Page 26 of The Witching Moon Manor (The Spellbound Sisters #2)

A Fireplace

Symbolizes the need for family, recovery, and rest.

In the winter months, when the sun never quite seemed to reach through the clouds and touch the sidewalk, the Crescent Moon liked to remind the Quigleys that comfort could still be found in the darkness.

When it noticed the last customer settle back into her chair in a way that hinted she would soon leave to catch the next cable car home, the house let its attention wander to the family parlor.

It began to kindle flames in the hearth, tucking sprigs of sage around the logs that would chase away memories of icy toes and fingers.

And then, when it could smell the faintest scent of herbs and rich wood, the house went about the task of lighting the wicks of beeswax candles.

Every day that the night drew longer, it added another stub to the growing collection until it lost count of how many flames flickered against their brass holders.

Then it would pull the curtains back on just one of the windows, revealing the softly falling snow that reminded whoever was sitting in the warmth of the parlor that they could enjoy the simple beauty of winter’s touch.

That evening, the Quigley sisters savored the sense of slipping away from their worries as they grasped warm cups between their hands and allowed themselves to remember what it had felt like to draw each and every day to a close in this way—the nights when time itself only seemed to stretch as far as the furthest flicker of the fire’s light.

But as pleasant as it was to revisit the past, they knew it wouldn’t do to linger there too long. And so, after their cider had cooled just enough to take a first sip, they drew in one last sagescented breath and went about the task of moving forward.

“We need to make more progress,” Anne said as she leaned forward in her chair, feeling her pulse quicken though the house was trying its best to get her to rest into familiar comforts.

“The effects of Mr. Crowley’s Task are growing stronger with every passing day.

It’s only a matter of time before everyone starts to notice that things are not as they should be. ”

Anne remembered the chill that had skittered across the back of her neck when she stepped out of the shop that morning and saw the ice coating the street. It was a wonder that the other witches hadn’t realized something had gone horribly wrong.

“I might have uncovered something in the apartment above the bookshop,” Violet said as her foot tapped excitedly against the carpet.

“What is it?” Anne pressed, pleased to hear some of the familiar fire in her sister’s voice sparking to life.

“Do you remember what we used to do on the first day of spring?” Violet asked. “When we’d run our fingers along the dusty mantle and remind ourselves of the memories we’d made during the winter?”

“Of course,” Anne replied, her thoughts already slipping back to what it had felt like to see the dust dancing in the bright light pouring through the open windows.

“Well, I tried my hand at reading the past in the dust of the apartment, and do you know where it led me?” Violet continued. “Straight to a mark on the doorframe, like the ones in the shop below, but the name printed alongside it was May.”

Suddenly, Anne remembered the voice that had echoed through her vision as she’d shifted back and forth on the rocking chair, the one that felt like it had crept to the very edge of her consciousness.

“I know it isn’t much, but I feel like there’s something important about her,” Violet insisted. “The memories that led me to the threshold were so joyful and then filled with absolute loss, the same sensation that’s slipped through the floorboards and into the bookshop.”

“You think she’s linked to Philip in some way?” Beatrix asked.

“Yes,” Violet replied, her tone steady and certain. “When I blew the soot across the room, I tried to focus my attention on Philip, and the magic led me straight to May.”

“I think you’re right, Vi,” Anne agreed, relieved that they might have found a clue.

“I’ll do my best to learn more about how she fits into all this,” Violet replied with a nod.

“Did you make any progress, Bee?” Anne asked, her gaze shifting to the other end of the settee.

Beatrix grew still then, her grip on the cup’s handle so tight that Anne worried it might crack.

“Everything’s just as it was before,” Beatrix finally murmured, her eyes hardening as they drifted toward the notebook that sat on the end table.

Anne noticed the stiff set of Beatrix’s shoulders ease, though, when Violet touched her arm, a quiet reminder that they already understood what she was struggling to put into words.

“And what of your day, Anne?” Violet asked once Beatrix had taken another sip of her cider.

“Vincent Crowley visited the shop while you two were out,” Anne replied, her brows pinching together at the memory. “He’s agreed to help.”

“But you told us that he was adamant about staying out of the whole affair!” Beatrix cried in surprise.

“It seems that he’s changed his mind,” Anne sighed, the words sounding more clipped than she’d intended.

“You aren’t convinced, though, are you?” Violet murmured, her brow rising slightly at the uncharacteristic hue of annoyance in her sister’s tone.

“No,” Anne replied, setting her cup atop the table with enough force to make the house winch. “I’m certain that Vincent has an entirely different reason for offering his assistance.”

“And what do you think that is?” Beatrix asked.

“I don’t know,” Anne grumbled. “But I’m determined to find out. Tomorrow evening, he’s going to use his magic to see if we can find any answers about the ring.”

“You don’t mean . . . ,” Violet began, the words fading away as if she couldn’t bring herself to say them aloud.

“Yes, we’re going to see if one of the ghosts who’ve taken up residence in the Crowley manor can help us,” Anne said before reaching for her cup again, trying to make her tone as steady and unbothered as possible though she could feel her sisters’ worried gazes boring into her skin.

“But you’ve never tried that before,” Beatrix whispered, concern lacing her voice. “None of us have.”

A shiver of unease crept up Anne’s back as she wondered what it would be like to watch Vincent call upon a spirit.

But then she remembered what she’d heard from other witches who’d reached beyond the veil and discovered a sense of closure that they hadn’t expected to find in the shadows.

They’d spoken of the experience in the same soft tones that most use to describe the sensation of running a hand across cashmere where one expected to find coarse wool.

“I know that the kind of magic the Crowleys possess has a certain reputation, even among our kind,” Anne sighed.

“But from what I’ve learned in the past year, it’s not as frightening as you might think.

Their power is centered on providing comfort to the restless, after all, and peace to those who want so desperately to move forward. ”

The sisters thought of their own customers, who came to the Crescent Moon for much more than a sweet treat and a glimpse into their future.

Every day, they stepped through the threshold searching for signs of hope nestled somewhere in the remnants of their tea leaves.

Was the magic that the Crowleys were gifted with so very different from their own?

“I suppose you’re right,” Beatrix conceded, sighing as she leaned back into the settee. “And with Vincent, we have a much stronger chance of helping Mr. Crowley and Philip remain together as they wished.”

Anne followed suit, letting the stiffness in her back fade into the familiar warmth of the candlelight while she and her sisters drifted into thoughts of their old friend, who’d helped them look past their own fears of the unknown and toward a brighter future.

And as they sank deeper into those memories, the Quigleys wondered if, when all was said and done, they’d be able to do the same for him.