Page 106 of Witches of Honeysuckle House
“Our magic is tied up in the house,” Evie said, realization in her voice.
“We can’t free it ourselves,” Florence finished her thought.
They looked to Clara, who stood between them.
Chapter Sixty-Six
Honeysuckle House, Now
Honeysuckle House let out a low groan. The pipes rattled in the walls, and it lowered the lights. It had spent one last day with the people it loved most, but that wasn’t enough. Nothing would be. The house wanted years. It wanted decades. It wanted to watch Clara grow up, to see Evie and Florence grow old, to welcome a new generation of Caldwells when the time came.
But all it had was this final moment.
“I can’t do it,” Clara said, shaking her head. “It can’t be me.”
The house stirred the nearby curtain, brushing up against Clara’s cheek. As she cried harder, condensation formed on the windows. Water dripped from the faucets, and the house wept alongside her.
“This is all wrong,” she wailed.
“It is.” Evie rested a hand on the wall.
“It should never have come to this.” Florence gripped the curtain gently, giving it a squeeze. The house squeezed back, and Florence’s voice broke on her next words. “This weight should never have been put on any of us, but least of all you, Clara.”
Evie crouched down in front of Clara, meeting her gaze. “But only you can set us free.”
She held out a match toward her. Clara took it and held it up in front of her, staring at the little white tip. As her tears fell, splashingon the hardwood floor, the house wished more than anything that it could wipe them dry. Instead, it sent a honeysuckle vine through the open window, one final goodbye.
The vine wound its way up the legs of the dresser, and its flowers bloomed.
Clara bit her lip. Then, with a heavy sigh and a lot more tears, she struck the match.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Florence, Now
Clara brought the flame to the candle that represented Florence and Evie, then to the candle for the house, and Florence felt something deep inside her begin to shift. At first, the tapers burned slowly. The fire worked its way down, embers sparking along the wicks. When the fire finally met the twine that tied the two candles together, there was a burst of heat. The flame erupted, engulfing string and wax.
The black candle melted, the wax pooled, and the fire sputtered out. Smoke rose from the spent wick in tendrils.
The honeysuckle vine withered.
The fluttering curtains stilled.
The lights resumed a normal, yellow glow.
As the fire went out on the table, it roared in Florence’s heart. The ember of her magic that lay deep inside—the warmth of her power she’d tried her best to push aside and ignore these past thirteen years—caught flame. Possibility and hope whirled together. Florence staggered at the strength of it, bracing herself against the dresser.
When she looked up, she found her sister doubled over, too.
“It’s just like before Dad died,” Evie said breathlessly.
But Florence had never felt this. She’d never known the full strength of her power—siphoned first by her mother, then by thehouse. With this much potential, it was no wonder her bookstore had come to life. Tears pricked her eyes. She leaned her head back and let them fall.
The fire of their cord-cutting spell had burned away the last hold her mother had on her. And though Florence knew it might take a lifetime to heal from the other wounds her mother had inflicted, for the first time, Florence thought she might be able to do just that.
They met the others downstairs. Owen stood over the stove whisking a pot of hot chocolate. Angela had procured pumpkin pie from the festival that had carried on in downtown Burdock Creek without them. Ink lapped up oat milk from a saucer. All of them ate and drank their fill, and though the room was full of life and love and hope, the house was quiet in a way that made Florence’s heart ache.
“Are you staying the night?” Clara asked as she looked up from her now-empty mug.
