Letting out a deep, pained sigh, I make eye contact with Sybil over her shoulder. She looks shocked and guilty to find us out here. I shake my head, telling her it’s okay.
It’s not—not a single part of my body or soul feels fine after losing my chance to taste her. I can’t stay mad at my sister, especially over an accident.
“Uh,” she starts, looking unsure. “I just thought we should get going soon. I want to pack tonight. We don’t have much, but that way we’re ready after our shift.” Her eyes move to the back of Renata’s head, who is as red as a rose petal and hasn’t looked at my sister yet. “If that’s still okay?”
With a deep breath, Renata blinks and mentally gathers herself before turning around. In a solemn but sure tone, she says, “That’s perfect.”
She doesn’t say anything else as she offers my sister a small smile and walks around her to the door. The only reason I don’t follow her inside, begging her to finish the moment we lost, is because I have more hope aboutusthan I’ve had since the day I saw her at the apothecary.
Chapter 29
Renata
Pacing in front of the fireplace in my bedroom, I do my best to ignore Hexate’s stare, Nestor’s presence, and the knowledge that Archer is moving his stuff into the room down the hall.
Since meeting Sybil last night, I have let Rowyn handle the logistics. She enjoys this stuff the most, so it’s cruel to take the hostess job away from her. As my dreams become more incoherent and the visions more frequent, I’m turning into a forgetful husk of who I was. I’ve never had problems remembering important dates and conversations until recently.
I played down how much things have progressed when speaking to the group last night. There’s no reason to worry them. The only solution is ending this curse, or I may very well live up to my mother’s warnings and throw myself off a cliff before it gets worse.
I was surprised and hurt Archer didn’t find me in our dreams last night. I expected him to, if only to finish what Sybil interrupted. Every night I’ve spent with him since the day I saw his face has chiseled away at my resolve and distance.
When I woke up just after the moon hit its peak, I knew I wouldn’t find sleep again. Not after the fractured memories of Petra I lived through. It had only been a few hours of sleep, but it felt like a lifetimebeing stuck in her consciousness. I’m not even sure how she did it. It’s something I’ve never experienced before, or thought was possible.
It bred new questions rather than answer any of the ones I already have, as every encounter with Petra seems to do.
It started with youthful memories of her and Nestor’s early relationship, when they were two hopeful kids who wanted to bond their souls forever. Quickly, the warm nostalgia faded as I drowned in Petra’s grief of losing her mother, and the new responsibilities that felt like cinder blocks tied to her ankles. Then it jumped to Petra holding one of her coven members, Rhiannon Connor, as she tearfully waved goodbye to her beloved. She held her still flat belly and didn’t let out an audible sob until he was out of earshot.
Next, it was weeks later when she broke down on the floor and told Barrett that she was pregnant. It was the same memory of her throwing the vase I first experienced when I sprained my ankle a few weeks ago. He barged in from the loud crash and picked her up, gently wiping her cuts from the glass and everything else she broke that night.
Then it ended with Nestor coming home—defeated, guilty, and ashamed. Barrett held Petra as she sobbed from the watch tower’s balcony, a mess of relief and heartbreak when she saw her missing husband.
I woke up in a freezing cold, sweating mess, tangled in my sheets.
I was thankful Hexate had gone out hunting so I wouldn’t concern her with my deteriorating mental health. There’s nothing I can do to keep Nestor away. If anything, as the days pass, he stays closer to me.
Sometimes I catch him opening his mouth, as if he’s trying to tell me something, then closing it and morphing into his small, chaotic orb.
While I wouldn’t consider my omission to be a lie, there is one secret I’ve been keeping from the coven.
A few nights ago, I brought out my spirit board to try communicating with Nestor. It was a horrible fail and left me to perform cleansing baths for days. The reason I haven’t told anyone is because aspects of my magic often leaves people uneasy or fearful.
Throughout every moment of craziness, none of my friends—or even Archer and Sybil in the short amount of time I’ve known her—have looked at me like that. It’s something I’m used to, unfortunately. My mother hated when I would resurrect the animals and insects I’dsometimes find around the gardens, especially if they were pests. I was never able to just leave them.
It’s been years since one person saw my abilities as a gift. I don’t want to lose that by bringing attention to the less desirable aspects of it.
I often find myself longing for Cordelia’s letter, the one my mother cruelly threw into the fire. The only tangible piece of evidence I had that someone valued me—my magic. It may be pathetic to hold onto the words of a dead stranger. I don’t care.
As much as I appreciated Agatha’s letter, it isn’t lost on me that she never acknowledges my spirit magic. She said she doesn’t fear me, which has been monumental in and of itself, but that doesn’t clear up anything regarding how she views my abilities.
Petra’s journal crashes to the floor, nearly making me jump out of my skin.
My head whips toward Nestor first, used to his antics. He’s in the far corner of the room, watching solemnly, as he has been this entire time. Confused, I turn toward Hexate who is propped up on the foot of my bed.
She’s coiled tight with her head lazily resting on her body, but her tail is rattling. As if to prove her point, she uses it to push my smoky quartz crystal off the bed.
Scoffing, I hurriedly step forward and pick up her mess. “What are you doing?”
There’s more bite in my words than I mean for. I’ve grown more irritable as of late, whether it be from the insanity creeping in the peripheral of my mind, or the lack of sleep.
