She had felt a mild flutter of desire once or twice in her youth, but never the long, liquid pull Helena inspired. Which was nearly as shocking as discovering witches in her midst.
Cynthia had never been attracted to a woman before. Though she could argue that she hadn’t really been attracted to any men either. She thought she must be flawed in some way. Hubert certainly thought so. But it was impossible to deny the fizz in her blood every time her gaze was drawn to Helena. Nor how that fizz turned into a flood of something far more powerful when Helena touched her. Like a current of need pulsing through her system.
Her feelings were highly inappropriate for three glaring reasons.
The first: a lady should not find someone attractive on the day her husband is murdered.
The second: a lady should not find another lady attractive on any day, including the day her husband is murdered.
The third: a lady should not find another lady attractive, especially when that lady is also a witch.
Perhaps Helena put a hex on her. A love spell meant to befuddle Cynthia. That might explain the unaccountable interest she had for the siren. Which is exactly what she thought every time she saw Helena with her wild red hair escaping whatever style she used to try to contain it. It was easy to imagine the woman singing a melody that would pull Cynthia into the cold depths of the sea, never again to emerge. Helena was a riot of colour in a world that had grown quite dim.
‘Ridiculous notion! I hardly know the woman. I was just overset, and things became confused.’ But why would she confuse fear and anxiety from her husband’s death as fascination and desire for another woman, of all things? What kind of shoddy widow was she? Cynthia should be grieving her violently murdered husband, not wondering how it would feel to bury her hands in the enigmatic Helena Blair’s hair.
I have no sorrow left. I spent years mourning the hope I once carried for a loving marriage. It is no wonder I can’t grieve for Hubert. He has been a cruel stranger to me from the first day of our marriage to the last.
Her hand slipped into the pocket of her gown, closing around the locket. In the madness of the afternoon, Superintendent MacDougal had never reclaimed the damning piece of evidence. She still remembered the day Hubert gave her the keepsake. It was their second public outing. She knew he meant to propose and her acceptance was a foregone conclusion. Her father had instructed her she must agree. When he pulled the velvet box from his coat pocket, Cynthia felt a moment of hope. He opened the locket and inside was a miniature portrait of her on one side, Hubert on the other. It was a sentimental gesture that surprised Cynthia. She treasured his gift and wondered if love could grow like wildflowers, splashing colour in the most unlikely places. Then Hubert came home early one morning, two months into their marriage, soaked in another woman’s scent and the stink of cigars and gin. She ripped the locket from her neck and threw it at him as he laughed at her broken innocence.
Glancing at the fire, she wondered if the flames were hot enough to melt the blasted thing. But even if she destroyed the necklace, Helena wouldn’t forget finding it.
Dear Lord. How can I possibly be a suspect in Hubert’s murder? And why did he have my necklace after all this time?
She found no answers as she sipped the brandy Mrs Higgins brought. But the pleasant burn of the liquor warmed the cold ball of fear sitting in her belly.
She might not miss her husband, nor would she shed a tear over his death, but she had never wished violence upon him. And she certainly didn’t want to be found guilty of his murder.
Cynthia watched the shadows of firelight play on the floor as early evening shifted into late night. Inextricably, her thoughts circled back to Helena Blair. The woman was an enigma. Blazing sunset hair. Haunting grey eyes that sometimes glinted silver. A top lip slightly fuller than the bottom. When she looked at her in the front parlour, Cynthia was certain the woman saw into the depths of Cynthia’s soul.
I wonder if she found anything worthy there.
Cynthia hadn’t a clue. Hubert wasn’t the only stranger in her life. She was a stranger to herself. Always pretending to be the perfect lady had left her little room to discover the flawed woman beneath her exquisitely tailored gowns and pleasant smiles.
‘Not any more. If society wants to pull me from the pedestal they forced me to stand upon, then I’m going to bloody well enjoy the fall. I’m not the perfect lady my parents raised, nor am I the innocent bride Hubert married.’
Out of spite, or morbid curiosity, she flicked open the locket, curious to see how she had changed in the ten years separating the beginning and end of their marriage.
All the air escaped her lungs in a rush.
‘That bastard.’
6
Helena sat at the cherry wood table passed down to the Blair women through generations. The patina was nearly black, pitted with scars and stains eloquently describing the history of their ancestors. Women cut herbs at this table, knitted together the fabric of their family, devised spells for healing and protection, spilled wine as they threw back their heads and laughed while watching a cauldron bubble with soap or stew, tonics or tinctures, potions ripe with magic and miracles. Blair women strung together like beads of amber, stretching back to the 1600s, all gathered here to share burdens from the past, devise plans for the future, and savour the sweetness of the present, safe in the circle of sisterhood that bound them.
Aunt Rowan placed a steaming cup of dandelion tea in front of Helena. ‘Drink.’
Dandelion tea had cleansing properties. It might flush out whatever blocked Helena’s gift. Aunt Rowan had sweetened the mixture with honey and a dash of her own healing powers. Helena blew on the surface until it cooled, then sipped.
‘This has never happened before.’ She couldn’t hide her worry as Hamlet bumped his head against her leg. She reached under the table to rest her hand between his ears.
‘What is wrong?’ Ellie swept into the kitchen, her snow-white ferret, Ophelia, wrapped around her shoulders like a living stole.
‘Something is blocking your cousin’s powers.’ Aunt Rowan never spoke around a problem when she could just as easily rip right through the centre.
Ellie’s blonde brows, only a few shades darker than her bright hair, creased over bluebell eyes. ‘Hel, that’s awful.’ She plunked herself on the bench next to Helena and put her soft hand on Helena’s arm. Ophelia perked up, blinking her pink eyes as she scurried off Ellie’s shoulder to find her one true love, Hamlet. That a ferret and a fox could never be together meant little to the familiars who doted on each other. ‘Your aura is a little…’ she scrunched her nose, ‘off.’
Helena stiffened her spine. ‘What do you mean, off?’
