Each step away hurts more until I follow him down the stairs.
“Renata,” I yell out. “My name… Renata.”
A smooth, appreciative smile splits across his face as he takes me in, fitting that piece into the puzzle of the crazy witch he found in his dreams.
“Pretty,” he muses in a smooth, low voice before turning and walking off the property with a little more swagger in his step.
I watch until he gets to the end of the street and takes a right, back into town and probably toward the library. Turning back to the inn, I don’t notice Poppy until she stops in the air in front of me.
“Oh my Gods,” I mutter and take a step back.
The bird’s presence gets more of a reaction from Hexate than Nestor’s tantrumandArcher’s presence. So much for protection.
She drops an envelope and hovers in front of me. Confused, I pick it up, wondering if it’s meant for one of the other witches, or another posthumous letter from Cordelia.
The letter isn’t from her.
It’s from Agatha.
My lungs constrict from reading her name. A small ache blooms, but I’m mostly anxious.
“How did you get this?” I ask Poppy, knowing she can’t answer. She can’t even send a wave of confirmation to me like Hexate can.
Poppy continues to spend time around the inn. She never enters, but she’s usually nearby. Relay systems are implemented in all lofts across magical towns, but Poppy isn’t a part of that. She only carries personal letters for Edmond—and now me.
Taking a seat next to Hexate, Poppy lands on the porch railing. It’s the closest she’s gotten to me yet. Carefully, I open the envelope and prepare myself for anything.
Renata,
I hope this reaches you. Mother let it slip where you went, It’s impossible to get an official address for that place. I’ve tried to call and text you, but your phone must be off. Unless you decided to block all of us from calling. That would be understandable.
If you haven’t realized, she canceled your phone plan anyway.
When you never came down that morning, I swore she was going to drive to Briarhollow and pick you up herself like that time you snuck into the city. She threatened to do it, but she never did.
I think she’s terrified of the Dreaming Willow Inn and our family’s history. She’s always been hateful. For the first time, I realized it comes from fear. Grandmother Marie instilled it in her, and she is determined to do the same.
There’s a lot I should have said sooner. Hopefully it’s not too late.
I’m not afraid of you, Renata. I never have been.
Most days, I ask myself whether it’s better to be neglected by our mother than it is to have her attention. Please believe me when I say that every inch of distance between us is there to protect you. Hopefully even Clara and Prudence, despite how peevish they are.
I hope you’re happy—free.
Don’t feel pressured to write me back, but expect a letter from me every so often.
Forgive me,
Agatha
I’m stunned into silence for a few minutes, re-reading Agatha’s letter and staring off into the woods. It doesn’t surprise me that my phone won’t work when I finally charge it. Though I wish I could see the evidence of Agatha’s worry—even for a second. This letter is proof of its own.
A tear slips down my cheek, followed by another, and another until there’s no hope of stopping them. It’s not too late for me to forgive Agatha. The hurt and memories of her disdain will linger, as all emotional wounds do, but the bitterness and resentment melt away. I’ve asked myself that same question thousands of times: is my mother’s neglect better than her attention?
Is there such a thing as abetteroption in our situation?
I think about the first time my mother took Agatha to collect more everoot from Calista, and the dead look in her eye when she returned. The way she was a lifeless husk of herself for days until her magic brought the familiar glow back to her cheeks.
