Renata shrugs nonchalantly, but doesn’t give the indication she’s joking.
“What does that mean?” Sybil asks. “Spiraling into madness can mean different things. It’s often how people would describe my magic.”
Gale gives Renata a moment to answer. As her silence drags on, he does the honor. “That is your magic, dear. While Divination Witches are not the easiest to understand from an outside perspective, it is very different from what Cordelia experienced, and she didn’t have the doppelgänger to worry about.”
Everyone is silent, waiting for Gale’s stories and any clarity he can bring to our situation.
“Hmm,” he muses and twists the wine glass in front of him. “Cordelia was a private witch, even with the people she trusted most. However, the hallucinations became bad enough for her to go looking for help, especially from my wife and Eden. I heard some of the stories, and correct me if I’m wrong, Renata.”
He waits for her acknowledgement and she bobs her head.
“There’s no awareness, like your magic grants you,” he tells Sybil. “Cordelia knew when she was in a hallucination—unlike someone suffering from witch’s fray—but she was a victim of it. She would have fallen off a balcony a time or two, had her Chosen not been there to stop her.”
Renata sucks in a breath and looks out into the yard, the color drained from her face.
Watching her for a few seconds, Sybil turns to Gale when the silence grows. “Her Chosen? Cordelia made the Soul Tie Bond?”
I was filled with as much disbelief when I found out, having never met a witch who performed the ritual.
“She did, to Edmond Finkle. My wife believed Cordelia was scared he’d leave her without the bond, but there was no way. He loved her very much.” He lets out a sigh. “We all tried to help, but she was a recluse at heart, despite how much she loved this town. She… she started to struggle with reality versus her visions.”
“Gray Witches don’t have visions,” Sybil cuts in.
He nods. “Correct—and that’s the first sign, isn’t it, dear?”
This time, he’s speaking to the only Gray Witch at the table. Reluctantly, Renata agrees and refuses to look at anyone, instead staring at the trees over his shoulder.
“What was the first one you had?” he presses.
Seconds pass, and I’m positive Renata isn’t going to answer. As I wrack my brain, trying to think of any question to keep us on track and move the attention off of her, her quiet answer surprises me.
“The first night I spent there, after deciding to sell the inn,” she says. “I figured someone would be interested in it, despite—or maybe because of—the history. As soon as I made the decision, it started to pour down. I couldn’t even see my hand through the storm.”
“I didn’t realize that was your very first night here,” Rowyn says.
Renata nods. “I went onto the porch and just let the rain fall around me, thinking that Cordelia had a sick sense of humor and far too much time on her hands in the afterlife.”
Gale chuckles. “Now that’s true.”
She cracks a smile. “At one point,” Renata continues, “I closed my eyes and needed a sign—anything—to point me in the right direction. Next thing I knew, lightning struck fifty feet from me and I ran inside, only to find Petra’s journal waiting for me by the fireplace. That’s what convinced me to stay. And I guess, accidentally send out the beckoning call.”
Sybil, always one for the small details, says matter-of-factly, “You’d need blood for such a grand spell.”
Rowyn assesses Renata, from her silky white hair down to the silver choker she always wears with a small, protective tourmaline hanging off of it. “That’s correct, but she’d only need a drop if the intentions were strong enough.”
There’s a silent conversation being shared between them, spoken through their eyes and whatever bond the two have formed over the weeks.
Finally, Renata nods. “Right—just a drop or two.” Lifting her hands, she holds out her palms. There are faint scars across the bottom that appear old and healed over.
Until Rowyn asks, “There are scars? But the salve…” Her voice trails off as she zones out, and she seems to be replaying another memory of theirs.
“The scars of blood magic are permanent,” Renata mutters, staring down at her hands now in her lap. “A drop or two doesn’tchange that.”
“What happened?” I blurt out before I can stop myself. There’s a cold bite to my tone. Not directed toward her personally, but at the idea of her spilling blood for any reason, even by accident.
It’s subtle, but I don’t miss the way her body tenses at the tone.
“I…” She tilts her head back and forth, thinking it over. “I had an emotional moment and maybe, possibly, slammed my hands on some broken glass.” She shrugs it off and continues, “Anyway, I accidentally cast the spell, never thinking it would bring you all here. When I went back out to the patio the next day, there weren’t any signs of a lightning strike. Not one single scar on the ground.”
