Rachel sighs. Then, after another long pause, “Did you mean it? When you were talking about what you wanted to do with your magic—that part about magicking up a new family?”
“At the time, yes.”
“And now?”
Shocking us both, I reach out and grab her hand. Hold on tight. “Maybe this is the part where we all give each other a littlegrace and try to move forward as a team—assisters—the way we were meant to be.”
Rachel squeezes my hand. “When did you get to be so wise?” she teases. “Was that part of the magic lessons?”
“Oh, not at all. I read it on a magnet. Mom has a whole collection.”
“Shut up!” Laughing, she yanks her hand away, dashing the last of her tears. “You are such a little beast.”
I rest my head on her shoulder and sigh. “Just remember, Rach. Love is the real magic.”
“Oh my god, stop. Right now, just stop.” She reaches for another cookie, dunks it in her hot chocolate.
There’s a soft knock, and Kate peeks her head in. “You girls doing okay? I heard laughing. Figured it was safe to check in.“
Her eyes are alert, her coloring back to normal. I try not to show how relieved I am.
“Come sit with us.” Rachel pats a spot beside her on the bed. “There’s one more cookie left if you want it.”
Through a full mouth, I say, “Uh-oh.”
“We could alwaysassistthe house in making another batch?” Rachel offers.
“That’s okay.” Kate smiles. “I’ve got a better idea.”
My sisters and I climb the rickety wooden staircase to the room we’ve been avoiding since we arrived—the tower room with the still-broken window I saw when I stepped out of the Uber my first night here.
My mother’s bedroom.
I gave it a cursory look that first week, hoping I might spot the grimoire, but there were no books, no secret nooks andcrannies, and I bailed after five minutes. Rachel didn’t take Killroy up here. Kate didn’t want to set foot inside either.
We all had our reasons.
Though it’s been neglected since she died, it doesn’t feel so heavy anymore. So suffocating.
There’s nothing magical here, nothing that would indicate our mother was anything other than a middle-aged woman with a penchant for collecting plants and trinkets, but it feels special to me just the same.
It’s the first time I can remember not actually hating her.
I’m still angry that she abandoned us—I’m not sure I’ll ever truly get past that. But I’m starting to understand why she did it. It wasn’t the right call. Not by a long shot. But, after believing for so long that she simply didn’t want us, the truth feels a little easier to bear.
She was doing what she thought was best. And she was—as I have been many, many times in my life—wrong.
But maybe, if my sisters and I can give each other some of that elusive grace, we can find a little left for our mother, too.
Kate gathers up the dead plants while I sweep the broken glass, the dried leaves that’ve blown in. Rachel finds something to temporarily patch up the window. We leave the clothes in the closet for now, but dust the furniture and shelves. When I pull the sheets off the bed for a linen refresh, a Tarot card flutters to the floor.
Six of Cups. The one with the blonde woman with the heart-shaped face, reaching toward a young girl in the moonlight. A card I now understand is connected with nostalgia and memory.
The moment I pick it up, an image flickers to life in the bedroom. My mother, pacing, her arms full of loose papers. The scent of rosemary fills my senses.
I look at my sisters. It’s clear they don’t see her—Kate’s busy talking to the plants, Rachel’s chasing dust bunnies out from behind the dresser.
My mother’s energy is frenetic. She darts to the window, to the doorway, back again, her eyes roving every inch of the room, then peering out into the woods. It’s like she’s afraid she’s being followed.
