“Yes,” Marigold replies.
Lottie takes a sharp breath. “My heart is beating really fast, too.”
Her hand drifts closer to Lottie. They breathe in time with each other, their bodies falling into the shared rhythm. Lightning flashes against the window, and Lottie shivers.
“Why are you so afraid of storms?” Marigold asks.
“Must we talk about it?”
“No. But I am here to listen if you need me.”
She hesitates, then sighs. “It reminds me of when I was little. There was a period after the fire and before the orphanage when I was stuck on the streets. It would rain, and the rain would ruin everything. Whether it was a dirty piece of bread I could find in someone’s trash, or a tattered blanket that was already barely staying together.” She clutches the blankets on the bed and pulls them closer to her chin. “When it rained, I had nothing to protect myself and what few possessions I retained. Most of my worst memories are of the rain. And now, whenever it storms, I have to get out. I have to run and save myself. Otherwise, it feels like I’m drowning.”
Marigold turns to look at Lottie, who is staring at the ceiling. “How old were you when your parents died?”
“I was six.”
“I’m so sorry, Lottie. Did you ever learn the truth of them? Of who they were, or what caused the fire that took their lives?”
“No,” she says sharply, closing her lips over the word before the sound fully escapes. Marigold goes rigid beside Lottie, too afraid of saying the wrong thing to continue. As if realizing her own harshness, Lottie sighs and turns to face her. Her brows soften apologetically.
“I do remember something. I remembered after I showed you my first tattoo. The arrow.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I remember seeing that image in my home. All over the walls, sketched out like mad musings. My mother did them. When I think of the fire, I see those arrows on the wall, unscathed. Everything else around me, even my parents, became ash. Somehow, only the arrows and I survived.”
Her blood runs cold as she listens to Lottie’s memory. “I need to tell you something about that arrow.”
Lottie props up slightly and leans in close to listen.
“It’s not a random drawing. It’s a rune of protection. It’s all over my cottage, too.”
“It’s magic?”
She nods, and Lottie’s jaw drops. “You recognized it when I showed it to you. I know you did. Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Would you have believed me then if I told you it was magic? Or would you have called it mythcraft?”
Lottie sighs and lies back down, glaring at the ceiling once more. “So, what are you saying, then? That my mother was a witch like you?”
“No,” she says quickly, then shrugs. “I don’t know. I can’t explain how she would have known about the protection rune, but I’m trying to figure it out. I’ve been reading all I can. I’m searching for answers for you.”
“Don’t. They are gone, and no amount of knowledge is going to bring them back. If you want to put those books to good use, find an answer that will break your curse.”
“I’ve searched for that, too. All I want is to touch you without hurting you.”
Lottie’s hand moves gently against Marigold’s thigh, up and down, waiting for her to reciprocate. Marigold pulls away from her under the sheets and turns over. She presses her cheek into the pillow, rage burning in her cheeks. It is breaking her, moment by moment, bone by bone, to know that loving Lottie and keeping her safe are two opposing forces. She has to pick one, and she already knows the answer.
Lottie moves closer, touching her lips to Marigold’s ear. “I have another theory to test.”
The warmth of Lottie’s voice sends waves of insatiable desire through her body. Her intuition pulls her closer. Her heart thunders in her chest; her lips tremble as she fights to control herself against the strength of her desires. “Tell me.”
“Do you touch yourself, Witch? Do you let your fingers roam over those aching parts of you when you’re all alone?”
She nods slowly, and Lottie grins. “Show me.”
Marigold’s eyes widen. Clearing her throat, she says, “Lottie, I cannot—”
