Page 79 of Witches of Honeysuckle House
When she reached her parents’ old bedroom, a deeper sort of terror reared up inside her. She gripped her scarred forearm and could almost feel her mother’s nails digging in. As she stood, staring through the open door at the spiral staircase, Angela’s feet disappeared above her. Florence found she couldn’t follow. All of her panic, all of her fear coalesced right here in this moment. She’d made it through yesterday, but that had been on her terms. She’d been facing her fears with support and purpose. Yes, her panic had been simmering beneath the surface, but now it had her in its grip.
Owen came up behind her, Clara at his side. She slipped past Florence.
“Clara!” Florence managed, her voice breaking. “You need to go back outside, where it’s safe.”
“Mom needs me.”
Then she, too, was running up the steps.
Owen rested a hand on Florence’s upper back. His soft touch sent tears falling down her face. The feeling of them shocked her enough to break her out of her frozen stance, and she started up the spiral staircase.
When Florence reached the top, Clara was slipping through the damaged wall. Florence ran after her to find her sister standing infront of her mother’s altar. She took in the spell circle, the candles, the tarot cards. In front of Evie sat a pile of spent matches. The window had opened wide, and an unnatural gust blew through the opening. Evie held a lighter in her hand.
“Evie!” Florence said. “Don’t do this. You don’t know what that spell will do.”
“I know enough,” Evie said without looking up. She pulled the trigger on the lighter and brought flame to wick.
As the fire took hold, there was a loud crack, like a tree branch breaking. A few feet away, Angela looked up as one of the attic beams started to fall. Owen pushed past Florence and dove for Angela, knocking her out of the way. The wood only just missed crushing him beneath its weight, but not before it hit his shoulder and sent him sprawling. His head hit the attic floor with a thud, and his eyelids fluttered shut.
Chapter Forty-Six
Regina, 1960
Nothing had gone how Regina planned. First, her sister’s magic had overpowered her own. Then, Tillie’s brother hadn’t been as easy to manipulate as she’d hoped. She rushed home after their conversation and pulled out her tarot deck. She needed a spell, but if it was going to work, she needed guidance.
The house, as always, greeted her, turning on lights as she hurried up the stairs to her room. When she made it to the attic, she started for the bookshelf. As beautiful as Tillie’s painted cards were, after the three of swords Regina had pulled, she didn’t want a repeat. Instead, she turned to her everyday deck.
When she reached for the cards, the shelf tilted, pushing the box toward her.
“Thank you,” she said.
The lights flickered in what felt like a question.
“It’s Tillie,” Regina said. “She wants to take Violet away from us.”
The bulbs dimmed in response.
“Don’t worry,” Regina said. “I won’t let her.”
She whirled around and hurried to her altar, where she shuffled the deck then fanned it out in front of her. As soon as the familiar heat warmed her palm, she flipped the card to reveal the seven of swords.
She held it up in front of her.
It was the same one she’d pulled the other night, when she’d wanted clarification about the three of swords. The floorboards shuffled under Regina’s feet. The house was always curious about her tarot readings.
“I thought it was a card of deception when I pulled it the other day …”
But it was more than that. In the original Rider-Waite-Smith artwork, the card depicted a man stealing five of the seven swords. And that gave Regina an idea. She wanted her magic to be stronger than her sister’s. Perhaps with the right spell, she could borrow from Violet’s power.
She tapped her fingertips against her altar. Using magic to take something not rightfully hers had consequences, but if it meant keeping her sister and keeping the life she loved, those consequences would be worth it. She pulled out her journal, hurried down to the workshop, and began preparing a spell.
In her haste, she didn’t see one of the tarot cards had slipped from the table, as if the house had decided to do a reading of its own. The card landed face up on the rug. The five of cups. A symbol of loss and grief and regret.
She’d find it later, but by then, it would be too late.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Violet, 1960
