Page 58 of Witches of Honeysuckle House
The smoke and sound faded, leaving Florence and Owen in the quiet of the bookshop, staring at the space where they’d witnessed Regina’s betrayal unfold. Florence blinked a few times as she tried to parse what they’d seen. She didn’t even know the shop could communicate to her through smoke—Honeysuckle House certainly never had.
She tilted her head back and looked up at the string lights. “Did you see this happen?”
The lights brightened.
“But you weren’t mine yet.” Those conversations happened long before Florence’s magic had brought the shop to life. None of it made sense.
She lifted Ink from her lap and stood before walking over to the wall and placing her hand on it. There was still so much Florence didn’t know about her magic, so many things her mother had never taught her that she and Evie were forced to piece together themselves.
Owen followed a few steps behind. “I’m no witch, but I’ve always thought places held memories.”
Again, the lights brightened.
Florence laughed softly then leaned her forehead against the wall. “You surprise me every day, shop.”
“If the shop was able to show us what it’s seen, does this mean Honeysuckle House could show us what happened there?” Owen asked. “To your great-grandparents?”
Florence opened her eyes and turned back around to face him as his words sank in. The house had heard her and Evie discuss the curse at length after their father’s death. Not once did it reveal a single moment of their ancestors’ past or even present a photo the way the shop had.
“I think so,” Florence said. “But it hasn’t …”
“Ink & Pages didn’t until you asked,” Owen said with hope in his voice.
It was a fair point, but asking Honeysuckle House meant going to Honeysuckle House, something Florence was still unable to do.
“Let’s try tarot first,” she said. “Do you have a deck? I had Angela take my cards so I wouldn’t be tempted to use them.”
As she said the words, a thud came from behind the couch once more. Ink leapt off the sofa and went in search of the sound. Florence followed, and when she reached him, she found the shattered glass from earlier was gone. In its place sat a wooden box—the same one the shop had pulled from Honeysuckle House that morning. Ink rubbed his back along the side of it.
Florence glanced up with a small smile. Though she had let few people into her life over the past thirteen years, the shop had always been there. It knew her almost as well as she knew herself, but nothing it did was ever simple. Yes, it had called Florence’s cards to her so she might find a friend—or something more—in Owen, but it also knew she would need them.
When she bent down to pick up the box, fear flickered in her heart. For so many years she’d avoided her magic, afraid that even laying a finger on a tarot card would be enough to tip the balance and put her family in danger. She still didn’t quite know what to make of the last reading she’d done. The hierophant reversed, the hermit, temperance reversed. She’d been so certain what the cards meant, but if her suspicions were right, then neither Florence nor Evie had read them correctly.
Gently, she picked up the box, the worn wood familiar beneath her fingers. She traced the honeysuckle vine carved into the front, and a soft sort of sadness settled over her. She stood and made her way back to the couch, cradling the box between both hands. When she sat back down, she stared at it for a few moments before, slowly, she lifted the lid, revealing the green card backs. It had been so long since she’d touched them, since she’d sought solace and answers and insight from the magic inside herself. She tipped the cards out of the box and felt the weight of them in her hands. She flipped the first card, expecting to find the tower where Owen had left it but was instead greeted by the magician. She tapped a finger against it before incorporating it back into the deck. It seemed someone had used her cards.
Then, she started to shuffle. The way the cards moved, it was as if she’d never stopped reading them. With each swish of paper, power sparked in her heart like the first strike of a match, until her whole body buzzed with it. She spread the cards in an arc on the table in front of her.
Once she finished, she looked up to find Owen watching her with the hint of a smile. She forced herself to look back down.
Florence used to turn to the cards daily, her own sort of introspection, a ritual tying her to the world around her. With her magic, tarot showed her what she most needed to see and, when asked, provided insight into what was to come. If her power could pull the future from a deck of cards, could it also connect her to the past?
“I need to know more about what happened to my great-grandparents. I need to understand how the curse started. Where should we look?” As the question left her lips, her magic curled around her heart, all heat and smoke and flame. She gasped at the feeling of it. It had been so long since she’d experienced its warmth that she’d almost forgotten how it felt. She held her hand over the cards moving slowly from one end of the arc to the other, but nothing happened.
She flipped her palm over and stared at it, the warmth in her chest flickering as if about to go out. Her throat tightened. Had she waited too long? Had her magic given up on her becauseshehad given up on it?
“What’s wrong?” Owen asked.
Florence glanced his way. “It’s not working.”
“Has that ever happened before?”
She started to shake her head, when she remembered how her protection candles had come out all wrong thirteen years ago. “Right before my mother died. It must have something to do with the curse.” Which meant it wasn’t her at all. Despite their erratic magic, she and Evie had managed to make the candles. They’d just had to put more energy and more focus into the process.
She closed her eyes, shook out her hand, and tried again. There! A tingle as the warmth made its way down her arm and into her palm. She flipped the card to find four candles in four corners.
“The four of wands,” Owen said.
It was the same card he had drawn for her that morning.
