I nod. “She is. All of the witches in our coven are.”
She lets out another annoyedhumphand says, “You send those other girls here soon. Many of us remember the stories of the great coven at the inn.”
My brows raise in surprise. Everyone’s been kind, much more than I anticipated, but I didn’t realize that some of the town members had good tales about our ancestors.
“You girls aren’t alone,” she adds gently. Then she straightens her shoulders and moves into shop owner mode. “What can I help you with?”
With a soft tilt of my lips, appreciating the subject change, I ask, “Can you point me in the direction of something stronger than what most Hearth Witches have in their personal pantries?”
She squints at me, clearly unsure of what herbs she should supply to me.
With my family’s reputation in this town, I can’t blame her.
I explain, “Headaches. Horrible, throbbing pain I can’t get to stop.”
Her brows flick up. “You don’t want something to help you sleep?” She must catch the look of confusion that crosses my face because she adds, “Cordelia preferred to sleep without dreaming—though suffered from migraines as well.”
My heart cracks in pain for my great-aunt, knowing how hard it is to be afraid of your own subconscious.
She looks at me, head tilted and assessing eyes roving over each detail of my face. “Let’s get you something strong enough to ward off the pain. Though exhaustion isn’t good for any witch.”
Much less a cursed one.
Fighting back tears, I try to not think about the hallucination I had two nights ago, after telling the coven about seeing Archer in our dream meadow.
One second I was in my bedroom, reading Petra’s journals, and the next, I was ducking out of the way from a vase she threw at my head before falling into a weeping mess on the bedroom floor, clutching her stomach and screaming.
I tried to get to her, to comfort her or find out where the pain was coming from, but when I went to take a step toward her, I accidentally walked right off my bed and twisted my ankle on the way down.
I hadn’t realized I was standing on the mattress until I was halfway to the rug.
When I gathered my bearings, Petra was nowhere to be found. Neither were the remnants of the sapphire blue vase.
What I was left with was her pain—not the physical kind. The distress she felt even made my stomach turn.
The sprain wasn’t bad, so my magic was able to accelerate the healing within a few hours without having to tell Rowyn. She’s subtly ignoring me, It’s because she thinks I’m avoiding whatever preconceived destiny the universe has in store for me.
I can’t understand why spending time with Archer would ever be my fate in this twisted mess our ancestors got us into.
Ever since, I’ve been sleeping as little as possible, and during the most random hours, hoping to avoid him at all costs. However, Petra and Nestor are not as easy to navigate around. I always find one of them in whatever state I’m in.
It’s all catching up to me—the exhaustion and sadness of avoiding Archer and the toll it’s taking on my magic to be in the presence of Petra and Nestor’s spirits all the time.
I’m too scared to sleep. Even with a dreamless elixir, I’m not convinced it could be strong enough to fight off the growing void of my deteriorating mind.
“Thank you,” I tell Eden.
She offers an understanding, maternal nod without saying anything, and turns back to the cabinet across from the one she was restocking. As she crouches down, looking for a particular recipe, I understand why Rowyn loves this place so much.
Not only does Eden have a friendly nature, but the store is warm and cozy. There’s a self-serve area with pastries and tea next to a small seating area. In the back corner, her bat familiar is hanging from a branch-like structure, napping. On the other side of the room, there’s a couple fires burning with potions simmering, keeping the store warm and aromatic. Each of the elixirs are labeled with things like “good luck” or “a better day,” and I’d bet anything they’re brewed fresh daily.
She stands and groans as her knees pop. She doesn’t look uncomfortable though, rather like she’s warming up to go for an afternoon jog.
“Take this and meet me at the counter, dear,” she directs me with a hand on my back, pushing me toward the back of the store. “I’ll help this gentleman, and check you out at the same time.”
I look at her with a growing, appreciative smile, but I catch sight of the customer who she was talking about right as the bell above the door rings. The grin freezes for half a second before completely falling.
His gaze is on the ground, focused on his feet until he crosses the threshold into the store and meets my eye.
