Page 17 of The Witching Moon Manor (The Spellbound Sisters #2)

A Closed Box

Suggests that something lost might be found.

While Anne was trying her best to hold on to her vision of the past, Violet’s attention was focused on staying in the present.

Though chasing Beatrix through the house and serving the ladies who lined up at the front of the parlor in the hopes of securing an open table had kept her occupied during the rush of the early afternoon, the crowd in the Crescent Moon was starting to thin as the clock ticked nearer to closing.

It was beginning to feel like the shop was lulling into a lateafternoon nap as the voices of their customers lowered from a vibrant pulse to a steady murmur and the shadows in the corners grew dim enough to consider turning on the gas lamps.

It was a moment of the day that Violet would have savored had the memories of her restless night not been waiting to nip as soon as her mind wandered away from the fortunes that peeked out of swirls of ginger, cloves, and citrus.

As long as she was distracted in the shop, the fear that had gripped Violet’s heart remained at bay, only flashing forward when she wasn’t speaking with a customer or racing from the front parlor to the kitchen, where the scent of vanilla and nutmeg was so strong that it chased away any lingering memories from the night before.

But even Violet couldn’t manage to always be moving, and whenever the rhythm of the shop slowed just enough for her feet to stay in the same place for more than a few seconds, she became aware of the guilt that was now always simmering just under the surface, like a pot of caramel that was a second away from burning.

Violet could feel her heart beginning to quicken the longer she stood there, the grooves between her fingers growing clammy as she started to fall into the memories she’d carried with her, slipping away from the comfort of the Crescent Moon though she was still perched behind the hostess stand.

“You seem preoccupied,” a familiar voice murmured, snapping Violet’s attention away from thoughts tinged with the scent of cold sweat and heartache.

Grateful for the distraction, Violet lifted her gaze and saw Celeste standing before her, wrapped in several layers of woolen garments that were covered in snowflakes from the lateafternoon storm sweeping through the streets.

“I’m sorry, Celeste,” Violet replied as she stepped forward and began to help their guest slip out of her coat and scarves. “I’m afraid I found my thoughts wandering.”

“Yes,” Celeste said slowly, drawing out the word as her gaze came to rest on the lines that fluttered outward from Violet’s eyes, betraying her lack of sleep. “I can see that.”

“Are you waiting for Katherine?” Violet asked, knowing from the reservation book that this was the time the two of them usually came to the shop together.

“Unfortunately, I’ve just run into her on the street and learned that she won’t be able to join me this afternoon,” Celeste sighed. “Something about a new year’s blessing that needs to be taken care of as soon as possible.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Violet said, disappointed that she wouldn’t get to see her friend’s warm smile on a day when it would have been most welcomed. “Shall I sit you in one of the wingback chairs by the hearth, then?”

Celeste’s gaze drifted slightly downward, and Violet had to lace her fingers together to keep from shielding the dark halfmoons beneath her eyes.

“Why don’t you join me instead?” Celeste finally asked, taking Violet by surprise.

Though Anne had written about Celeste in her letters, Violet still felt that she didn’t quite know the witch who’d helped the Quigleys accept their diverging paths.

“That sounds delightful,” Violet replied. “But I’ve promised to look over the shop until closing.”

“The girls seem to have everything in hand,” Celeste said as she gestured toward Franny and Peggy, who were moving confidently between the tables with carts of fresh tea and scones. “And no one seems to need a reading at the moment.”

Violet surveyed the parlor and realized that Celeste was correct. All their customers appeared to be deep in conversation, lost in the stories that they were telling one another rather than searching out a Quigley sister to string one together about their own future.

“I could use a cup of tea,” Violet sighed, thinking of how it would feel to grasp the hot porcelain between her hands, which were still chilled from dreams that threatened to slip into daytime.

She led Celeste toward an open table nearest the window, where they could watch the sidewalks slowly disappear beneath snowflakes and evening shadows.

At first, Violet was uneasy about the silence that unfolded between them after they settled in their seats and ordered a pot of tea, wondering what meaning undercut Celeste’s quiet gestures as she rested her chin atop her clasped hands and gazed out the window.

But then, as one second slipped easily into the next, Violet realized that her companion was merely the type of person who didn’t feel the need to fill every quiet moment with chatter.

Each word was formed only when she thought it necessary.

And though Violet was normally one for speaking so quickly that the sentences she strung together practically flew from her tongue, there was something about Celeste’s steady silence that managed to calm the erratic tempo of her pulse.

“How does it feel to return home?” Celeste finally asked after Franny set a piping hot pot of tea on the table and poured them both a cup.

When Violet lifted it to her lips, she smelled mugwort and anise, the same herbs that Clara Quigley had blended whenever she hoped to clear her mind to make space for a vision of the future.

It was a tea favored by witches of their sort who practiced divination, and Violet couldn’t help but wonder if Celeste ever felt a pang of regret when she took a sip of the blend and remembered what she’d lost.

“Like I’m finally able to breathe again,” Violet answered before she could remember to say something that didn’t ring so loudly with the truth.

“Does it?” Celeste asked.

Violet was surprised to realize that she wanted to tell Celeste about what had brought her back to the Crescent Moon.

Though she hadn’t yet found the words to share her troubles with her own sisters, there was something about the witch sitting across from her that made her inclined to say more.

Perhaps it was the knowledge that their conversation would well and truly end when Celeste slipped out the door, taking Violet’s secrets along with her instead of letting them brew within the house, where they would grow stronger than they already had.

“I thought that after I completed my Task, everything would be so clear,” Violet said as she stared away from Celeste and out the window. “But something’s happened, and I haven’t been able to get my feet back under me. Being here makes me feel steadier somehow.”

She expected Celeste to ask the obvious question, to lean forward and inquire about what, exactly, had pushed Violet so far off course that she’d landed right where she started.

But she didn’t.

Instead, Celeste merely sat back in her chair and stared straight into Violet’s eyes, as if she was trying to decipher something there. Eventually, though, she broke her gaze and looked out the window as she stirred her tea, the silver spoon clinking delicately against the sides of the cup.

“It sounds to me like you’ve lost something but don’t know how to go about the task of recovering it,” Celeste finally said.

“Yes,” Violet agreed with a nod. “That’s exactly right.”

“I know what it’s like to be in such a position,” Celeste murmured, something like the shadow of sorrow flashing across those eyes that once peered into the future but could now only see the present.

Violet remembered what Celeste had looked like that first night she’d wandered into the Crescent Moon, her cheeks so sunken that it seemed as if her missing magic had left a vast hollow at the very center of her being.

“How did you bear it?” Violet asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “Knowing that you’d never get it back again?”

Celeste remained silent for a moment, her eyes drifting away from Violet and toward the table that rested in front of the hearth where she’d first sat with Katherine and Mr. Crowley.

“I discovered something else that I’d thought had been lost,” Celeste finally replied. “The spark within myself that made life worth living in the first place.”

For a moment, Violet let the taste of mugwort overwhelm her senses as she tried to think of what, exactly, she would need to find to reclaim the fire that had blazed within her, shooting her forward without a single worry of when the flame would burn out.

But it was difficult to think of something potent enough to fill the strange emptiness that had made a home in her heart.

Violet set her cup back in its saucer and reached toward the pot to pour Celeste another helping, but before her fingers grasped the handle, she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye.

Glancing upward, she saw a flash of auburn hair and realized that Anne was waving at her from the threshold of the door that led to the back hallway, trying to get her attention without disturbing their remaining customers.

“Excuse me, Celeste,” Violet apologized with a note of genuine regret as she placed her cloth napkin on the table. “It seems that Anne needs me.”

“Of course,” Celeste said, her gaze already returning to the street beyond the window, which was so coated in snow that it was difficult to tell where the fog on the glass ended and the world outside began.

“Is everything all right?” Violet asked Anne once she slipped into the hallway and closed the door behind her.

She caught the distinct aroma of peppermint as she said the words, and that, along with the glint of excitement in her sister’s eyes, was enough to tell her that something important had happened.

“I need to visit Mr. Crowley’s home,” Anne announced. “As soon as possible.”

Violet’s brows pinched together in concern.

“I’m not sure you’ll find the warmest welcome in that house,” she sighed.

Though the Quigleys had helped uncover Mr. Crowley’s Task, his family no doubt associated the sisters with his decision to ignore destiny and pursue his own path.

The Crowleys came from a long and distinguished line of necromancers, witches gifted with the ability to speak to the dead, and it had been beyond embarrassing that one of their own had neglected such a significant errand.

“I imagine any resentment they hold will be overshadowed by the prospect of Mr. Crowley’s Task tearing a hole in the fabric of Fate,” Anne said, lowering her voice so that there was no chance of it slipping between the cracks of the door and into the shop.

“I know that they run their business out of their home, and I’m certain that the key to saving Mr. Crowley can only be uncovered if I go there and see what we can learn about his past. There’s something waiting in that house, I can sense it. Something that feels lost and lonely.”

The word “lost” caused another tingle of recognition to skitter across the back of Violet’s neck. It was so strong that she reached a hand up to cover her skin, as if she’d stepped too close to a sparkler and was trying to brush away the heat.

“I’m coming with you, then,” Violet said, surprising both herself and Anne, if her sister’s raised eyebrows were any indication.

“I’m not sure that’s the best idea,” Anne replied hesitantly. “I don’t want the other members of the Council to learn that I’ve told you the truth of what’s happening until we’ve tied everything together again.”

If this conversation had unfolded the day before, Violet would have merely grown quiet, accepting that her initial impulses couldn’t be trusted.

But now she felt the oddest flash of determination.

It wasn’t strong enough to make her feel like she could dive in headfirst without a second thought like she would have done in the past, but a nearly forgotten flicker of curiosity was starting to spark to life, tempting her to step beyond the threshold of the shop and see what she might find.

“I want to go,” she said, her voice firm.

Only a year ago, Violet would have expected Anne to stand her ground and insist that she was being too rash. But something in her sister’s expression shifted, the hard set of her jaw loosening the longer she stared at Violet.

“Fine,” Anne relented. “But only because there’s something I need you to do for me while I’m speaking with the Crowleys.”

“Let’s go now,” Violet insisted, eager to leave before Anne had the chance to change her mind. “Most of the customers have left for the afternoon, and Franny and Peggy can close the shop.”

“Very well,” Anne replied, though Violet was already walking away from her.

“And be sure to get Bee from her study!” Violet called out as she reached the other end of the hall. “She’s coming with us.”

“Do you really think—” Anne began, but the hard smack of the door shaking on its hinges as Violet marched into the front parlor snapped off the end of her sentence.

Had she paused for a breath and turned back, though, Violet would have been surprised by what she saw.

For Anne wasn’t muttering in frustration or rubbing the side of her temple as she always did whenever a new problem arose.

No, instead, she was smiling, two dimples appearing on her cheeks as she released a sigh of unexpected relief.

Because for the very first time since Violet had returned to the Crescent Moon, Anne had seen that spark start to light up her eyes again, ever so faint but with enough flicker to suggest that something of her old self was waiting to catch an ember once more.