Page 32 of Fallen Angel

“Are you prepared?”

Hannah took another deep breath and allowed the motion of the swaying boat to relax her. She nodded. Callan hovered over the spell, but was careful not to touch the book. He cleared his throat and read:

“I send the witch, one Hannah Fenwick, back to an older mind.

Let her see her distant self, unshackled, no longer blind.

To remember every sight, whatever she may find.

To discover her past beyond this time, their souls now intertwined.”

Hannah’s eyes shot wide open, but all she saw was a pearly white color, like liquid clouds swirling into a storm. She then fell deep into her dark subconscious, nothing but black silence surrounding her, ignorant to when she would land. Fear plagued her mind as the infinite darkness overwhelmed her senses. She was blind as she continued to fall, not knowing if she would soon crash or plummet aimlessly forever. Light flooded her mind, then faded into day. She found herself in an old marketplace, bustling with people dressed in period outfits—women in corseted dresses, aprons, and bonnets, and the men in long-buttoned coats, high socks, and puffy sleeves.

Raven stood at a cart with herbs and root vegetables. She was identical to Hannah in every way, except her curls were tamed into a long braid that nearly reached her waist.

“Raven?” Hannah called, though it didn’t seem Raven could hear her. She ran to Raven’s side. “Can you see me?” Hannah asked.

Raven ignored her once again. Unlike the memories she had had where her and Raven were one, she was a simple observer in this spell.

This new world was so foreign, yet there was a sense of familiarity. The way the cobbles felt beneath her feet, the scent of musk on the breeze, the sound of creaking cart wheels, it was like déjà vu. Similar to the comfort she felt around Callan.

She followed Raven into a small wooden home. A simple stone and fireplace warmed the dwelling.

“Hello, my darling,” her father said. He was probably in his fifties and wore simple cloth pants with an oversized beige shirt. His hair was gray, and his skin was leathered from years under the sun.

“The market provided a wealth of fresh vegetables, Father,” Raven said, tossing her load onto a table by the stove. Turnips, cabbage, carrots, and parsnips spilled from a beige satchel. “I could cook a stew for supper?”

“Perchance enough for three?” her father asked. “Isabella may join our table.”

“Isabella has joined our table on many occasions as of late.” Raven smirked.

“I suppose she has. Does that upset you?”

Raven placed her hands on his hunched shoulder. “It pleases me if it pleases you. I am sure Mother would smile upon you both.”

“I miss her still.” He reached up and set his wrinkled hand upon hers.

“I know,” Raven said, squeezing his hand. “As do I. But we shall meet again in our next life.”

Hannah watched this interaction between Raven and her father and wondered if she was destined to lose at least one parent in every life she lived. A knock on the door interrupted her thought.

Raven returned to her vegetables, and her father opened the door.

“Mr. Harlowe,” a beautiful, deep male voice called from the entrance. “I have come to call upon your daughter. Is Raven at hand for a stroll?” Callan, as handsome as ever, stood in the doorway. Even though Hannah only saw him moments ago in the boat, her chest still fluttered.

Raven smiled at his appearance but maintained composure, organizing the vegetables.

“Nay. She is not available,” Raven’s father said firmly. “And even if she was, I should not want her spending time with a fellow such as you. I am aware of what you and Mara Eden’s coven do in the woods at night.”

Callan huffed. “I would not be so quick to judge what thee could not possibly understand.”

“I understand what is evil, Mr. Delmonte.” Raven’s father stood straighter.

“Not evil, Mr. Harlowe”—Callan smirked—“simply more powerful. The kind of power that can protect your daughter.”

“My daughter does not need protection.”

“From anyone but you, I see.” Callan took a step forward and put a hand on Mr. Harlowe’s arm.

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