Page 39 of The Witching Moon Manor (The Spellbound Sisters #2)

But that was precisely what Anne had always struggled with the most: accepting that she needed help from a source beyond herself.

As she slowly lifted her own hands and rested them in the warmth of Vincent’s, though, Anne started to feel her hesitation fade away, replaced by the distinct aroma of peppermint and early morning dew entangling in notes of myrrh and freshly cut cypress.

She could sense Vincent’s magic brushing against hers now, and instead of pulling away, she leaned into it, encouraging her power to weave into his.

Once the final thread was tethered, Anne felt as if her entire body had been dipped in gold, the strands of her magic glowing so brightly that she knew it was time to finally let go.

“Drift back when you’re ready,” Vincent whispered as he laced his fingers through hers and held them tight. “And see what you can find.”

Anne released a shaky sigh then and focused on the sensations that would help her sink into the moment unfolding before her: the way the firelight refracted along the cracks of the mirrors, the shockingly pleasant infusion of their magic, and the warmth of Vincent’s power as it anchored her.

Anne’s attention shifted outward then, and she became aware of another impression creeping along the edge of her consciousness.

At first, the spirits were merely whispers, softer than the ones that had slipped between the ticking of the clocks, but then she started to see silhouettes taking shape in the corners of the glass, the textures of clothes and hair growing more vibrant with every exhaled breath.

Before Anne let herself be consumed by the memories that the ghosts were so carefully crafting together, she pulled lightly at the threads of her magic, testing to see whether they were tethered to something that would remind her of the beauty of the present.

And when she did, she caught the barest glimpse of Vincent’s own power, a force that felt as grounded as a tree whose roots had remained fixed to the soil through centuries of thunderstorms.

“I’ve got you,” she heard Vincent say as his magic brushed against hers, soft enough to remind Anne that she was still in control.

She grasped his hands tighter, pulling him forward so that she could lay her forehead against his chest if the weight of the recollections became too great. For a moment, Anne feared he might step away, but then she felt his chin come to a gentle rest atop her head, tucking her even closer.

And then, when she felt cradled by Vincent and his power, Anne let go of the hold she’d been keeping on her magic and drifted back into a sea of sensation.

She felt the soft fur of a shawl slinking down her shoulder.

Wind whipping through her hair as she ran closer to something worth racing toward.

A tingling along the skin beneath her ears just before a crescendo.

The hot sting of bourbon sliding down her throat.

These memories didn’t belong to her, but Anne found herself sinking deeper and deeper into them anyway, lured by emotions that were yearning to be touched, tasted, and heard.

“Don’t get lost,” she heard Vincent murmur as he tightened his hold on her hands, reminding her that she was a creature of the present, not an echo of the past.

The urge to fade into the memories was still tempting, though.

At the same moment she was savoring the first drops of honeysuckle in early summer, Anne was enfolded into the bittersweet sensation of a final embrace.

She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the beauty of all the wonders that made up a lifetime, and so she remained still as they brushed against her body.

But then Vincent’s magic touched hers again, as gentle as a finger tapping lightly on her shoulder, and she remembered what needed to be done.

With great effort, Anne turned away from the sensations that the spirits were trying to share and offered one of her own: the warmth of the gold ring as it drew in the heat of her and Vincent’s clasped hands.

In what felt like an instant, the ghosts latched on to the sensation, eager to show Anne moments of their own lives that were linked to the one in the present.

And among the feeling of pearls being draped across her neck and the flashes of wedding bands passing between hands, Anne saw her again, the woman with the mismatched eyes from the night she’d fallen under the spell of the heartsong.

But Anne was peering through a keyhole now instead of standing across from her at a ball, watching as she stood and reached for a wrinkled hand rising above a pile of quilts atop the mattress.

With a shock, Anne realized that the woman’s hair was completely white, from the roots to the tips of the curls that swayed against the small of her back, just like Vincent’s. Before, it had been hidden beneath ribbons and roses, but now Anne could see the startling hue.

And then Anne’s attention was gripped by the quick flash of gold as the person in the bed placed the ring in the woman’s upturned palm and whispered a single word that carried through the keyhole.

Legacy.

In the rough texture of the vowels and consonants, Anne was pulled even deeper into the past, the ring growing at the center of her vision as it was handed from one palm to the next and the next and the next.

She suddenly felt Vincent’s magic tugging at her own, a reminder not to drift too far into recollections, and in the instant his power touched hers, Anne snapped away from the past and toward the future, as abruptly as a string that had been holding too much weight.

As she shifted into what was yet to come, Anne was consumed by the scent of myrrh and magic, her gaze coming to rest on a single image: Vincent grasping the ring from a hand touched by time and slipping it onto his own finger.

Her eyes flew open then, startled to find the face she’d seen in her inner vision so close to her own now, the lines and grooves of it etched with concern and curiosity.

“What did you find?” Vincent asked, the rapid beat of his pulse reverberating against Anne’s skin as he waited to hear what she would say.

But instead of giving him an answer, Anne pulled away abruptly, releasing his hands and taking a step back so that she could put some distance between them.

The movement broke the bond tethering their magic together as well, causing it to snap back so painfully that Anne gasped and reached for her chest.

“I don’t know,” she finally replied as she caught her breath.

The different threads of what she’d seen, heard, and touched were coming together now, though, as quickly as a spider weaving a web. As she took all the pieces that had been reflected in the mirrors and placed them alongside one another, she saw the answer, so simple and improbable all at once.

“I don’t know,” Anne murmured again, but the words this time were laced with the distinct burnt sweetness that exposed them for what they were.

A sinking sensation gripped Anne’s stomach as she watched all the softness in Vincent’s face start to harden.

“You don’t know, or you won’t tell me?” Vincent asked, his voice cutting through the thick silence of the room.

Anne turned away from him then, but his narrowed eyes were reflected in every shard of glass scattered across the walls and floor, making it impossible to escape them.

“I need some time to put it all together,” she said as she raked a hand through her curls. “I have to be sure of what it all means first.”

“You won’t let me help you even now,” Vincent sighed, “when you’ve already seen what we can do if we let one another in?”

Anne paused, but as his question echoed through the room, she blinked and saw the edge of a hawk’s wing flutter from one mirror to the next, leaving feathers across the glass that looked so real she nearly leaned forward to pick the closest one up.

She whirled toward Vincent, the suspicion that had slipped into the back of her mind rising to the surface again, so strong and unexpected that she could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks.

“Perhaps. But I’m not the only one keeping secrets, am I?” she said, using the exact words he’d uttered the evening before, when the space between them had been thick with suspicion.

It was clear that their uneasy truce had shattered and they’d already settled back into their familiar stern grooves, as unmoving as the script etched in tombstone.

The echo of a memory drifted forth from the past then, this one from Anne’s own recollections instead of the careful crafting of the spirits.

I don’t trust you.

And as quickly as Anne could have snapped her fingers, she felt the weight of her responsibility settling across her shoulders. A burden so precious that it had to be carried alone for fear of being stolen.

Before she could let her words or silence reveal anything more, Anne turned away and ran from the room, not bothering to follow the thin trail that would have led her safely to the door and shattering one of the gilded mirrors in her haste.

The last thing she heard before she flew onto the street was Vincent calling her name and the sound of glass cracking beneath her boots.