Page 109 of Enspelled

“A lot happened that night. I’m not surprised there are parts of it that you’ve chosen to forget.”

My brown deepens. “I didn’t choose to forget anything. I remember all of it,” I tell her.

But then how come you’ve been getting flashes of memory from that night about things you don’t remember? Things like Dad shoving at you with panicked eyes?

“They stayed behind to protect you, Briar. Your mother and father,” Abigail says. “I was supposed to take you and hide you.”

My hands tighten around the grimoire. I don’t remember any of that happening, but it’s difficult to deny the truth in her tone. “But something went wrong?”

“We were nearly out when the house exploded. A beam collapsed, and we were separated.”

“But how did I survive? How didyousurvive?”

“For me, easily, but you… I don’t understand how you survived, but I believe it has everything to do with what you are.”

I recall Aunt Mel’s words from before. “A phoenix.”

She nods. “She went looking for the grimoire, which I had taken, and a light fitting came down on her. That’s how she lost her arm.”

“But she summoned a demon. I thought it demanded her arm as a sacrifice.”

“No, the burn on her face was what the demon demanded.”

I blink in surprise. “Just a burn? I thought it would want something more.”

Abigail glances toward the house, and presumably at Keane. “You forget, she’d already sacrificed the Destins. And the demon’s demand wasn’t such a small thing. A demon mark will always show witches what Mel had done, and one on her face would mean she could never hide it with magic.”

I recall the red burn on her face. “But it was just a burn. If it was a demon mark, surely the witches in town would know what it was.” I pause. “Or is that why they treated her so terribly? They knew what it was?”

“Mel could never hide it, so she did the only thing she could to disguise it,” Abigail says, her face unreadable.

“And that thing was?”

“She burned it so badly that all anyone would see when they looked at her was a burn from a fire.”

I blanch in horror. “She burned her ownface?”

“Yes. But…” her voice trails off.

“But what?” I probe.

“I can’t help but wonder if there wasn’t still some remnant of the demon’s touch anyway. The people in this town never warmed toward Mel. When she was younger, I believe it was her lack of power compared to your father that meant the witches were more often cruel than kind. But after the fire, the coven’s feelings seemed to grow colder and harder.”

I search her expression. “You think a part of them knew what she’d done, and it made them hate her, even though they wouldn’t have known why that was?”

Abigail shrugs. “Perhaps. It’s only conjecture.”

I glance at the grimoire. “But why did she want the grimoire? I don’t remember there being a spell in here that would help her get revenge on anyone.”

Abigail places a hand on my shoulder. “She didn’t want the grimoire because of that. I believe she wanted it because she didn’t want her brother—and then you—to have it. She always believed it belonged to her.”

When she moves to rejoin the others, I follow.

“No, spend some time with it. I’ll be with your friends,” Abigail says before walking away.

They’re still outside the packhouse, and Keane is still focusing most of his attention my way. But it’s as she’s walking away that I suddenly have a question for her.

“Abigail? How did you know all of this?” I call out.

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