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The door glides open with a gentle hush, revealing Irena standing sheepishly in the doorway. Her eyes meet mine, and she offers a small smile before entering the room. It strikes me that, even in this simple gesture, she exudes grace and poise. In contrast, the Kings would have barged in without a second thought, their confidence and entitlement evident in every move they make.
“Do you mind?” she asks. I still can’t quite make up my mind about her, but she’s Drystan’s sister. Not wanting to risk offending him by dismissing his family, I hesitantly nod and gesture toward the chair across from mine. As she closes the door behind her, Irena’s face lights up with a beaming smile, and she gracefully takes a seat in the offered chair. Her presence fills the room with a warm and inviting energy, like a ray of sunshine breaking through the clouds on a stormy day. “Thanks.”
I purse my lips, feeling the awkwardness settle between us like a physical presence. We exchange another glance, both of us unsure of what to say next. Several beats of silence pass, each one stretching out longer than the last. I notice her twiddling her fingers in her lap. A nervous habit, no doubt. Meanwhile, I absentmindedly finger the pages of the worn book resting on my lap. It’s as if we’re both searching for some sort of distraction from the growing tension in the air. Neither one of us wants to be the first to speak, afraid that our words will only make things worse. The stillness feels heavy and suffocating, a thick fog settling over us and blocking out any chance of meaningful conversation.
“I’m sorry,” Irena suddenly gushes out. “My brother wanted to see if we could draw your abilities out again, but I didn’t realize when I came up with my plan how much it would hurt you.”
“Oh…umm…” Shit, this is awkward.
“Look, I just wanted to help draw out more of your abilities,” she continues. “A lot of the time, when witches first releasetheir powers, it’s driven by potent emotions. In the dining room, it was jealousy. Subtle, creeping, mimicking how you were feeling at the time. Whereas your fire…” She hesitates. “Well, I didn’t see it, but it sounds like it was explosive. Your emotion at the time was akin to anger, I would guess.”
A heavy, tense silence hangs between us like a storm cloud waiting to burst. My mind races, searching for the right words to break through it, but there’s a part of me that wonders if there are any words that could possibly explain. She’s right, after all. In those intense moments, strong emotions took over, and I was unable to control them. It feels like trying to stop a raging river with my bare hands.
When I don’t contradict her, she continues. “I’ve never seen a witch exude more than one elemental power,” she says. Her captivating gaze slides to the open book in my hand. “Not since Talyssa Petrea.”
“You knew her?” Hope rises in my chest. Irena nods.
“She was the strongest matriarch Clan Petrea would ever see,” she tells me in hushed tones, her voice trembling with emotion. Her words hold a heavy weight, as if each one is a burden to bear. “She was such a beautiful soul. Wise beyond her years, filled with grace and strength.” I can almost sense the reverence and admiration in her voice as she speaks.
My mind flashes back to my recent nightmare, where I saw myself burning at the stake while angry voices clamored for my death. It brings a shiver down my spine.
“She was burned.” Irena’s expression grows even sadder, confirmation that this was indeed the fate of their matriarch.
“Jealousy and treachery exist everywhere, even in tight-knit communities like the Petreas,” she tells me solemnly. “A snake slithered into their midst, spilling fear and lies. Telling them she’d bargained the devil for her magic. Otherwise, how was she able to manipulate more than one element? He convinced a majority of her clan that she was evil. That she didn’t deserve her abilities.”
“Grégoire Saint Clair.”
Irena’s eyes widen, a mix of surprise and fear causing her face to fall. “How do you know that name?” Her voice trembles with emotion as she hesitantly asks the question. I bite my lower lip, searching for the perfect words to explain. Do I reveal the truth about the haunting dream that felt all too real? Should I confess how every flame seemed to lick at my skin, reminding me of my torture? Or should I mention the excruciating pain of having my lips sewn shut? My mind races with these thoughts as I pause before responding.
“I first discovered it in a book I found here in the library,” I confess to her. “Origins of the Dhampir. His name was listed in a family tree…my family tree. He was my father’s great something or other.” That math is too difficult for me to do in my head. “Then I discovered another book. One about witches. Inside the pages were some pressed flowers. Flowers that whispered the name Talyssa Petrea.”
Irena groans. “Were the flowers periwinkle and myrtle?” she asks. Hesitantly, I nod my head.
“Those flowers are known for holding memories,” she tells me, shifting in her seat. “Even ideas or, in your case, a name. I wonder how they got there.”
Shrugging, I pick up the book from under the pile and open it to the page that holds the delicate flowers. “They aren’t too old,” I tell her, running my finger along the petals again. There’s nothing. Not even a zip of anything supernatural. “Thirty years, maybe.”
Irena’s forehead creases as she stares at me. “How do you know that?”
I point to the cracked edges. “See how the petals are starting to crack along the edges, and see the specks of green lining where the flower and stems meet? That usually happens after twenty to thirty years.”
A small, sheepish smile graces my lips at her praise, a glimmer of pride and satisfaction in my eyes. My father always thought that my insatiable desire for knowledge was useless, but I knew better. I can assimilate information with ease, understanding it fully once it’s been absorbed into my mind. And once I understand something, it’s near impossible to forget.
But as Irena’s words stir a long-buried memory within me, doubt begins to creep in. “I had a dream about her,” I blurt out suddenly, my voice filled with a mix of excitement and trepidation. Irena’s eyes widen slightly at my sudden outburst, her expression curious and intrigued.
“Talyssa,” I continue, unable to contain the rush of memories flooding back to me. “I dreamed about her, but it wasn’t just a dream.” In vivid detail, I recount the nightmare that plagued me just a few nights ago—the same night that Drystan slept by my side.
“It wasn’t a dream,” Irena confirms solemnly when I finish. “You memory walked.” Her words hang in the air between us, the concept almost too wild to grasp.
“Memory walked?” Disbelief coats my words as I try to wrap my head around this new revelation. “How is that even possible? How can you walk in someone’s memory?”
“It’s an extremely rare gift,” Irena admits with a small shrug. “And one that most people believe to be nothing more than a theory. The only record of it is in an old grimoire that was passed down to Talyssa from her grandmother, the former matriarch of Petrea.”
“What happened to the grimoire?” I ask curiously, eager for any scrap of knowledge about this mysterious ability. But Irena’s answer is tinged with sadness.
“No one knows for sure,” she admits, her gaze distant as she looks out the window that overlooks the garden. “The last anyone knew, its whereabouts died with Talyssa. Some believe she passed it down to her daughter, but if she did, she never told anyone.”
There’s a wistful longing in Irena’s voice as she speaks of Clan Petrea, a once powerful and progressive clan that ultimately fell apart after Talyssa’s death. “Clan Petrea was special,” she whispers forlornly. “They were ahead of their time, you could say. They easily coexisted with other supernaturals, with no lines drawn or bigotry. But that also made them vulnerable to scrutiny from the council and to supernaturals who craved power. Talyssa herself was the most powerful witch to be born in over three hundred years, and that kind of power attracted the wrong kind of attention.”
