Page 23 of The Witching Moon Manor (The Spellbound Sisters #2)

Anne thought he would answer straightaway, but Vincent drew out the pause, playing with the silence in the same way she sometimes pulled at a skein that was nearly at its end to see how far the yarn might stretch.

The brief pause should have given her a chance to breathe, but it somehow seemed to make the unanswered questions that rested between them more tangible, thickening the air and causing some of the frost to melt down the glass of the nearest window.

“Yes,” he answered. “But you won’t be pleased with their reaction.”

“You still don’t intend to help, then,” she said, her frustration returning so fiercely that the fire in the grate on the first floor flickered out entirely, to the dismay of the winter witches, who’d been drying their boots along its hearthstones.

Surprised by the intensity in her tone, Anne nearly considered apologizing so that Vincent wouldn’t rise from his chair and walk out of the shop before she could convince him to change his mind.

But when she glanced upward, she saw that he’d remained perfectly still, his amber eyes flashing in the same way Tabitha’s did whenever something interesting caught her attention.

“I didn’t say that,” Vincent murmured carefully, as one does when they’re used to weighing the cost of each and every word.

“Then what are your intentions?” Anne inquired, tapping her fingers in a slow and deliberate tempo against the top of the table in the hopes that it would remind her to stay composed.

“After giving the matter more thought, I believe it’s in my family’s best interest to see that my uncle’s Task is completed as soon as possible,” he replied.

“It won’t be long before the rest of the coven realizes that the Crowleys are at the root of the problem.

There is our reputation to consider, after all. ”

“It’s strange you didn’t come to this conclusion yesterday, when I expressed exactly that,” Anne said before she had the chance to keep the clipped words contained.

She expected Vincent’s eyes to widen in annoyance at her lack of tact, but instead, his mouth ticked upward into the barest hint of a smile, as if he knew that Anne had lost just a bit of her control and wanted to see how much more of it he could chip away.

“In any case, I’m offering my help now,” Vincent said as he leaned forward, seeming to test whether Anne would push her chair back to keep the distance between them.

She managed to stay just where she was, though, mulling over his words while resisting the impulse to pull away.

Though Vincent seemed sincere, the oddest flavor saturated Anne’s senses as what he’d said lingered in the silence between them.

It reminded her of a caramel apple that looked perfectly sweet on the outside but was rotten once you bit into the core.

The taste always unfurled alongside truths that concealed darker revelations, and once again, Anne wondered what he was hiding.

“Very well,” Anne replied as she threaded her fingers together and set them on the table.

The movement drew Vincent’s gaze to the ring, and Anne noticed that his attention seemed to linger there a beat longer than she’d expected.

“So, for the time being, I’m at your disposal,” Vincent said, his focus shifting from the ring to Anne’s eyes. “How would you like to proceed?”

That morning, before Vincent walked into the shop, Anne had still been trying to piece together a plan. She’d thought of all the possible paths to take should he decide to help and, like a lace maker who’d lost control of her pins, had quickly become tangled in the mess of potential consequences.

But something about the way Vincent was staring at her now, as if they were playing a game of chess and he was calculating her next move, made her act without a single hesitation.

“I assume you’ve already asked your family whether they know anything about the ring,” Anne said.

“I have,” Vincent replied with a nod. “It’s been the sole topic of discussion since we learned the true nature of my uncle’s Task, and no one seems to remember anything about it.”

It was the answer that Anne had expected. Of course his family would have exhausted all possibilities in an attempt to resolve the matter and avoid the scandal of the whole situation.

Again, she wanted to press him about the reason for his sudden change of heart.

If Vincent grasped the severity of the situation, why had he been so insistent about refusing to help her?

But she could tell by the steely glint in his expression that she wouldn’t get a firm answer from him and decided to turn their conversation in a more promising direction.

“Am I also correct to assume that you’ve asked every family member?” Anne inquired, raising a copper brow.

“Are you asking if I’ve tried to speak with someone beyond the veil about the ring, Miss Quigley?” Vincent asked, his tone deepening.

“I am,” Anne answered, holding firm though the shadows in the room seemed to stretch just a bit closer, as if enticed by the sound of Vincent’s voice.

“My uncle is the only Crowley to leave a Task unfinished,” he finally said. “So no one else has remained behind.”

“Have you tried to speak with him?” Anne asked, her voice softening a fraction as she wondered if there was a chance of hearing her old friend’s voice again.

Since Mr. Crowley had been so careful about ensuring his Task remained unfinished in life, she doubted he would reach out in death, especially to his family, who would be eager to draw everything to a neat close before the rest of the coven noticed what was happening.

As her chest began to tighten, though, Anne realized that she still held to the faint hope of seeing him once more.

But then Vincent’s eyes hardened, confirming exactly what she’d suspected.

“He won’t answer me,” he replied simply, the clipped edges of his tone making it clear that she shouldn’t ask any further questions on that point.

Anne thought she caught the barest hint of hurt buried beneath Vincent’s austerity, a roughness cracking through the steely surface of his voice.

Before she could press any further, he straightened in his chair and continued on, obviously eager to push their conversation in another direction.

“But that doesn’t mean other ghosts haven’t remained in the house and seen a thing or two,” Vincent said. “Spirits who linger carry so many regrets with them, and they’re attracted to witches who might be willing to listen.”

Anne remembered the murmurs that had crept through the cracks of the door in the Crowley mansion, the whispers laden with longing and desperation.

“And what have they told you?” Anne asked.

“Nothing that could point me in a clear direction,” Vincent sighed. “Ghosts are notoriously difficult to orient. Their sole concern is trying to share something that might give them peace, and they aren’t able to grasp questions unless you can ground them.”

“And how do you manage that?” Anne inquired.

“We use sensations that might have meant something to them in life,” Vincent explained.

“The steady ticking of a clock, the scent of smoke, the jolt of surprise when you see yourself in a mirror. Anything that reminds them of what it was like to feel alive. Objects that they might have seen or touched before passing on are the most useful.”

“You mean objects like this?” Anne asked as she lifted her hand and let the light hit the gold band once more.

“Yes,” Vincent replied simply, though Anne could sense a wealth of meaning in that single word.

“Then we must use the ring,” Anne said. “If no one living can give us the answers, our next step is clear.”

“I agree,” Vincent replied as he rested his upturned palm a few inches away from Anne’s fingertips. “If you’ll lend it to me for a time, I can see whether it will help steady the spirits.”

Anne pulled away then, concealing the ring beneath the table in the same way Mr. Crowley had when she’d insisted on using it to discover his Fate.

“I understand that the type of magic you perform is of a private nature,” Anne said as she straightened her spine. “But I would prefer to be there.”

Vincent remained still, his forearms resting lazily against the table without the barest hint of concern, but out of the corner of her eye, Anne saw the shadows that had started to creep forward whip their tails in agitation.

She should have been alarmed by the sight, but something about it made her want to see just how far they would reach if she continued to stand her ground.

“If time is truly of the essence, Miss Quigley,” Vincent murmured, the barest sliver of tightness seeping into his tone, “then it would be best to simply give me the ring. As I’ve already mentioned, my magic requires a great deal of focus, and I can’t afford any distractions if we need to bring this matter to a close as soon as possible. ”

“I’m surprised to hear that, Mr. Crowley,” Anne replied, her words as slow and deliberate as a knife being sharpened against stone.

“I would have thought you had enough control over your power not to be bothered by the presence of another witch. But if you don’t believe you’re strong enough for the task . . .”

She let the tail end of her sentence fade away as a tense silence fell between them, thick enough that the house wondered if it should crack open a window to let out some of the heat.

Their magic was so close to the surface now that the customers downstairs started to wonder where the odd aroma of peppermint and cypress was coming from.

Anne watched as the shadows that had been slowly shifting forward abruptly unfurled, covering the windows as if a cloud had suddenly shifted to block the sun.

It might have been a trick of the light, but she thought his eyes deepened, too, that striking amber hue melting into something more akin to coals burning at the bottom of a hearth.

But before she could be certain, Vincent turned over his open palm so that it rested against the table, and whatever spell had been coming together instantly faded away, snapping the shadows back into the corners of the parlor.

“Very well,” he said in the same detached tone that one might use when asked if they’d prefer a dash of cream in their morning coffee. “Would you be able to stop by the house tomorrow evening? After sunset would be best since the spirits are more attracted to the light of a witching moon.”

She nodded, understanding that they’d need to work during the time of night when everything was so still that it felt like magic could be touched beneath the silence.

It was a moment brimming over with the promise of the impossible, and though the thought of leaving the warmth of the Crescent Moon after the shop had nestled in for the day made her bones ache, Anne knew she didn’t have a choice, not when so much hung in the balance.

“I can see myself out,” Vincent announced as he rose from his chair.

Anne couldn’t tell if he was trying to save her the trouble of showing him to the door or simply didn’t want to be in her presence any longer. Before she could decide, he paused and turned to her.

“There is one last thing,” Vincent said just as his boot was about to land on the top step of the spiral staircase.

“Yes?” Anne asked, her breath catching as she waited to hear what he would say next.

“You should call me Vincent,” he replied, turning so that his amber eyes met hers. “Since Mr. Crowley already has a certain meaning for you.”

He was right, of course. Among their kind, names possessed a distinct texture that carried into conversations.

Whenever Anne said “Mr. Crowley,” memories of her old friend always managed to seep through, throwing the whole encounter offbalance.

The name already belonged to someone else, so much so that she couldn’t bring herself to change the inflection to make it better fit the man standing before her.

Anne wasn’t sure she wanted to call Vincent by his first name, though. Not when it was becoming abundantly clear that it was best to keep as much distance between them as possible. But she certainly wasn’t going to let him know that she was unnerved by this show of familiarity.

“Very well,” she relented in the same reserved tone that he had used only moments ago.

Again, a flash of interest flickered in Vincent’s amber eyes, but before Anne could think anything of it, he had already turned away.

The house sensed Anne’s unease and rekindled the fire in the hearth so that the scent of nutmeg and citrus might chase away her worries.

Releasing a deep sigh once Vincent was out of sight, Anne felt some of the tension melt away from her shoulders as she let her posture loosen for the first time since he stepped into the shop.

But the withdrawn breath scattered a pile of sugar that a customer had spilled from her spoon, the grains shifting across the tablecloth as they swirled into a new shape.

The house watched with curiosity as Anne’s brows pinched together and she lifted her hand to brush away the sugar, as if destroying the sign might erase the memory of what she’d glimpsed there.

But just before her palm touched the grains, the Crescent Moon saw it: the silhouette of a hawk, its talons outstretched and ready to grasp whatever was waiting below.

After so many years of looking over the sisters’ shoulders during readings, the house had learned enough to know what it meant when a hawk appeared on the horizon.

In some situations, it suggested that a person had just entered your life who would use their calculating nature to help you reach a muchdesired end.

But in others, it warned that an enemy was near.

As the bells chimed against the front door and Vincent stepped onto the street, the Crescent Moon wondered which interpretation would prove true.