Page 23

DELILAH

T he wind bit a little sharper on the way back to the apothecary.

Or maybe that was just her.

Delilah pushed through the door, barely remembering to lock it behind her before she set the kettle on and fell into the old rocking chair by the hearth. Her hands trembled around the edges of her shawl as she pulled it tight—not from cold, but from the weight in her chest.

She had asked for the truth. She had begged for it. And he’d kept it like a secret spell sealed in bone.

Worse, he hadn’t trusted her with it. Not as a witch. Not as his mate.

The betrayal sat heavier than any heartbreak.

But she couldn’t fall apart. Not now. Not when there was still someone who needed her.

Wren.

Delilah blinked and stood abruptly, her movements clipped, efficient. She crushed herbs with more force than necessary, gathered the dream salve and moonwort infusion without spilling a single drop. Her breath was tight, shallow, but her hands—those never wavered when it came to healing.

Wren lay on the small daybed in the back room, bundled in three layers of moss-dyed quilts. Her skin was paler than usual, bark-brown fading to ashen gray. The flowers in her hair had wilted, only a few clinging to life near her temple.

Delilah sank beside her.

“I’m sorry,” Delilah whispered, brushing a trembling hand over Wren’s brow, her fingers brushing the dried petals nestled in her grandmother’s silver curls. “I should’ve seen it sooner. I should’ve pushed harder. I should’ve known. ”

The weight of those words hung in the still air like fog clinging to grave markers.

Wren stirred faintly, breath shallow but steady, her thin chest rising and falling beneath the moss-green quilt. Her eyelids fluttered before her gaze—clouded by spirit-sickness but still sharp beneath the veil—met Delilah’s.

“Child,” Wren rasped, her voice rough as brittle leaves but still carrying the soft steel of her spirit, “don’t carry guilt like the shawl you wear.”

Delilah’s throat tightened at the words. She hadn’t realized until now that she’d wrapped Wren’s old shawl around her shoulders, unconsciously holding on to something tethered to life and memory.

“Then tell me what to carry,” she whispered, voice shaking. “Because I feel like I’m losing you.”

Wren smiled faintly, the corners of her mouth twitching like old bark curling under sun. “You’re not. Not yet.”

The strength it took to say those words wasn’t lost on Delilah.

Tears burned her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Not yet. Not while Wren still fought.

She reached for the ceramic jar of cool salve—lavender-root, beeswax, powdered elderberry—and dipped two fingers in, her hands no longer shaking.

With solemn care, she placed her palm over Wren’s chest, fingers splayed wide.

The skin beneath was too warm and too still at once, like embers waiting for breath.

Then she began to trace the sigils.

One for grounding, Salem-style runes braided with forest-born glyphs.

One for connection, drawn from Wren’s own notebook, worn with age and margin notes.

One for renewal.

The skin beneath her fingers shimmered faintly, reacting to the touch of old magic. A hum rose around them like low wind through pine needles, and Delilah inhaled deeply.

It’s not enough. Not yet.

But it had to be.

She began the chant, her voice low, clear, and steady.

Each word dropped into the air like a stone sinking through water—rippling, resonant, reverent. Her magic stirred behind her ribs, soft at first, then building into something warm and raw. It climbed her throat, spread through her limbs, curled around her fingers like vines seeking sun.

She closed her eyes, leaned closer.

And Wren’s hand rose—slow, but sure—and closed around Delilah’s wrist with a surprising strength.

The chant faltered.

“Wren?” she breathed, blinking.

Wren’s lips parted. “Love isn’t safe,” she whispered. “It’s sacred.”

Delilah frowned, momentarily confused by the shift.

Wren’s eyes, fogged moments ago, were startlingly clear now—crystalline and rooted in something ancient.

“You’re trying to save me with your hands,” Wren continued, her voice almost a song, “when your heart’s the stronger vessel.”

Delilah’s lip trembled. “I can’t lose you. You’re my anchor, my roots—everything that holds me steady.”

Wren’s fingers tightened, then loosened, her breath catching.

“And you ,” she said, “are the bloom.”

She smiled, soft, loving, tired.

“The forest knows you. It chose you. But it’s not enough to be chosen, my girl. You must choose it back. Choose your place in it. Claim it.”

Tears fell this time.

Delilah bent low, pressing her forehead to Wren’s knuckles. “I’m trying.”

“I know.” Wren’s eyes slipped shut again. “But don’t just try, child. Be. ”

Delilah stayed like that for a long moment, listening to the shallow rise and fall of Wren’s breathing.

Then she stood, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of the shawl she no longer saw as a burden—but a mantle.

“I’m not giving up,” she whispered fiercely, almost to herself.

The candlelight flickered across the room, and somewhere beyond the walls, the forest stirred.

It had heard her.

She spent the next hours gathering, brewing, whispering. She lit spirit candles. Burned offerings of cedar and elderflower. She traced a spiral rune over Wren’s pulse point and poured her magic into it—her blood, her breath, her grief.

She didn’t think about Rollo.

Except she did.

Every time she poured her heart into the chant, she remembered his arms. The way he looked at her like she was the moon itself. The way he didn’t tell her.

She felt her magic slip—just a little.

“Focus,” she whispered to herself. “For Wren.”

The ritual deepened, pulled at the thread between Delilah’s spirit and the forest’s. She swayed as power moved through her, sweat beading along her brow. The runes glowed faint green. For a moment, Wren’s breath came easier.

It flickered.

Delilah’s knees hit the floor.

“Please,” she gasped. “Just a little more.”

The magic around her crackled, thick with resistance. But still, she gave it everything.

When she finally collapsed at Wren’s bedside, her energy spent, she barely registered that the wind outside had gone still. The flowers in Wren’s hair hadn’t bloomed again. But they hadn’t faded further either.

Delilah leaned over, pressing her forehead to her grandmother’s chest, whispering, “Hold on. Just a little longer.”

She didn’t cry. Not because she wasn’t broken.

But because she was still whole enough to fight.