Page 88 of Witches of Honeysuckle House
“One step at a time,” Evie said. “You made it to the house.”
“Not without help.”
Evie glanced past Florence to Owen and said, “Thank you.”
Then, Evie leaned forward in her chair and picked up her mother’s diary from 1986. “The house gave me this one thirteen years ago. It’s the reason I thought I needed to use my magic for good. But it disappeared before I could read it all.”
“The house hid it from you,” Florence said. “It didn’t want you to see it.”
She expected Evie to start reading right away, but her sister set the notebook back on the table and took their mother’s childhood journal instead. Florence almost reached for it, almost took it out of Evie’s hands.
“Are you sure you want to read that one?” Angela asked before Florence could.
Evie glanced up from the front page and shook her head slowly. “For so long I’ve wanted to know who my mother was before I came into her life. I wanted to understand why she became the person she did. But I think I’m done making excuses for her.”
Angela held out her hand. “I can read it.”
The warmth in Angela’s voice and the relief on Evie’s face made Florence smile. There was a bittersweet sadness in it as she realized sparing her sister from heartache wasn’t her job anymore.
Florence started to reach for her grandmother’s journal from 1959 when Owen cleared his throat.
“Do you think I could read that one?” he asked. “I’d like to see Regina’s side of things—compare it to Violet’s letter.”
With a nod, Florence handed it over. She glanced at her sister. “What do you think?”
Evie looked taken aback by Florence giving her the lead, and though it stung for Florence to realize she’d so rarely let Evie have the final say in anything, it felt right giving Evie this choice.
“Why don’t you start with Great-aunt Violet’s journal?” Evie suggested. “Since you use her tarot cards.”
“Good idea,” Florence said.
“I’ll take grandma’s other journal, from the year she died.” As each of them settled in to read, Evie said, “We only have a few hours until midnight. If you find anything at all that you think could help, speak up.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
Regina, 1960
Part of Regina wanted to chase after her sister. To grab her and pull her back up into the attic, to make her understand. Another part of her wanted to push Violet down the stairs and be done with it. She gripped the bottom of her chair to keep herself grounded as she watched her sister disappear. Only when she heard her bedroom door close did she open her journal and go over the list one more time.
She’d crossed out a few ingredients, added a few others, but ultimately, she was satisfied with the end result. This would give her the boost she needed for her spells to be more powerful than Violet’s. She rose from her altar and walked to her bookshelf. She considered using the cards from the deck Tillie had given her, but she needed something far more precious to her if this spell was going to hold.
She reached for her very first deck, a gift from her mother when Regina was only five years old. She hadn’t touched it since Helen died. Even now, Regina could remember the light in her mother’s eyes, her excitement to be sharing that moment with Regina. They’d lit a blue candle for clarity, and Regina had pulled a card: the magician.
Helen had said drawing it as her first card was an auspicious start. Regina held the card now between her thumb and her forefinger. Her mother had been right. Nothing could stop her.
She flipped through the rest of the deck until she found the last piece she needed. The temperance card—a symbol of balance. Burning it would tip the scales in her favor, allowing her to strengthen her own power and weaken Violet’s in the process.
The journals and books on the shelf shifted back and forth with curiosity. Regina rested a hand on one of them.
“Just a little magic,” she said. “You might feel something when I light the candle, but it’s nothing for you to worry about.” The house would be the perfect anchor. It had more power than either sister, making it strong enough to ground her spell.
Beneath her feet, the rug curled up to touch the tip of her shoes. “I love you, too.”
She sat back down in front of her table. She hoped her spell would be enough. Had she more time, she could’ve put together something more elegant. But there was no magic quite so powerful as pain.
The loss of her father.
The loss of her mother.
