“He isn’t my family member,” I tell them.
Rowyn eyes me. “You’re sure about that?”
“He was Nestor’s best friend,” I say, opening the journal and finding the vague entry I read over a week ago.
They each read it quickly, but Rowyn holds onto it, skimming through the pages before that.
I don’t love the idea of sharing this with her, but it’s only fair. She’s proving again to understand me better than anyone else by not going past the page I showed them, marked with how far I’ve gotten through so far.
Once she’s caught up to me, she closes the journal and sets it on the table between us.
“How did you recognize the man in the library?” Rowyn asks.
“What the fuck?” Clementine mutter. Her attention is glued to the ongoing events now.
“That’s…” I let out a shy laugh. “That’s a bit more complicated.”
Clementine raises her eyebrows in disbelief.
“I’ve known him for eleven years, but this afternoon was the first time I’ve everseenhim.”
This time, the young witch turns to her sister, waiting for her response. Her expression almost makes me laugh; it’s communicating,she’s truly gone mad.
“What does that mean?” Clover asks.
With less tact, Esme asks, “Isn’t part of the curse that you’ll lose your mind?”
Rowyn leans forward and swats her leg in a very maternal manner. “Be nice.”
I shrug. “She’s right. I might be losing my mind.”
“You aren’t,” Rowyn argues, turning to face me.
Shaking my head, I look between them and take a deep breath. I explain how the man from my dreams ties into all of this. The long, weird history we have with each other, and how I wouldn’t have been able to find him if the universe didn’t want that.
I can’t think of a way to explain the amount of comfort his presence brings me. Some weeks, the only thing that got me through the day was knowing he’d find me for a few hours in our dreams.
As I got older and the grief from my father’s death began to settle, I learned how to deal with my mother’s abuse and sisters’ hatred better. It wasn’t easy—and there were a lot of days when even running away didn’t feel like enough distance from them—but that resilience came after years of the lowest depression I’ve ever faced.
The black hole is always there, even now after spending weeks with my coven and being accepted for the first time, but it’s smaller. It’s more manageable, like I was able to shove it into a closet to get it out of the way, except I never forget it’s there. Sometimes the door is left open, and it starts to spread again.
How do I explain that most days, the hope of seeing him again, of experiencing that acceptance from someone I would never meet, was what got me here? With them?
I focus on the facts rather than my emotions.
Once I’m sure that they’re fully caught up, and there truly aren’t any secrets left, I cross my arms, instinctively curling into myself. I’d never expect any of them to physically hit me like my mother, but my sisters were the ones that taught me words can hurt just as badly.
I still flinch when Rowyn raises her arm to gently wrap it around my shoulders.
“You aren’t going mad,” she promises again, with more resolution in her tone this time. “And you don’t have to carry this alone.”
Taking a deep breath, I force my muscles to relax, and try believing her words.
“I didn’t want to involve you more than needed—but it’s become abundantly clear you’re as fated to be here as I am,” I regretfully muse.
We’re quiet for a few minutes. Even with a million questions and problems to consider, all I can focus on is what the four of them must be thinking right now.
“His name is Archer,” Rowyn says suddenly, some sort of realization dawning on her.
