Page 36 of Witches of Honeysuckle House
“Where are they?” Robert asked.
“On my nightstand,” Florence said, “but—”
“I’ll be quick.” He kissed her on the forehead, then made a run for the house.
Florence stared after him, her stomach twisting as he started up the steps. She held her breath, waiting to see him appear through the window on the second-floor landing. When his face shown through the glass, she exhaled and gripped Evie’s hand tighter. He raised a hand to wave.
“Look, Evie,” Florence said.
Evie glanced up and waved back, but as Robert turned to go down the hall, something in his face changed.
He tipped toward the window, slowly at first, so slowly Florence didn’t realize what was happening until he collided with it. Wood snapped and glass shattered around him. He fell through and onto the top of their covered porch. As his body met shingles, Florencepulled Evie’s face against her, never once taking her own eyes off her father. He rolled down the roof, turning over and over and over.
Florence wanted to scream for him to stop. To catch himself. To do anything other than fall off the edge. But it was too late. The honeysuckle hung limp. The gutters offered no help as he slipped over the side. He landed in the yard with a thud, his neck bent and his arm pressed behind his back.
Florence stood there, staring at his lifeless form. The world slowed around her.
Evie squirmed free from her arms. “Daddy!” She ran for him. She dropped to her knees beside him and pushed against his shoulder, but he didn’t respond.
Still Florence couldn’t move.
It wasn’t until Evie started to cry that Florence felt her own tears falling, the shock of them enough to propel her forward. She knew he was gone—the curse had taken him—but she crouched next to her sister. She pressed her ear to his chest, and when she didn’t hear anything, she pressed fingers against his neck where his pulse should’ve been. She was met with cold skin and not a single flutter of movement.
She stood.
Then, she ran.
Back to the house, up the porch. The door swung open before she reached it, and she took the steps in twos all the way to the third floor. She didn’t even hesitate at the door to her parents’ room or at the base of the spiral staircase that led to the one place in the house she was never allowed to go.
When she reached the top of the landing, she found her mother standing at her altar, her back to Florence, two candles burning before her. Florence’s racing heart slowed. Though tears still fell, every piece of her that felt like it was threatening to burst apart over the past few days stilled, and a sort of numbness settled in.
“You’re too late,” Florence said, voice flat, heartbroken. “That black candle won’t protect anyone. Dad’s gone. You made him sleep so we couldn’t leave and the curse took him and it’s all your fault.”
Linda turned, eyes bright with anger. She crossed the space between them and grabbed Florence by her forearms. “Everything I’ve done has been for you and your sister. Everything!”
When Florence tried to pull back, her heel almost slipped from the top step. Linda’s nails dug into Florence, drawing blood as she stopped her fall.
“Do you think I wanted it to take your father? Do you think I wanted any of this?” She looked down at where her fingernails pierced Florence’s skin. She gripped tighter, her lips pressed in a thin line. It wasn’t until Florence cried out that Linda pulled back, eyes wide as if seeing Florence for the first time. “Oh, baby,” she said. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Then she pulled Florence to her chest and started to cry.
Chapter Eighteen
Florence, Now
Florence did not make it to Honeysuckle House the day it burned. As soon as she had her breathing under control, she wiped her tears and drove in the opposite direction, afraid her sister would see her sitting helpless on the side of the road. She’d gone home; taken Ink up to her apartment, where she washed herself clean of the lines of mascara making marks down her cheeks; and drank a cup of chamomile tea. Then, because she had no excuse not to, she went back downstairs to the shop and reopened the doors.
She hadn’t heard a word from Evie, and that was just as well. After her panic attack, Florence wasn’t sure she could handle any further reminders of what she stood to lose when her birthday rolled around.
Things at the shop were even slower than they’d been before Florence left. Not a single customer came in search of a book. At five minutes before close, Florence took a deep breath and reached for her phone. Nothing from Evie. But with her sister staying at Angela’s, there was still a chance Florence could be there for her, even if she knew it would likely end in another fight. That was a risk she was willing to take if it meant keeping her sister alive. As she walked toward the door to flip the sign and lock up for the evening, she started to type out a message to Angela.
Have you had dinner yet?
She erased it.
How much does Evie hate me right now? If I bring over some kind of dessert do you think she’ll talk to me?
She rested one hand on the door as she looked the message over before she erased that one, too.
