With the trunk hooked under one arm she forced herself to calmly switch off the light and step through the doorway. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled with awareness as if something watched from the darkness.
Shutting the attic door firmly behind her, she headed back downstairs to the library, feeling a chill right through to her bones. Settling on the rug in front of the cheerfully crackling fire, she let the warmth wash over her and tucked her legs under herself. Sat cross-legged with the strange trunk in front of her she studied it critically.
Reaching for the duster, she wiped the trunk clean and ran her hand over the surface, the warmth tingled against her palm. Her own magic began to stir, almost as if sensing the presence of something intriguing.
The heat and light of her magic flooded her hands. There was a low buzzing in her ears, a whisper that seemed to echo down through the centuries. She lifted her hands and watched as they burst into flames, warm threads of gold, orange, and red weaving around her fingers and palms.
By magic seal and magic sake, by magic alone shall this spell wake…
Following her instinct Olivia pressed her glowing palm to the trunk. Thick vines of golden flame wrapped the box, winding around it, glowing brighter and brighter until she had to avert her eyes from the blinding light.
For several long seconds the brightness seemed to fill the entire room, then suddenly the light was gone, followed by a barely audible click as the lock turned.
Olivia drew in a quiet, shaky breath, her hand trembling and heart pounding in disbelief. For three hundred years, her family had tried to unlock this box, and none of them had succeeded. Yet, it had taken nothing more than a touch… no, that wasn’t right. What it had required was the touch of magic.
But not just any magic…her magic.
What the hell was going on? She knew for a fact that generations of far more experienced West witches had tried to open the trunk using spells and magic Olivia had never even attempted, but all of them had failed.
Why her?
Reaching out, she licked her suddenly dry lips and lifted the lid, peering inside curiously. Inside, there were several leather-bound journals, and laid neatly across the top of them was a small cloth-covered figure.
It was a poppet. Olivia picked it up with a careful grip on its delicate body. It had been years since she’d seen one of these and none this old and fragile. The original poppets were sometimes carved from tree roots, but more often than not, they were made from cloth, as this one had been. Even though the material was coarse and musty with age, it still thrummed with a low pulse of magic.
Laying it aside, Olivia turned to the journals. The first three were similar in size, and when she leafed through them, her heart jolted in excitement. They were all written by Hester; these were her private journals. Her stomach swooped at the thought of what she held in her hands, the history of not just her own family but also of the town itself.
She peered back into the trunk and found another two journals bound together with twine. Setting Hester’s journals down reverently, she picked up the two remaining and a piece of folded paper fluttered into her lap. Unfolding it, her gaze swept across the cursive script.
Time is a journey with no beginning and no end.
Olivia shook her head, a small smile of amusement curving her lips. It sounded like something pulled from a fortune cookie. Setting it aside, she turned her attention back to the other two journals and unknotted the rough twine holding them together. She could tell just by touching them that they didn’t belong to Hester. They had a strange resonance to them, and for some reason, it made her heart beat a little faster.
She traced her fingers lightly across the brittle leather and opened it to a random page, her gaze trailing down the small and tidy writing.
August 1692
Logan asked again this day, and again I lied to him. I knew the lie to be a sin, but I could not tell my brother the truth, he would not understand the heaviness whiche lies upon my heart. He truly believes this is God’s will, but I cannot in goode conscience have faith that the Holy Father would condemn these women and children.
I am haunted by their faces every time I close my eyes, and sleep will no longer come without the dark dreams. I know it is vengeance for Temperance whiche drives my brother, but this cannot be the path.
My faith has failed me, my God has forsaken me.
I cannot justifye that whiche has been done in the name of our almighty Father, not when my blood and heart cry out against it. It surely cannot be the way. These men who condemn women to the vilest and most cruel punishment, under the guise of righteousness and morality. Will this madness never end? Will it follow us until the end of days?
They are innocents, and yet I stood by, my own secrets closely guarded for fear of discovery. Shame is my ever constant companion now, but I fear I am not strong enough to stand against the tyde.
We will surely burn for what has been done and yet I fear there will be more death before sanity returns. We are damned, there is no redemption now, not for any of us…
Olivia frowned as she re-read the last passage. Whoever had written the entry had sounded so… hopeless. She could almost feel their pain and despair through the pages.
Her gaze once again flicked back to the date. August 1692 would have been right in the middle of the witch trials in Salem. Was that the madness they referred to? And who was this person? Why did Hester have their journal?
Setting the strange journal aside, she reached for the one that it had been bound to. It was larger and thinner than the first, and as she opened it, a page slipped loose. Picking it up carefully, she held it up to the light. Although brittle with age, the lines and shading on the page were still clear. It was a drawing of a farmhouse backed against a storm-laden sky. A horse grazed nearby, and the long grass bent before an invisible breeze. She breathed in, and for the barest hint of a second, Olivia could’ve sworn she caught the hazy scent of an oncoming summer storm. In the corner of the drawing, in the same tidy scrawl as the mysterious journal, were the letters TB.
Skipping through the next few pages, she saw page after page of stunning black-and-white sketches. There were more of the house and others featuring several faces she didn’t recognize. A picture of a young, dark-haired boy showed him smiling as he ran across the fields past the horses, with an even younger boy trailing behind him. They were both running toward a woman in the distance who had her back turned to them.
Turning the page, she paused, staring at the drawing of a young boy with dark hair. A small furrow creased her brows as she leaned in closer and studied the child. There was something familiar about him, but she couldn’t quite place it.
