Page 56 of Charmed, I'm Sure

She returns to the table and sets the book in front of me. The leather is so old it’s soft to the touch, edges frayed. My fingertips tingle when I trace the indent of the name pressed into the cover.

Flipping it open to the first page, in scrolling, beautiful handwriting are the words, Diary of Ivora Sinclair.

I know that name. I’ve heard Bellamy mutter it once, drenched in sarcasm—”Yeah, and I’m Ivora Sinclair”. But she’s also the name carved into the founder’s plaque in the Pumpkinridge town square.

“Ivora Sinclair…she’s the one who—”

“Founded Pumpkinridge. And cursed it. She was like Bellamy in more ways than my sister would like to admit. Strong. Stubborn. Convinced fate was a shackle. She turned her back on The Weaver’s design and thought she’d found a loophole—by sacrificing something she thought was worth more than love.”

She sits back down, eyes locking on mine, solemn.

“That choice cursed every dark twin in our family for seven generations.”

My throat tightens. “And Bellamy is number seven.”

Elora nods her head slowly.

“She’s also the one who’s fated to break it, if she would accept her fate instead of running from it. But curses don’t die on their own, Wolf Boy. They have to be undone. And for that…the sacrifice must be given back.”

“And what exactly is that sacrifice?”

Her lips curl into a small smile that’s far too calm for the weight in her words.

“That’s for you—and Bellamy—to discover. But you’d better hurry. Samhain waits for no one.”

The diary sits between us, heavy with the kind of truth that changes everything. And for the first time since I met Bellamy Grimsbane, I’m terrified of what fate might demand her.

Chapter Eighteen

Secrets Never Stay Hidden

Miles

The diary sits heavy on my lap, and I’m afraid to touch it. Not because I wouldn’t do anything for Bellamy, but more because once something is learned, there’s no undoing it. Whatever I’m about to discover here will change everything.

Elora had guided me to a back corner of her shop, full of crystals, overstuffed chairs of all colors and patterns, along with a few jars of things I didn’t want to know what.

“You should stay here and read. I have a feeling if everything goes accordingly then I’ll have an answer you seek,” she had said before she spun out of the room like a willow wisp.

That was twenty minutes ago. Yet, I’m still sitting here trying to build up the courage to flip behind the ownership page.

I know there are going to be pages I probably won’t care to read, but I’m hoping to find the answers we need. The paper is thick, with a texture unlike any paper I’ve come across. You can almost feel as though you are sitting in front of a roaring hearth as you spill your heart into it.

Flipping the page, I flip past entries about herbs Ivora tried and meeting her husband. There are pages full of love notes to him, and then pages about building their cabin inthe woods.

But this one, this one stops me in my tracks.

January 3, 1665

They are hunting us like hogs. We’ve hidden in our cabin for days, but the stores are low, and eventually Elias will need to go out for food. I hear the dogs in the distance at night—always closer. They say they can smell the witch’s mark on the wind.

Milo curls at my feet, warm despite the frost creeping through the floorboards. He lifts his head when the howls carry, ears pricked as if he, too, is listening for the sound of boots in the snow. The ward still holds… but for how much longer?

Whoa. That had to be terrifying to live through. I can’t imagine locking myself into my cabin in fear of being hunted and killed. Pulling out my phone, I quickly search the year and stumble upon what I expected — the mid-1600s witch trials. Not Salem yet — that storm wouldn’t hit until 1692 — but the colonies were already accusing, trying, and hanging people for witchcraft.

From my understanding, most of the people who perished weren’t even witches — just neighbors someone held a grudge against, or people who owned land someone else wanted.

Flipping slowly, I read through passage after passage, each one steeped in the kind of paranoia that gets under your skin. Names scratched onto the page—neighbors, friends—followed by a single word in the margin: gone. Sometimes she notes “taken in the night,” other times “the pyre,” even repeating multiple times that she felt her words burning her tongue.