Page 17 of Witches of Honeysuckle House
“You don’t have to come,” Evie said.
“I’m not letting you face this alone.”
“She’s not alone,” Clara said through a hiccup of tears. “I’m here.”
“And I’m here with both of you.” Angela took the keys from Evie, her fingertips brushing Evie’s palm. Evie gripped her hand for a moment, the metal between them, and did her best not to cry. Angela looked into her eyes, took a step closer.
“Is the house okay?” Clara asked.
Angela broke contact with Evie, then grabbed Clara’s other hand.
Evie took a steadying breath and tried her best to keep her voice from breaking. “Let’s go find out.”
Chapter Eight
Honeysuckle House, Now
The protection candle burned in the window where Evie left it, the flickering flame reflected in the glass. The house felt every moment of it—the heat from the fire, the intentions in the wax. It was a familiar power, one that had become deeply embedded in the walls, clear down to the studs, and one that was starting to fray at the edges. As hours slipped past and October thirteenth crept closer, the magic in the walls shuddered, longing for a release that could only come one way.
The house did its best to hold on.
The Caldwells were a comfort, the way only family could be. They were joy and love and history, everything Honeysuckle House felt and longed for because of the magic in their hearts that had given it life. But Clara? Clara was special—untouched by what had come before. The house loved her desperately. It knew if she uncovered the truth, she would do everything in her power to keep the magic flowing in the pipes and wires, like blood pounding through its veins.
The house did not want to die.
The thought made the walls creak, the hallways contracting subtly like a shallow breath. Condensation formed on the glass like tears. As it thought of all the witches who had walked its halls, all the birthsit had witnessed and the deaths it had endured, the energy in the air shifted. Then, the black candle tipped over.
It fell off the windowsill onto the small, circular rug.
The house would’ve blinked, if houses could blink, stunned as it was that the candle had fallen. Whatever power had pushed the candle had not come from the house.
The fibers in the rug caught fire, and the flames shot toward the far wall as if someone had poured a line of gasoline. The house tipped over one of Evie’s jars of moon water then another and another, but the fire only grew as it ate away at the wall the house had so carefully constructed the day Linda Caldwell died thirteen years ago.
The glass glowed orange as voices rose up from the front lawn. The house opened the window wide, sending in a rush of cold air that only served to fan the flames. It tried to shift the wood and plaster, to close over on itself and contain the fire, but where the flames touched the wall, the house had lost control. As it burned, the house thought back over every tragedy that had happened on its grounds, every broken body, and wished it had understood then what it knew now.
Part IIThe Lovers
A reminder to follow your heart. Often represents a solid relationship—either romantic or platonic.
Chapter Nine
Regina, 1960
When the curse claimed Helen and Christopher Caldwell, no one yet knew it was a curse. It was a tragedy that almost killed their daughters the same way it took them. As their Buick collided with the old maple tree in the front yard, honeysuckle vines shot toward the car, punched out the window glass, and pulled thirteen-year-old Regina and her older sister, Violet, free. But there was no saving Helen and Christopher. Not with how the branches had gone through the windshield, through their chests, through the front seats.
When the full tree fell, crushing them beneath its weight, it was a mercy. Though the police had looked the car over and talked with their family friends—the Greys—to determine why Christopher had lost control, it had been ruled an accident, cause unknown. No one considered the deaths a result of magic.
It wasn’t until thirteen years later to the day, when another person fell victim in the Caldwell home, that the reality of the situation dawned on the town of Burdock Creek. The witches were cursed. Those who grew too close to them at risk of dying.
But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. The story behind the second curse year started a week earlier, as Regina Caldwell sat dipping candles in the workshop her father had built for her mother many moons ago. It was little more than a shed with windows, a worktable, and a smallstove. Still, it was a part of Honeysuckle House. The water and wax were always the perfect temperature, and the magic made the room comfortable, even on the hottest days of summer. Of course, that magic wasn’t much needed in October. Though the temperature had finally started to fall, the honeybees were still busy at work, their hives close enough that with the windows open, Regina could hear the steady buzz.
As much as she loved this time of year, it always brought with it the reminder of her loss. She stared out the window at the maple she and her sister had planted after the wreckage of her parents’ accident had been cleared out, and her grief opened up inside her. She sat with it for a few moments, let herself sink deep down into its embrace, before she forced herself back to the present moment.
It was hard to imagine what her life would look like now if her mother and father were still in it. Likely, she and her sister would both be married, starting families of their own, letting their power infuse their homes and filling Burdock Creek with magic. With Regina now twenty-six and Violet thirty-one, almost every candle sold came with questions about their love lives. But Regina didn’t have the heart for falling in love. She had considered, more than once, lighting a candle to bring a man into her life if only so she could raise a Caldwell witch of her own behind these enchanted walls. Then, just as quickly, burning another to get rid of him. But there was time for that.
These days, it was only Regina and Violet, and Regina wouldn’t have it any other way. They tended their bees, dipped their candles, and sold them out of a small boutique on Main Street—Grey’s Gifts. It had once been the home of their parents’ store, where they’d offered candles and honey and herbal remedies. But after the accident, the sisters sold the storefront to the Greys on the condition they be allowed to continue to sell their tapers. Though Regina and Violet shared the work of dipping the candles and harvesting from their hives, Regina spent more time with the boilers and wax, while her sister worked out of the shop.
That morning, Regina tied her dark, shoulder-length curls out of her way. Water boiled beneath the pot of beeswax, and a host of dyes sat on the table in front of her.
