Willow Inn weighs on me every day, and I want to carry that for them.
The anxiety of them leaving, abandoning me to my most dreaded fate, sinks in and I have to breathe through the panic settling on my lungs like a gilded cauldron.
