I didn’t respond, continuing to take in their stumbling around, adjusting clothes, listening to them speak even though I couldn’t hear a single word with the white noise that had suddenly begun in my head.
He started toward me, stammering my name, but I was already backing up—slow, deliberate, unbothered. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing me fall apart. I adjusted my purse, smoothed my dress—that too-tight, too-bold thing I’d worn suddenly feeling like armor—and gave him one last look.
“I guess the engagement’s off then,” I said, softly. I’d examine the intense relief that flooded my system later. When I was alone.
I turned, letting my heels echo down that perfect marble corridor like punctuation marks on the end of something that had never really begun.
Chapter 3
Hanna
I’d practiced what I was going to say the entire way back to my parents’ house.
Be calm. Be an adult. Don’t let her see you sweat.
By the time I turned onto the long, tree-lined drive, my stomach was already tightening—like the house itself was something I wasn’t good enough to return to. Even the car I drove felt alien in this shiny, extravagant place. It was my grandmother’s. A classic. And no matter what my mother said, I wasnevergoing to get rid of it. She wanted me to drive one of the ridiculously overpriced convertibles that she did, but for the first time ever, I’d stood strong against her.
Grandma Hanna—the witch I’d been named after—had insisted that it held everything I needed inside of it.The thing that I needed the most though—her—wasn’t in the sedan with me. Taking a deep breath, I looked up at the Greyleaf estate—since nobody in their right mind would ever actually call it a “house”. My grandmother had scoffed at how my father had broken down the old home she’d lived in with her husband and built thismonstrosityinstead.
Despite my terrible mood, the thought made me smile. She’d curled her lip when my father hadrevealedit years ago. I’d been young, but I remember how she’d said that she never would have given him free rein with the house and property if she knew he was going to dothiswith it. The ‘monstrosity’ rose at the end of the road like something out of a magazine spread about generational wealth and emotional distance.
It was beautiful, objectively. White stone glowing under the late afternoon sun, windows tall enough to make you feel like you were being watched, and ivy climbing the front columns with the kind of grace that the house and everyone inside of it—except me—managed to have in droves.
The lawn stretched wide and perfect, trimmed within an inch of its life, not a dandelion in sight—even though they were an important part of our culture and one of the main ingredients inevery single oneof our potions. I still remember my grandmother taking me out with her as a little girl, filling the pockets of her dress with them, grinning at me and showing me one of the little yellow beauties.
“Do you know why we work with dandelions, my sweet?”
Her nickname for me filled my heart with longing, the memory bringing a rush of grief.
I’d shaken my head, staring up at her with awe, like I usually did. She was the most wonderful woman in the world, and I wascertainshe was the only person that loved me.
“Because they havemanygifts. They can help with manifestation,” she told me, “by blowing on the seeds and sending out your dreams into the universe. They can even help you communicate with the other side,” she added, before givingme a stern look, narrowing those beautiful green eyes that I always wished I’d inherited. “But most of all, they grow in the mostdifficultconditions. No matter how inhospitable the land, they find a way. Most people consider them weeds or pests oraverage. But they’re beautiful and strong. They hold their own kind of magick.” Her eyes softened as she cupped my cheek. “Just like you.”
I squeezed my hands on the steering wheel, promising myself that Iwasfinally going to be strong. I didn’t need Corwin.Wedidn’t need Corwin. Our business would be fine without him.
I lowered the window, sucking in a breath and struggling not to throw up. I didn’t know how I was going to tell them what I’d seen. I wasn’t even certain of what their reaction was going to be. I just knew that I needed to breathe.
The circular driveway wrapped around a marble fountain, shaped like some Goddess or another, pouring endless water into nowhere. My grandmother had snarked that the least they could do was make it a tribute to the Goddess Mother—the deity of the witches—but my mother had sniffed and pretended she hadn’t heard her. My father had taken another chug of overpriced whiskey.
The sound of the water falling was soft and steady, like the house whisperingkeep your voice down, don’t make a scene.I slowed to a stop, staring up at the familiar facade—tall, stately, flawless. The kind of place that photographed well but never felt warm. I used to imagine it would look smaller once I grew up, but somehow, it never did.
Stepping out of the car, I wobbled my way across the pristine stone. The front doors loomed like a warning—heavy, polished, perfect. I took a breath, squared my shoulders, and reminded myself that I couldn’t shrink to fit a house that was built to make me feel small.
But my hands were still trembling when I rang the bell to thehouse—that big, echoing monument to good taste and emotional repression. The door opened before I could even knock—that was the thing about my parents’ house. Privacy wasn’t a value here;presentationwas.
My mother opened the door shrouded in pearls and disappointment. “You look… Oh my, Hanna,” she said, eyes flicking over my tight dress and heels like I’d shown up barefoot to a board meeting. “I hope no one saw you like this.”
“This is the outfit you picked for me,” I told her, not defensive, just stating facts.
“Hmm,” she pursed her lips. “It looked better on the mannequin.”
“Nice to see you too, Mom,” I muttered, stepping inside. The air smelled exactly the same as it always had—a mix of polished wood, lilies, and lies. Although I wasn’t certain whatliessmelled like, I knew that the pretentiousness of this house had a stench that would haunt me for the rest of my life.
Everythinggleamed,too. The black-and-white marble floors buffed to a mirror shine, the chandelier dripping light like champagne, the massive staircase that curved up toward portraits of relatives who’d probably all disapproved of me, too.
To the right was the sitting room, where no one everactuallysat. If you asked me, it should be called,the room that was added on to show off wealth without actually having a purpose, but what did I know?
Cream furniture, silver-framed photos, art that didn’t mean anything exceptcachet.Even the curtains looked disciplined—perfect folds, no rebellion allowed. Once the house had been demolished and rebuilt, I hadn’t been allowed to run around or make noise. I’d always wondered if my parents had wanted a child—or just an heir.
