Page 29 of With All My Haunted Heart

“I thought you didn’t know anything about us?” I snap, my voice harsher than I mean for it to be. But the longer we talk about this, the more I feel like I’m being dragged into the past. Echoes of old injuries create phantom pains that nestle alongside the constant ache of my back and the fresh tenderness from the Taser.

There were the skinned knees my father tried to teach me to heal. The twisted ankles. The beestings. An entire childhood of injuries that my parents turned into Teachable Moments. Except no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t replicate the healing magic they used.

“Pippa?”

Elle’s voice draws me out of my childhood home and back into the bright kitchen. Back to the present, where I haven’t been anywhere near my parents in five years. Where Elle is currently trying to hand me a fresh apple. I accept the fruit, but I’ve lost my appetite.

“I’m sorry I snapped.” I twist the apple between my hands, trying to ignore the chorus of useless, pathetic, waste of space echoing in my head.

Belonging to this family is a privilege. Not a right.

“I didn’t mean to offend you.” Elle pulls out another chair and sits across from me. “I was surprised. I thought healing was…I don’t know. A given?”

“It usually is.” I trace my thumb along the surface of the apple. Normally, I don’t like to talk about my family, but whatever icy exterior Elle had up when I walked in is thawing, and I don’t want her walls going back up. “Most witches can heal themselves. I was never good at it, and until I realized my talent for working with spirits, I didn’t understand why. I’ve yet to hear of a witch who excels at both.”

Elle studies me like she’s trying to solve some puzzle. She tilts her head, drawing my gaze to the smooth length of her neck. “But if it’s not normal for ghost specialists to be healers, why did my question upset you?”

Shame drops my gaze to the floor. “If I’d come from a regular witch family, it might have been fine, but my parents…they’re big on tradition, and healing is the tradition. My ineptitude was a stain on the family reputation. One of several.”

That last bit comes out a quiet murmur, overlaying my childhood healing failures with my first big fuckup as a member of NACOW. The unintentional argument I sparked with a dignitary from the UK, yet another traditionalist who insisted a magical application that I’d already invented was impossible.

Elle leans forward, bracing those ridiculous forearms against her thighs. “Why is healing such a prominent tradition if not every witch can do it?”

I shrug, not ready to look up and see what emotion is displayed across her face. “When witches first came forward in the nineteenth century, they were exceptionally cautious about the magic they displayed. They didn’t want to freak out mundanes and spark yet another round of witch trials, so they focused on healing. It made them popular with important people and secured legal protections.”

“Makes sense, I guess.”

“Traditionalists like my parents never let go of that fear, despite nearly two hundred years of being open with the world. They despise progress, afraid that anything new or different might undo all the legal protections we have.” I risk a glance at Elle and find only open curiosity. “On top of all that, my parents are elitist assholes. They hate everything I do. Even if my work was completely acceptable to mundanes, they’d still think what I do is an embarrassment.”

I bite my lip, unsure whether I should say more. But Elle is watching me with that same intense curiosity, her head tilted to the side like she’s urging me to continue. I find myself compelled to oblige. “At first, my parents would heal me when my own magic failed. As I got older, Nanette decided their help was depriving me of the ‘proper motivation’ I needed to learn. They thought their plan was working, but I wasn’t the one healing myself. My little sister was. I hated putting Flora in the middle of things, but she insisted.”

“Of course she did.” There’s a fire in Elle’s voice now. “I have an older sister, and I’d do anything for her. Especially if I had the power to take away her pain. I’m sure Flora felt the same.”

I shrug, unwilling to admit to the five-year estrangement—and all the complicated, messy feelings that come with it—that currently separates Flora and me. “Our ruse worked until I fell out of a tree in our backyard. The fall broke my arm, and mending bone was beyond Flora’s skills at the time. Mom was furious when she found out. She refused to heal me. She wouldn’t even take me to a mundane doctor.”

Horror flashes across Elle’s face. “How old were you?”

“Twelve. Flora was only eight.”

“How the fuck isn’t that child abuse?”

If only it were that simple. “My mother is a powerful woman. Who exactly was going to report her?”

“I’m so sorry, Pippa.” Elle tucks a loose lock of hair behind her ear, her fingers trembling. “What happened with your arm?”

“The school nurse came through for me.” Fond appreciation for the woman who helped me finally shakes off the last of my lingering shame. “I faked an injury during gym class. The nurse must have known the break was days old, not minutes, but she healed it anyway. My parents were furious, but at least they finally gave up on the idea I’d ever work healing magic.”

“I’m sorry I brought all this up. Family should be a source of safety. You deserved better.” Elle reaches out but stops short of touching me, letting me decide whether to close the gap. As if there’s any chance I’d deny her. Not when every touch is like lightning against my skin. I take her hand in mine, relishing her warmth.

“And for whatever it’s worth,” she continues, “I’m glad you excel at the magic you do. Alex and I would be screwed if you didn’t.”

“I’m glad, too.” I hold her hand a beat longer, the weight of her gaze inspiring a whole migration of butterflies to stir in my stomach.

The first hint of a smile tugs at Elle’s lips, but then she pulls her hand from mine and hurries to her feet. “I need to get the dough back in the freezer before the butter melts.” After scrubbing her hands in the sink, she carefully wraps and stores her in-progress croissants.

Once the dough is secured, she leans her back against the fridge. “So, Pippa…I need to ask you something, but I don’t want you to think I’m being cold or callous. Especially after what we just talked about.”

“That’s comforting.” I aim for levity that I’m not sure I achieve. I finally take a bite of the apple she gave me, hunger erupting the moment I finally start eating. When her expression twists with hurt, I drop the attempt at humor. “What is it?”