Page 28 of The Witching Moon Manor (The Spellbound Sisters #2)
A Pendulum
Appears when something is trying to break free.
As Anne climbed the front stoop of the Crowley mansion, the speech that she’d been piecing together ever since she’d seen Vincent’s dark shadow of a suit slip away from the Crescent Moon kept whirling through her thoughts.
He’d surprised her yesterday in the shop, his shocking white hair and stern expression so out of place among the familiar comforts of the Crescent Moon that she’d been thrown offkilter from the start of their conversation.
Anne had always been reassured by the fact that no matter the prickly temperament of a customer, she could reach within herself and find the steadiness she needed to keep whatever sharp remarks that bubbled to the surface in check.
But when it came to Vincent, all it had taken was one sarcastic lift of a brow for the sharp remarks that normally stayed tucked away to whip off the tip of her tongue.
To make matters even worse, Anne had noticed the gleam of satisfaction that flashed in his eyes when she’d bitten back instead of remaining indifferent.
But that most certainly wouldn’t be the case this time around.
In the moments when she was shifting between readings, Anne had rehearsed exactly what she intended to say to Vincent during their next encounter, repeating the lines over and over again in her head until they took on the exact inflection that would help her feel as unfettered as a doorstop.
And then, as she’d gotten ready to rest for the evening, Anne had added on to them as one does when drawing out a map with dozens of alternative directions etched along the various streets and alleyways.
First, she’d greet him in her most civil tone, saying his name as simply as she could so that the texture of the syllables didn’t have a chance to taste familiar.
After she gave him a moment to reply in kind, Anne would outline her aims for the evening, making it clearer than crystal that she wouldn’t be riled again and expected all of her questions to be met with a definite answer.
Their conversation wouldn’t unfurl as it had yesterday, when each exchange felt like an ember crackling unexpectedly in the stove.
She’d charted every possible barb and comment that might make her as bristly as a boysenberry bush and was determined to keep everything on course, no matter how much Vincent managed to rile her.
As Anne reached toward the brass knocker and tapped it against the wood, she pictured the first turn of their conversation, the sentence that she planned to say so solid on her tongue that she could very nearly feel it.
But when the door swung open and she parted her lips to speak, Anne realized that Vincent wasn’t standing there at all.
The foyer was just as it had been the other day, empty aside from the fading light of sunset that crept in through the front door and the shadows cast by the candles flickering in the hallway.
The house, it seemed, had decided to let her in of its own accord again.
Anne’s brows furrowed as she stepped deeper into the hallway and wondered at the obvious display of hospitality. Strange that the house would let shadows and dust gather in its corners but so eagerly welcome a guest out of the frosty winter streets.
Before she could give that question any more consideration, however, the oddest noise drifted into Anne’s awareness.
It sounded like a soft strain of music, the vibrations strange and familiar all at once, as if she’d hummed the tune before and her body remembered the chords though she herself could not recall them.
And before she knew quite what she was doing, Anne had stepped closer to a door in the center of the hallway where she could hear the gentle hum slipping through the cracks along the frame.
As she rested her hand against the knob and started to turn it, though, Anne vaguely remembered that magical temptations aren’t always as innocent as they seem, but the pull of the music was much stronger than the ticking clocks had been.
It was as if every note tugged at a place deep within her soul, making her feel like she was moving toward something that promised to reveal a hidden part of herself.
She could practically feel the tempo rippling against her skin now, growing stronger the more she thought about turning the knob to see what waited on the other side.
Tilting her head, Anne moved to do just that, but as she started to pull the door open, a hand flashed from behind her and snapped it shut again, causing her to jump in surprise.
The gentle pulse of the melody was instantly overpowered in Anne’s awareness by the scent of cypress and myrrh.
“What are you doing?” Vincent’s icy voice asked from behind her, so close to her ear that Anne knew if she whirled around, their faces would be separated by only the barest whisper.
The rough timbre of his tone should have made Anne feel like she’d just been doused in cold water, but instead heat rose to her cheeks as she turned her neck to glare at him.
“Seeing what’s on the other side of this door,” she answered sharply, all her intentions of remaining civil evaporating the moment she heard him speak.
“Why?” Vincent asked, his question urgent and laced with worry.
“I heard music,” Anne answered, startled into confessing the truth by the sudden earnestness of his tone.
Vincent’s arm snapped around her waist then, as if she were on the bow of a ship about to be pulled into the sea by a force greater than her own.
“Have you lost your senses?!” Anne cried as he pulled her away from the door and down the hall.
“You shouldn’t have been able to hear it,” Vincent murmured, though he seemed to be speaking more to himself than to her.
Anne braced her hands against his chest and pushed just as Vincent opened the door to the room where the clocks dangled from the walls. It was the same moment that he loosened his hold, the unexpected release causing Anne to stumble backward.
“What, exactly, is it that I shouldn’t have been able to hear?” Anne asked as she regained her footing and ran her hands along the sides of her skirts, trying to brush away the feeling of his hands against her waist.
But Vincent ignored her question again, his full attention riveted on Anne’s face.
He was staring deeply into her eyes, as a physician does when trying to determine if someone’s been injured by a blow to the head.
The scowl that had already become a familiar sight was softened by a genuine look of concern that instantly loosened some of the strain in Anne’s clenched hands.
It was strange, really, how such a simple change transformed his entire face, and for the barest second, she wondered what it would be like to see that stony mask fall away entirely.
After a few moments, he seemed satisfied that no permanent damage had befallen her. But then his expression shifted into something far more alarming: raw curiosity.
“I knew that you were an unusually powerful witch,” Vincent said as he took a step closer to Anne. “I wonder . . . ”
An insistent voice in the back of Anne’s mind told her to move away, but she refused to give Vincent the upper hand and defiantly stood her ground instead, a pleasant prickling sensation skittering across her collarbones as she dug her heels deeper into the floorboards.
“What, exactly?” Anne asked as her magic whipped to the surface and the distinct scent of peppermint and early morning dew saturated the room.
“If you can see more than the future,” Vincent said, his reply sending ripples of shock down her spine.
Anne had told no one about her ability to slip back into the past. It was so new that she hadn’t wanted to speak to the rest of the Council about it, not when she didn’t have full control yet.
Though Anne had worked hard to secure her place among the coven since becoming Diviner, she knew that as a witch grew more powerful, so did the consequences of showing the slightest sign of weakness.
She couldn’t let anyone else know about her abilities until she’d harnessed them, or the coven would grow uneasy, shaken by the thought that the person who’d kept them on course could lose her own way.
“And why would you think that?” Anne asked, trying to keep the surprise out of her voice.
“That music can only be heard by those who’ve walked beyond their own pasts,” Vincent said slowly, clearly wanting Anne to take in the underlying meaning of every single word.
“You mean . . . ,” Anne murmured, her mind drawing toward the obvious conclusion only to skitter away from it as quickly as possible.
“Yes,” Vincent replied. “Only the spirits can hear it.”
“But your magic is tethered to the past,” Anne insisted. “You should be able to hear it too.”
“No,” Vincent answered with a shake of his head. “My magic is tied to the parts of the past that cling to the present. It isn’t the same.”
“I’m not a ghost,” Anne said in confusion.
“That you most certainly are not,” Vincent replied, his hands twitching at his sides as if he were remembering how solid she’d felt beneath his hands only a few moments ago. “But you’ve found a way to drift back nonetheless.”
Anne felt heat rise to her cheeks again, torn between frustration over having her new powers exposed and a strange temptation to reveal the truth to the one person who might be able to help her understand them.
Vincent was right, of course. He couldn’t see the past in the same way she could, but his magic was intimately woven to spirits who were still tethered there, the echoes of what came before beating at a constant tempo beneath his everyday.