Page 39 of Witches of Honeysuckle House
“I have to dosomething,” Evie said.
“Cancel the festival,” Angela said. “Close the doors until the curse day has come and gone. Stay here, with me.”
“If leaving was enough to stop it, my mom and my grandma would’ve left when Florence was born. My mom wouldn’t have kept us in the house the year my dad died. He tried to leave, and the curse took him.”
It was something Evie had thought about a lot over the years. Her memories from childhood were hazy—full summers nothing more than an impression—but her mind had preserved the day her father died like a film. When she closed her eyes, she could still feel the pain in her scalp, the way his arms had felt around her in the hallway the last time he held her, his glassy eyes looking skyward. Something had shifted deep inside Evie that day, like the space where her power sat tucked up under her heart had caved in on itself, going cold.
If she hadn’t demanded he go in and get her necklaces, maybe they would’ve made it out.
It didn’t make sense for their mother to keep them in the house, to cast a spell on her father. Not unless she really was trying to protect him.
“Our best chance is to finish what my mother started,” Evie said.
“Maybe she’s not the only one who can give us answers.” Angela leaned forward and spread the stack of journals out across the coffee table. She picked up the oldest-looking book and flipped it open.
Evie leaned closer to Angela, looking over her shoulder. The inside cover of the journal read:Regina Caldwell, 1960. Return if found.
“That’s my grandmother,” Evie said.
Angela tilted her head to the side as she counted on her fingers. “It’s also a curse year. You and Florence always said if you knew how the curse began, you’d have a better chance of breaking it.”
“But it started thirteen years before that,” Evie said.
“Still,” Angela said. “Clara’s spell opened that room for you. There has to be a reason those diaries were hiding in there.”
Angela leaned forward and opened the rest of the journals. Every single one was from a curse year:
Violet Caldwell’s Thoughts and Spells. 1960.
Regina Caldwell. 1973.
My Diary by Linda Caldwell. 1973.
Regina Caldwell. 1986.
Property of Linda Caldwell. 1986.
Linda Caldwell. 1999.
“There’s not enough time to read all of theseandfigure out my mom’s spell,” Evie said.
“We could give a few to Florence.” Angela quickly flipped through the pages until she got to the back half, which was full of spells. Toward the end, one was dog-eared. She opened to that page to find a list that mirrored the one Evie had found in her mother’s journal. A few items had been crossed off, and the brown candle was missing, but it was clear the two were related.
“This is almost the same spell,” Evie said, taking the journal from Angela. “It looks like my grandmother tried to do what my mother was doing.”
“But I thought they didn’t know there was a curse until after the second victim,” Angela said.
“What if she realized it, but she was too late to stop it?” Evie said. “Maybe if I compare the two spells …”
“Before you do that, you have to do something about the house,” Angela said. “It turned that woman out of her bed. It caught fire. It’s not safe to bring your guests back.”
Evie hated to admit it, but Angela was right. “I know,” Evie said. “I can’t let the guests come back. At least until I can complete the spell.”
Evie took a long drink of her tea then leaned her head back against the couch. “I really thought we were safe—that sharing my magic with the town was all it would take. But now that the house has burned, I don’t know what to think. I could lose Clara or Florence. Or you.”
Angela took Evie’s mug and set it on the coffee table. Then she took Evie’s hands in hers. “Or we could lose you.” Heat spread from Evie’s fingers, up her arm, and into her throat.
“I know. You all care about me, too.” Evie stared at their joined hands, afraid to look up and into Angela’s eyes. Afraid to find out if this thing Evie had felt burning between them was all in her head.
