Page 105 of Witches of Honeysuckle House
Clara crossed her arms. “We’re not leaving the house. This is our last chance to say goodbye.”
Evie tucked Clara’s hair behind her ears and said, “We’ll have to if we want to dip a candle.”
Clara threw up her arms. “We don’t have time to make a new candle!”
“We’ll set the wax with water,” Evie said. “It’ll have to do.”
Clara shook her head. “This is too important.”
It had been a long time since Florence had dipped a candle of her own, but even she knew their spells worked best when they had a full twenty-four hours to set, letting the witch’s magic and intentions infuse the wax. It left less room for error.
Florence glanced at her niece’s spell circle—the crystals, the twine, the candle Clara had cut—and an idea started to take shape.
“Is that the taper you dipped?” she asked her sister.
“I think so,” Evie said.
“It is,” Clara confirmed.
Florence gently lifted Ink out of her lap and set him on the ground before she crawled over to what remained of Clara’s unfinished spell. She picked up the candle and held it between her hands.
She stood and crossed over to the table that had once belonged to their mother, and before her, their grandmother. She picked up the knife Clara had used earlier that night. Then she held it up and turned to face her sister.
“I think we can use this,” she said.
Evie nodded slowly, and she, too stood. “You’re right. If we cut it in half …”
“One side for the house, one side for us,” Florence said.
Clara glanced between them. “Don’t we need to put our magic in it?”
“You and your mom already did that,” Florence said. Even now, she could feel the wax brimming with her sister’s intentions—her niece’s, too. Clara may not have dipped it, but she’d planned to use it to save the house, and it seemed some of that magic had made its way into the taper.
“By cutting the candle in half, we’ll reverse those intentions,” Evie said. “Like what you tried to do with the candle for Ink.”
“But don’t we need something more?” Clara asked. “Like the crystals and the tarot cards?”
Florence shook her head. “We have all the magic we need right here.”
They spent the rest of the day saying their goodbyes to Honeysuckle House. Though the house was no longer trying to stop them from casting their spells, its own magic was still unstable, so they didn’t go anywhere alone. They ate their muffins and drank their coffee in the warmth of the parlor.
When Florence suggested they put on some music, the turntable started spinning on its own. At first, the needle missed the vinyl, but Florence gently set it on the record. Billie Holiday’s voice reverberated from the speakers, and could the Caldwells see ghosts, they might’ve found Violet and Tillie there in the room with them, dancing, chest to chest and cheek to cheek.
It wasn’t until they’d walked into each room—until Florence pressed her hand against every door Honeysuckle House had used to keep her safe and Evie trailed her fingers across every wall that held her memories and Clara hugged every column that had watched her grow—that they finally made their way back up to the attic. The moon had risen high in the sky, and the clock ticked down the minutes toward midnight.
The damaged wall had fallen away. All the burned and broken plaster had disappeared, and the rainwater had dried up. The attic was whole once more. Painted honeysuckle vines trailed along the wall, the only sign the room had ever been locked away, the house’s final act of magic and love.
Florence grasped her sister’s hand, her heart both heavy and full. Evie glanced up at her and nodded. Rather than use the old table that had once belonged to their mother, they gathered around Evie’s altar.
Together, they lifted the knife and severed the candle that would’ve siphoned their magic. One side for Honeysuckle House, the other for Florence and Evie. Then, Evie tied the two candles together with string and handed a match to Florence.
“You’ve been siphoned all your life,” she said. “You should be the one to cut the cord.”
“Are you sure?” Florence asked.
Her sister nodded, eyes shining with tears.
But when Florence struck the match and brought it to the candle, the wick wouldn’t light. She tried again. Again, the flame wouldn’t catch. A small sound escaped her sister’s lips, and she lit her own match only to be met by the same fate as Florence’s.
