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“Remember I love you,” he says as he steps away. “And this is only temporary.”
I want to believe him. He hasn’t truly given me a reason not to.
Except when he disappears in a shimmer of black dust, leaving no sign of his passage behind, he also carves a giant hole in my chest, bringing my heart with him.
epilogue
esmeralda
four months later
once the ghost disappears in a mist of light, I bend to pick up the marble they left behind and hand it to Marta. “You want this one?”
She puckers her lips, staring at the obsidian sphere between my fingers. “It still doesn’t seem fair for me to take the marbles you collect.”
“It’s a team effort.” Besides, I don’t need the power the marbles give.
The mark in the center of my chest burns at the thought. No matter how many months go by, I don’t feel his absence any less. I have everything I’ve ever wanted — a family, a place I belong in, a purpose, and yet…
Somehow, it’s not enough.
Mumbling something I don’t quite catch, Marta plucks the marble from me and swallows it before looping her arm with mine.
“Do you want to go to mine’s for dinner, tonight?” she asks as we make our way back into town. “Mama’s making calçots.”
My mouth waters at the thought of the charred green onions in red sauce, and I quickly nod.
When Marta broached the subject of introducing me to the rest of the family, a couple of weeks into me living with her, I was terrified. But to their credit, Tia Fàtima and Tia Àvia Mercè have been nothing but gracious to me. In the end, we’re family, and past the shock of finding out their cousin raised an entire family overseas, they were glad to reconcile.
I’m sure it doesn’t hurt that I’m the most powerful witch they’ve ever met; since Marta has agreed to keep Tei’s mark a secret, our family thinks it’s just our power that simmers in my veins. First-born bloodline and all that. It brings them a lot of pride to show me off to other witches in our coven, living proof that the Parella line is superior. They’re not entirely wrong — after all, we are Isabel’s descendants — but if they knew the whole truth, they might think differently of me.
Thirty-minutes of walking later, we’re at the family home in Port Alguer. I love the little loft Marta and I moved into in the center of town, after I sold the house in Hazel Creek and took the leap of faith to move permanently across the pond. But the family home, perched on a rocky formation right above the fishermen’s dwarf, has a different magic to it; all white stucco, cherry wood, and terracotta, it’s the kind of house that’s always warm, like the walls themselves are alive.
Tonight, the family gathers in the main room; Tio Guillem mans the fire in the massive glazed-tile fireplace, where the green onions are roasting. From the kitchen wafts the scent of roasted red peppers, tomatoes and garlic, all chased by the pungency of vinegar. Tia Àvia emerges from the arched way, balancing a plate loaded with pa amb tomàquet on one arm and one with escalivada on the other.
“Hola, Àvia,” Marta calls out.
“Meus bebès,” Tia Àvia coos. She stops between Marta and me on her way to the table, pushing out her cheek, demanding a kiss from each of us. “Take off your coats, put on some slippers. Dinner’s almost ready. Eat some appetizers,” she instructs before setting down her plates and scurrying back to the kitchen.
Knowing better than to defy the matriarch of the family, Marta and I change out of our winter attire, and each load up a plate with tomato-soaked bread and roasted vegetables before joining Tio on the slip-covered couches around the fire. Marta bends to kiss her father on the cheek, too, then settles next to me on the sofa. As we nibble on our food, Marta holds steady conversation with her father, talking about our day reaping ghosts like it’s the most normal job in the world.
We sit down for dinner twenty minutes later, around a feast of charred green onions, suquet de pescadors, even more tomato-soaked bread, and copious amounts of red wine. It’s never just one thing, when it comes to Tia Àvia’s cooking, and I load up my plate with enough food to feed two people, knowing I’ll struggle to finish it, and that my aunties won’t let me go until I do. It’s a well-known dance, by now.
“How was your date with Hugo?” Tia asks Marta as we eat.
My cousin stops with a slice of bread halfway through her plate of sauce, soaking it up, then sighs. “It was fine.”
It was indeed not fine — I heard all about how very much not fine it was when she came home that night.
Tia nods approvingly, obviously missing the note of bitterness in Marta’s voice. “Maybe next time he can bring Mateo? The four of you,” she says, waving her hand toward me, “could go on a double date.”
Marta fists her fork so tightly her knuckles turn white. She doesn’t want to go on a double date — one, because she obviously doesn’t want to date Hugo, and two, because she doesn’t want me to date Mateo.
I have my own personal objection to the double date, obviously; I fell in love with the Prince of the Beyond, and no matter how hurt, abandoned, or upset I may be right now, Tei’s mark on my chest is not only a sign of his tether to me. It’s also proof I belong to him, too.
Reaching under the table, I squeeze Marta’s thigh. “Mateo is a bit old for me, Tia, I’m not sure that would work out.”
It’s such a ridiculous excuse, considering who I actually fell for. Marta turns to me with a feeble smile, but Tia chuffs. “You Americans and all your hangups.”
