Crowhart sisters were spotted picking up exactly where they left off as if years hadn’t passed. The family drama has spilled into the streets of Crow’s Nest, as first Victoria Crowhart-Moreau has been seen arguing with her niece before being bodily carried away by a man who looks to be Thor’s long-lost son. Today the Market Square was treated to Ceridwen Crowhart feuding with her wayward sister right after she took the entire Library Board to task about not protecting the rights of minorities to be represented in literature and the right of all citizens to have access to said literature in the first place.
Watch this space. The Crowharts are dramatic, but never boring.
—Crow’s Caw
Rhiannon did not run backto the Atelier, but she very much wanted to. Her hand burned. Not hurt, not throbbed. It burnedas if encased in molten gold, the pain a twisted combination of euphoria and agony. She had no name for the sensation, but it was as if something inside her broke open, something that had been dormant, tore the skin and blinked at the blinding sun, both new and ancient.
She had been fighting her craft for years, decades, and considered herself a winner in their daily battles, so much so that she realized she had gotten complacent, arrogant. The complex spell that held her magic at bay had been exhausting to cast, difficult to maintain, yet for twenty years she managed well enough. Certainly fooled—or at least pacified—Margaux. Sometimes Rhiannon even fooled herself into forgetting.
But the craft was cunning, power was heady, sly, and it came in forms she had clearly not anticipated. And for once, for the life of her, she had no idea how to quiet it.
Rhiannon didn’t even know if it was the craft. The girl awoke something, something uncontrollable, something she hadn’t realized was inside her.
Rhiannon Crowhart knew power, her wind and her storms brought destruction and ruin. And yet this sensation was nothing like that. It was both more and entirely different, and she could barely catch her breath as she walked into the still empty front room of the Atelier where the bookshelves were yet to be arranged, the door slamming behind her.
Lachlan popped his head out from the storage area.
“Christian is on his way back from the librar?—”
When their eyes met, he immediately dropped whatever tool he was handling. He was by her side in a second.
“What? Rhiannon? What? Water? Tylenol? A baseball bat?”
She had to laugh. And she was extremely grateful. Both for his kindness and for his innate sense of knowing exactly when to touch her and when to let her be. Because she wasn’t certainshe could hold herself under control right now. Not when this something felt so new, so fresh, and so painful at once.
Even as Lachlan clucked over her, the front door opened, and Rhiannon closed her eyes. Ceridwen was still Ceridwen, and knocking had never been her sister’s style. One look and Lachlan was bowing his fair head and making himself scarce.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve finally learned to pick your boy toys, Rhiannon.”
Ceridwen’s tone was neutral. No hint of emotion. No clue of what she’d come here for. Rhiannon suddenly felt thirteen years old, and her big sister was sneaking her into the dance club on the outskirts of town. Everyone knew Ceridwen. Everyone worshipped the ground she walked on. Tall and beautiful, then eighteen, she was popular and adored.
But nobody had adored Ceridwen Crowhart as her middle sister. Not even the twins, who seemed to prefer Rhiannon, who was much closer to their age. Rhiannon thought the sun set and rose in Ceridwen’s eyes. Her protector. Her teacher. Her best friend. Until she was neither of those things. Until all she had for Rhiannon were accusations and demands.
Twenty-two years went by, and they stood in the same room, breathed the same air, and were total strangers.
Rhiannon must’ve said that last part out loud, because Ceridwen recoiled, the first true emotion in those familiar features, barely touched by age.
“We might as well be, and you know it.” Her voice didn’t waver despite the acute, almost unbearable pain in her hand, and Rhiannon was proud of it. Of herself. For holding it together. Now and in the past few weeks since she came back to the island. This fucking island. This fucking town.
“Is that why you never showed your face at the Tavern? Or at Blossoms? Or even at the coffee shop? I can understand avoidingVictoria and myself. But Seren? She was a child and did nothing to you.”
If Ceridwen had slapped her, Rhiannon’d be less hurt. Already on the very edge of keeling over and folding into a ball of torment, she simply averted her face.
“I saw Victoria yesterday.”
It was Ceridwen’s turn to be shocked.
“She didn’t say.”
“Does she have to give a report of who she sees and what she does, Ceridwen?” Rhiannon all but spat the name, so tired she was. All she needed was for Ceridwen to go away. Her vision wobbled at the edges, and she stumbled, Ceridwen immediately catching her in one smooth move. When had she gotten so close? The moment her sister’s hands touched her, Rhiannon wanted to cry. In relief, in memory.
“You’re in pain, Rhiannon. Mother Goddess, you’re in so much pain. Why didn’t you say anything?”
Ceridwen’s face was transformed from anger and recrimination to concern and tenderness. Rhiannon knew this face. This expression. Her heart lurched in her chest, and she sagged to the floor, her legs no longer able to hold her. The weight of the past, of the memories hitting her already-weakened-by-pain body like a sledgehammer.
“Something happened back there…with Pru. The temper tantrum of the storm aside, you felt something when you touched her, didn’t you? Is that where the hurt is coming from?”
Rhiannon stubbornly shook her head and her sister tsked, face now attentive, eyes focused on the palm of Rhiannon’s hand that felt scalded by fire itself.
