Page 117 of A Time of Witches

Sybil pulled in a deep breath, letting the agonizing pain in her chest curl inside itself, wrapping into a fragile shell of indifference.

“That I am to die,” Sybil finished, her voice wooden—dull—knowing that if she infused life into her words, they would swallow her whole. In these last few moments, she was a coward. Too afraid to yield to the intricacies of a life where she was condemned to die.

Jacinda’s expression broke in anguish as she gasped around a harsh sob.

There was much Sybil must convey. And too little time remained.

So little time.

“The house will be taken by the king,” Sybil continued flatly. “The land, the wealth, all of it will be gone.”

Jacinda jerked her head up, eyes flashing with the quick, incandescent rage of youth in the face of injustice. “I care not for the house, or the coin.”

Sybil calcified her expression, necessary to silence Jacinda’s tantrum. “You will. Henry had a solicitor in London. You will find his information in my desk. Seek him out. He will aid.”

Jacinda stubbornly thinned her lips.

“There is another matter I must speak of.” The admission caught in Sybil’s dry throat. “I should have told you long ago.” Her voice wavered, the shield crumbling.

Jacinda’s thumb nail dug into the ragged cuticle of her middle finger where there was nothing but torn flesh to pick at.

The armor of Sybil’s apathy splintered apart, and misery consumed her, so great, so vast, she could scarce draw breath. “You’ve been raised all this time as my sister—”

“I know.”

Sybil went mute, stunned into silence as Jacinda regarded her, eyes wide and full of expectation. Full of understanding. Full of love.

“I know.” Jacinda repeated. Softer this time, reverent. “I read it in the book Mother left you.” She shook her head and corrected: “Your mother left you.”

“Then you know everything.” The words were almost too fragile to say aloud.

Jacinda nodded and Sybil’s exhaled sob resounded off the cold stone walls.

“My daughter.” Her voice trembled. She could no longer hold back her tears. She opened her arms, catching Jacinda in an embrace, relishing the way her red-gold hair smelled like sunshine, how the warmth of her daughter nestled so perfectly against her heart.

They clung to one another, mother and daughter, newly united despite a lifetime spent together.

“You could have told me,” Jacinda said in a thick voice. “All this time, I mourned having never known my mother as I was so young when she died. Now I realize I have known my mother all this time, perhaps better in some ways than I know even myself.” Something quivered in her tone. Hurt? Anger? Betrayal?

She had a right to any one of those emotions.

“Your father,” Sybil said. “I told him only recently that I had kept you a secret.”

“The man on the street some years ago.” Jacinda hesitated. “The vicar. With hair the same color as mine.”

Sybil nodded. “You saw him?”

“I saw you see him. The way you looked at him, like your heart had leaped into your eyes.” She gave a sad smile. “That and I’ve never seen someone else with the same color hair as I have.”

In that moment, Sybil realized exactly how much she’d deprived Jacinda of by keeping her secrets. Not only a mother, but also a father.

How many nights had Jacinda succumbed to the pain of being an orphan?

All these years, Sybil thought she was protecting everyone she loved, but truly, her own wounds were what she sheltered.

For everyone else, she had deprived them of a chance to love with the whole of their hearts.

“His name is John Griffin,” Sybil said. “Seek him out after…” She balled her hands into fists and let her ragged nails bite into her palms. “He will help you.”