Page 29 of The Witching Moon Manor (The Spellbound Sisters #2)

For a moment, Anne let herself consider what it would feel like to have one fewer burden to keep in the shadows.

There were so many of them stacking atop her shoulders now that everything she said needed to be weighed with careful deliberation.

As irritated as she’d felt during her conversations with Vincent, it had been thrilling in a way to find herself forgetting to keep each word and gesture in check.

She wondered how he managed to do that, make her feel fully in the present even when so many of her responsibilities were rooted firmly in worries about the future.

But before Anne could let herself drift away from the sense of prudence that had always steadied her before, she managed to hold herself back.

“What does it matter?” Anne said warily, hoping to bring the conversation to a close instead of driving it forward.

“It matters a great deal,” Vincent murmured, softening his voice the barest fraction while making it clear that he refused to shy away from the point. “If you can slip into the past, the spirits will be more attracted to you. They’ll see you as a kindred soul.”

Anne’s thoughts flashed back to the first time she’d entered the house and heard the whispers drifting down the hallway, an undercurrent of longing so strong that it had pulled her forward.

“I’m not like you,” Anne insisted. “I can’t call on ghosts.”

“Of course you can’t,” Vincent conceded. “But I wonder what would happen if I opened the way.”

Abruptly, Vincent took another step and reached toward Anne, closing the distance between them.

At first, she thought he was going to touch her face, but just as her chin jerked away, his fingers landed on the clock pinned to the front of her blouse.

“You wear this every day,” Vincent said. “It means something to you.”

“I don’t see why—” Anne began, her guard starting to rise again as she realized that Vincent had been observing her closely enough to notice such a thing.

But before she could say anything more, Anne sensed that the scent of myrrh was growing stronger.

“What are you doing?” Anne grumbled, repeating the same question he’d asked her only a few minutes before.

They were always doing that, it seemed: making it impossible for the other to know for certain what would happen next.

“Shh,” Vincent hissed back, his eyes falling closed as he seemed to concentrate on something beyond what Anne could sense. “Just listen.”

Anne huffed as she tried to think of something to say that would end this absurd situation, but then she heard it.

The soft ticking of her own clock, so familiar and reassuring that she couldn’t help but feel the tension between her shoulders relax just a fraction.

It was the sound that always steadied her when the tearoom was at its busiest, the gentle click-click-click a reminder that time always moved forward at a slow and even pace even when it seemed like the seconds were whirling away.

As her attention grasped on to that reassuring thought, the other clocks in the room began to tick to life as well, their hands shifting to the same beat, though it seemed impossible that they could have all been set to the exact time.

And then Anne began to hear the whispers again, the sound as subtle as a breeze brushing against the hillside on a sunny day.

She could sense the loneliness still, a heavy weight that made her own heart ache, but there was something else curling at the corners of the noise now.

It was the same sound that crept into Violet or Beatrix’s voices when they had a secret to reveal, their words laced with excitement and expectation.

Instead of wanting to share the worst of their grief, as Anne had feared, the spirits seemed kindled by curiosity, the feeling that they were about to encounter something new overpowering any desire they had to express their sorrow.

“Can you hear what they’re saying?” Vincent asked, causing Anne to jump.

The sensations pressing in on her from all directions were so strong that she’d nearly forgotten he was standing there.

Vincent seemed to realize that he’d startled her and began to take a step back, but Anne surprised them both by grasping his wrist so that he would remain exactly where he stood.

“I hear them whispering,” Anne murmured, letting the steady beat of Vincent’s pulse orient her as she tried to speak above the eager voices. “But I can’t tell exactly what’s being said.”

Vincent took another step forward then, slow enough that all it would take to keep him back was the slightest pressure of Anne’s fingers.

But she remained still, letting him draw so close that she could hear him clearly in the chaos of hushed confessions and feel his jaw graze against her curls as he parted his lips to speak.

“And what do you feel?” Vincent asked, the answer that instantly sprang to mind causing a blush to burn Anne’s cheeks.

“Longing,” Anne answered honestly as she was struck once more by the note of yearning that weighed down each and every whisper.

“Anything else?” Vincent asked, as if he could sense that she was holding something back.

“Curiosity,” Anne finally confessed. “And excitement.”

“They’re memories,” Vincent explained, his words coming faster now.

Anne recognized the urgency that radiated from his voice.

It was the same feeling that emerged whenever an unexpected twist of magic made her believe that she was about to discover something no one else had seen before.

“They want to show you how it felt to be alive. The sensations tied to moments that seemed simple but in the end were everything.”

Anne’s heart was racing so rapidly now that she should have had trouble hearing the clocks, but they continued to click at the very front of her consciousness, each tick making the hairs on her arms stand on end in a way that reminded her of the blood pulsing beneath her skin.

“Start drifting back,” Vincent said, his free hand moving to her shoulder, as if he intended to ensure her feet stayed on the ground while her mind faded beyond the current moment.

“No,” Anne whispered, understanding exactly what he was telling her to do.

He wanted her to slip away from the present and into the past, but her powers couldn’t be harnessed as well whenever she toyed with the boundaries of what she was capable of.

In the safe confines of the Crescent Moon, where the scent of cinnamon buns and cardamon laced the edge of every indrawn breath, Anne was willing to test these lines, pushing just a bit further every time to see what would happen.

Letting go now, when the pounding clicks of the clocks and the alluring scent of Vincent’s magic were causing her to forget why she wanted to stay in control, was beyond impossible.

Anne’s magic seemed to have an entirely different opinion in the matter, though. As soon as it heard Vincent’s suggestion, it started tingling against Anne’s skin, begging her to let it take the reins.

The house began to shake then as Anne grappled with her power, the gears of the clocks screeching as they rattled against the walls.

“Drift back,” Vincent insisted again, louder this time.

The texture of his voice matched the same urgency that undercut her magic, tempting her to let go and discover just how far she could push herself.

It was so compelling that she very nearly released the weight of responsibility that she carried, the one that always made her think through each and every action for fear of the consequences.

But in the end, she couldn’t fall into the moment and forget.

“Enough!” Anne cried out, determined to gain sway over her power once more.

The moment she spoke a pulse of light flashed from her hands, pushing Vincent away and knocking all the clocks from their pegs. They crashed to the floor and filled the house with the unsettling sound of metal being twisted out of place.

Anne stood at the center of the wreckage, trying to catch her breath as the final click-click-click of the clocks faded away.

“You’re holding back,” Vincent said accusingly as he raked a hand through his hair, causing the straight locks to stick up like spears.

Anne was startled by how much she missed the soft hue that had saturated his tone only a moment ago, but her shock gave way to a sense of relief at the iciness in his voice.

It felt like a window had been thrown open in a hot house, letting in a bracing breeze that reminded her to put some space between them.

“That’s none of your business,” Anne hissed, crossing her arms protectively over her chest.

“Isn’t it?” Vincent spat back. “When you’ve come to my home asking—no, demanding—my help? When leaving my uncle’s Task unfinished will have an irreparable effect on the coven and it’s clear that working together is the only way?”

Anne tried to find a sharp retort, but Vincent’s words struck her to the core.

The only thing she could share in her defense was that she couldn’t control her powers yet, and that was something she most certainly wouldn’t admit. Not when she was the city’s Diviner and even the barest hint of vulnerability could have disastrous consequences.

“Why are you holding back?” Vincent repeated, his tone even stronger and more demanding than it had been before.

“I’m not,” Anne said, but the lie was so obvious that the smell of burnt meringue instantly infused the air between them.

Vincent’s frown deepened as he drew in the scent, his eyes growing even colder than they’d been during their first encounter. Anne could practically feel the waves of distrust and suspicion radiating from him as he stepped away from her and surveyed the damaged clocks scattered around the room.

“If you’re worried about drifting too far beyond your magic’s control, I could anchor you,” Vincent said.

That final word instantly caused a spark of alarm to shoot down Anne’s spine.

When a witch worried that their powers might lure them away from what made them feel rooted, someone else could offer to ground them.

Anne had been told that witches who wanted to be anchored didn’t give up any control over their magic.

It was more like calling a friend back when they were about to teeter off the edge.

If Anne let Vincent anchor her, though, she’d have to open her mind to him, exposing her inner self in a way that she’d never done before.

They’d lace their hands together, and once Anne lowered her defenses enough to let his magic touch hers, the hidden layers of her awareness would be revealed for him to see.

Vincent wouldn’t know exactly what she was thinking, but he’d feel the pulse of her soul, tying his magic to hers long enough so that she would remember to stay rooted.

It was an extraordinarily intimate act, one that would make it impossible for them to keep their distance.

Anne may have instinctually grasped Vincent’s wrist when searching for a source of steadiness only a moment ago, but she certainly wasn’t willing to consider letting him anchor her, no matter the strange pull she felt toward him.

“We can’t try again tonight anyway,” he sighed, clearly irritated by Anne’s silence. “The spirits will be too unfocused now to draw in.”

“It seems the clocks will need to be repaired before we try again,” Anne said as she touched one of the gears that had been thrown across the floor with the tip of her boot.

“We won’t be using them next time,” Vincent said, that thoughtful glint having already returned to his eyes.

“What are we going to use instead?” Anne asked, worried now by the excited edge in his voice.

“I think it’s best that you don’t know beforehand,” Vincent replied. “Since you have a tendency to linger too long on all the possible outcomes.”

“You think you know me so well?” Anne retorted, none too pleased that he’d decided to keep her in the dark about the plan that was obviously taking shape in his mind, or that he seemed to have figured her out so quickly.

“Well enough,” Vincent said, his gaze snapping back to hers.

They remained that way for what felt like an unbearable amount of time, her piercing blue eyes melting into the amber depths of his, with neither one of them willing to be the first to break the spell.

“I don’t trust you,” Anne finally said, hoping that it would rattle Vincent enough to look away.

“I’m not surprised,” Vincent replied. “How can you when you don’t even trust yourself?”

The words stung so deeply that Anne found her hand reaching toward her heart. She stopped it just in time, though, moving to clasp the clock that was still pinned to her blouse, comforted by the familiar way it warmed beneath her touch.

“I’ll return tomorrow,” Anne said simply before striding away from Vincent and out the door, determined to leave the house before she lost any more of her will or wits.

As she neared the front door, Anne thought she heard her name echoing down the hallway and the sound of footsteps trailing behind her, but she didn’t turn around.

Instead, she slammed the door closed on her way over the threshold, determined to forget all the revelations that had managed to spring to light in a house that seemed filled with nothing but shadows.