“I didn’t understand you then, Rhy, and I don’t get you now. You left, in a massive scandal, effectively abandoning us all alone after mom died and refused to even leave a way to contact you, yet not even a year later you sent so much money… Ceridwen paid off the loans she had to take on the flower shop. You kept sending more and more, until Deryn and I had solid college funds, until I could open the coffee shop and Der could go to that fancy-ass culinary institute. And you still never allowed any of us back in your life. Then you return—to the goddamn Atelier, of all the accursed places. You’re leaving blood on Mom’s tombstone, the storms are back, and yet you want nothing to do with us.”
The calmness of the mature and rational thirty-five-year-old Seren was gone. In front of her was the thirteen-year-old. Derynhad cried and raged. Seren just asked the same question over and over.
“Why are you leaving?”
The déjà vu hit Rhiannon square in the chest, robbing her of air. The wind came as unexpectedly as the memory, and for once she couldn’t control its strength. For a brief moment she thought it would hurt, it would maim… Like before…
But the breeze was gentle, tickling under Seren’s loose shirt. Just like when they were kids.
“You won’t hurt me, Rhiannon. Is that what you’re afraid of? Is that what happened?”
And with those words Seren almost shuttered the decades of hard-fought control and ironclad resolution Rhiannon had honed like steel. She blinked, and Seren’s tears were the last thing she saw before she ran for her life. Or for Seren’s. Because despite her sister’s trust in her, she had nothing of that trust for herself. For her power. For her control.
10
PRUDENCE, CRUSHES & MAGIC LESSONS
“Are you sure about this?”
Ceridwen’s voice, now returned to its serene quality, jolted Pru out of her daydream. It wasn’t entirely a dream, however. She did get a lungful of Rhiannon’s perfume yesterday, all wild winds and stormy rains, with faint notes of the lily of the valley, so unexpected there, so sweet. And above all, petrichor. It seemed to fill every room, every space, and linger long after Rhiannon was gone.
Pru scrunched her nose impatiently, silently chastising herself. Whatever was happening between her and Rhiannon—and something was clearly happening—it wasn’t why she was here.
Ceridwen’s kind gaze did not waver, though Pru had the distinct sensation her face was beginning to telegraph exactly where her thoughts had gone. And her blush probably did the rest of said telegraphing.
“I’m grateful you’re taking the time to speak to me. Especially on a Sunday morning.”
Ceridwen’s smile was a touch mischievous.
“Despite my undying affection for Reverend Lavalle, who graciously serves at Dragons Chapel, I am not much of a follower. And you won’t catch me ever at the Nest’s church, no offense to your father. But even with him serving as deacon there, I can’t bring myself to go. For so many reasons. Moreover, it would be self-defeating of me to attend any congregation, after all.”
Pru bit her lip, staving off her words, before her bravery took over and she blurted her question.
“Is it because the Puritans almost hanged Gwendolyn Abigail Crowhart?”
Ceridwen’s smile didn’t falter and Pru’s shoulders relaxed. She had not caused offense.
“In part. Also, they eventually did hang her, right here on the island, after stalking and harassing her family.”
Pru bit her lip as the searing pain of the dream intruded. A dark cell and screaming, so much screaming. And the fear and silence behind green Crowhart eyes. Eyes that looked at her even as the executioner was readying the noose. She was powerless to help Gwendolyn, as she was dragged to the gallows. She stood and she watched and she held her secret deep in her ribcage. And in the evening she brough food and water and succor to the one still languishing in the darkness of the cell behind the rust of the bars.
A crow’s call above her made Pru flinch and blink. Ceridwen was still speaking, half turned away from her now.
“The other part of it is because I believe in a different deity. And lastly, it’s because I am a witch, Prudence Ophelia. Just like you.”
Before Pru could respond, Ceridwen extended her hand and her palm connected with Pru’s sternum. The shock of the impact was instantaneous. She heard the birds, the grass around her moving with the morning air, reaching for the sunbeams.The greens became much brighter, the warmth of the rays enveloping her despite standing in the shade.
Ceridwen smiled and slowly removed her hand. Pru’s lips parted. She wanted to sing. To dance. To stretch in the sunny spot on the moss and bask like her possum.
“You’re not questioning it?”
Pru tried to rein in her runaway thoughts and focus on the conversation, but it was getting more and more difficult. Rhiannon had unlocked something in her, first when their gazes met and then when their hands touched. Ceridwen seemed to break down the door that Rhiannon found a key for and cracked open.
Except that wasn’t quite true.
“I am questioning everything. I am twenty-eight years old, Ceri. I’ve never once felt this. Not before Thursday. Not before…”
“Not before Rhiannon.” Ceridwen finished her sentence, but there was no judgment nor ridicule in her voice. “I can’t answer that, Pru.”
