Dearest angel,
This was not how I wanted to have this conversation, but Fate has a way of ensuring that Her plans play out as She prefers, no matter how much we wish differently. First, I want you to know how much I love you, and how proud I am of the woman you have chosen to be. I know it has not been an easy road, but then, the easy path has never been your chosen mode of travel, has it?
Cass smiled at the familiar question, one she’d heard often growing up.
You’re much like my stubborn heart, Dorian, in that regard. Always about forging your own path. Much like him, you love deep and true, but that kind of heart wields a double-edged sword because when betrayed, it has difficulty finding forgiveness. Especially when that betrayal comes from those closest to you. This is a trait that runs true in our family, especially in my darling Rhea, and whether you believe it or not, your mother loves you. (Don’t you roll your eyes at me, young lady.)
A watery huff of amusement escaped Cass, and she brushed away a tear.
She may show it in ways even I have trouble understanding, but there are reasons behind her choices. And as I’ve taught you, others’ choices are not yours to make, or mine, no matter how tempting. I had hoped to help guide you two back onto common ground, but it seems I’ve run out of time, so now I need to ask you to do something I know you’d rather not do—forgive her.
“That’s a hell of an ask, Yaya,” Cass said even as her chest ached.
I know it’s a lot to ask, but angel, you’re strong enough to do this. When your heart is ready, take my gift and watch, listen, and try to give your mother some grace as her roads have had their own challenges. Remember that each of us must walk our own path, no matter where it takes us, and when we reach the end, only we can say if the journey was worth it.
Be brave, Cassandra.
I love you.
Yaya
She refolded the letter, tucked it back into the envelope, and then picked up the small box. She tried and failed to open it. Upon closer inspection, she realized there was no seam between the top and bottom. In fact, the hinge appeared to be decorative instead of functional.
“That’s not right,” she muttered, absently retracing the crest. She remembered this box sitting open on Yaya’s dresser, the antique pocket mirror nestled inside.
She ran her finger along the curling loops etched into the wood, remembering her grandmother doing the same on more than one occasion. Iris would hold the box while tracing the crest, her gaze unfocused, and then, without anything obvious, the lid would release. Which meant there had to be some way to open this thing.
“What am I missing?”
She reread Yaya’s letter and did her best to recall what Swanson had said at the reading. She remembered Grayson’s frown as he stared at the letter and box and his warning headshake. Grayson, who was a Key.
Realization clicked. “Magical lock.”
An heirloom from a family of seers in a seemingly inoperable box. Like a miniature Pandora’s box maybe?
Intrigued, Cass turned it over and over in her mind. Pandora’s story was typical of the misogynistic mythos that stretched back thousands of years. A beautiful woman created to punish men by narcissistic man-gods got curious and unleashed a plague of evil on the mortal realm. When an angry Zeus slammed the lid closed, Hope, who also happened to be female, was trapped inside, unable to help mortal men, and somehow that was also Pandora’s fault.
Never mind how all that shit got into the box in the first damn place. Cass stepped back from that particular rabbit’s hole and considered the curiosity angle. Could that be the key?
No, not curiosity, but something else, something just as strong.
“‘What lies behind paves the way forward,’” she said, repeating Yaya’s words as shared by Swanson, then looked at the letter with Yaya’s last message as she continued to slowly trace the crest.
Forgive her.
Curiosity.
Each of us must walk our own path.
Pieces shifted, and knowledge sparked, born of magic and instinct. Forgiveness required understanding, and Cass had never understood her mother, never wanted to know. But with everything unraveling and Sofia at risk, it was time to find out. The lines under her fingertip began to glow, following the path of her touch. It deepened into indigo, and as she finished with the last swirl, a soft click sounded and the wooden top shifted. Cass gingerly raised the lid. Delicate silver filigree twisted to appear like thread wrapped around the slightly domed lid in a never-ending spiral. An owl, wings open, sat underneath the three phases of the moon. The two faceted moonstones that were its eyes appeared to glow with an inner fire.
Cass carefully lifted the mirror out, set the box aside, and then undid the clasp. There were tiny nicks here and there on the lid, indicating the passage of years, but the two interior mirrors remained clear. Cass lifted the case and blew a gentle breath over the lower mirror, fogging its surface, before she realized what she was doing. She lowered it and reached for the hem of her skirt, only to stop when the condensation shifted and moved. Mesmerized, Cass stared into the mirror.
The mist rose, closing around her until there was nothing left of Sofia or the bedroom. She moved through the thickening haze as if pulled by an invisible thread. The quiet was deafening as if the world was wrapped in cotton. It wasn’t dark, but it wasn’t bright either. There was enough light to see a few feet around her, but something moved to her left, its shadow drifting along the wall of mist. She went a few more steps and realized the light was getting brighter. Just then, the familiar sound of wings cut through the muffled silence. Ahead of her, an owl burst from the mist and disappeared into the brightening haze. She switched to a run to follow it.
“Wait!” Her voice cut through the strangely muffled world, and the mist snapped apart as if a switch had been thrown.
The abrupt scenery change made her stumble, and she caught her balance against a doorjamb that appeared out of nowhere. But what kept her in place was the two women standing in a nursery, caught in the midst of an emotional storm. A much younger Rhea, looking pale and frightened, cradled an infant protectively against her chest as she stood in front of the aunt Cass only knew through photos. A younger version of her grandmother stood with them.
