Page 40 of The Witching Moon Manor (The Spellbound Sisters #2)

A Mouse

Suggests that someone is keeping an object that doesn’t belong to them.

By the time Anne, Violet, and Beatrix wandered up the steps to the third floor of the Crescent Moon in the hopes of easing the tension of the day, the house still hadn’t lit the candles in the family parlor.

When the Quigleys stepped through the threshold of the room, they nearly spilled their mugs of hot chocolate across the carpet as they stumbled about in the haze of the hearth’s embers.

And it wasn’t until Violet found a spare box of matches hidden in the depths of the end table that they were able to recover their footing.

“Something has the poor house rattled,” Beatrix murmured after they managed to strike enough candles aflame to settle into their spots around the hearth.

As Violet sank down beside her, she patted the arm of the settee, as one might a dog frightened by the rumble of thunder. She soon realized that the house wasn’t the only one in need of consolation, though.

Anne sighed and set her cup on the end table with a soft thud in the way she always did whenever she needed to let go of whatever weight she could.

“Secrets,” Anne finally said after Violet turned a questioning glance in her direction. “The house sensed secrets slipping back into the cracks and is worried what might come of them.”

“Whose secrets?” Beatrix asked, leaning forward so quickly that her own cup nearly toppled to the floor before she could catch it.

“My own, I’m afraid,” Anne confessed, turning away to gaze at the flames that were just starting to flicker to life in the grate.

“You discovered something, then,” Violet said, the lick of excitement in her voice fading as she noticed the strained set of Anne’s mouth.

“I did,” Anne sighed. “When I let him anchor me, I was able to slip back into the past. I caught a clear vision of the ring, and then that link snapped me toward the future.”

Violet noticed that Anne hadn’t said Vincent’s name, as if the sound of it was too difficult to utter aloud.

“And what did you see?” Violet pressed, shifting forward so that she wouldn’t miss a single word.

“The ring is an heirloom,” Anne said as one does when they’ve finally clicked the last piece of a puzzle into its proper place.

“I saw it being passed to a woman with the same white hair as all the Crowleys, and then as I drifted further back, I realized that it’s been in their family for generations. Perhaps even centuries.”

“But how is that possible?” Violet gasped. “Philip was the one who wore the ring. And if it belongs to the Crowleys, why haven’t any of them laid claim to it?”

Objects passed down through a line of witches were protected with fierce devotion because they often carried enchantments, giving them a type of power that grew even stronger with time.

It seemed impossible that Mr. Crowley’s family wouldn’t have seized on it the instant he died if it was in fact an heirloom instead of letting it be given to Anne as he had instructed.

“You said that you caught a glimpse of the ring’s future,” Beatrix murmured. “Did you see who the rightful owner is?”

“Yes,” Anne said, drawing out the word so that it sounded like the hushed clip of a whisper. “It’s Vincent.”

The sisters became so still that they could hear the snowflakes hitting the glass pane of the window and the whip of the wind rattling the sign on the street.

“Are you certain?” Violet asked as she reached forward and grabbed one of Anne’s hands in her own. They felt icier than the sidewalks along the road, except for the finger that held the ring, which was warm to the touch.

“It belongs to him,” Anne said with a shaky nod. “I saw him as clear as crystal in the vision.”

“But wouldn’t he have known that already?” Beatrix asked, her brow furrowing in confusion.

“Not necessarily,” Violet stepped in. “Sometimes, people hide the things that carry the most meaning so no one else will try to lay claim to them. And then, when there isn’t anyone left to share the story, it slips away from the object entirely.”

“What do you mean, Vi?” Beatrix asked, her brow furrowing.

“Perhaps Mr. Crowley hid the meaning of the ring so that no one in his family would try to take it from him,” Violet replied.

“What better way to ensure his Task remained incomplete than to hide the history of the ring? If he’s the only one who knew its story, the tale would be lost once he passed on. ”

Again, Violet’s thoughts drifted to the apartment above the bookshop, where she’d felt forgotten stories rippling from the abandoned furniture and picture frames. But before she could drift too far from the parlor, the sound of Beatrix’s voice pulled her attention back to the here and now.

“What did Vincent say when you told him?” Beatrix asked as she turned toward Anne.

But Anne’s gaze was still fixed on the flames in the grate, as if she was afraid of what her sisters might read in the stern set of her face.

“I didn’t tell him,” Anne finally said, her confession causing frost to gather along the sills of the windows.

“But we can’t keep this from him, Anne!” Beatrix cried. “The Crowleys should know about the ring. The absence of the heirloom could be having a horrible effect on them, especially if they aren’t aware of what’s causing it. Has Vincent mentioned anything about his family?”

Anne began to shake her head, but she suddenly grew still, an expression of dawning realization starting to spread across her features.

“Something isn’t right about their house,” she murmured. “I don’t know what it is, but there are too many shadows lurking in the corners.”

“Then you must tell him,” Beatrix insisted.

“Vincent is also keeping secrets,” Anne replied, lifting her chin in the same way she had as a child when her sisters tried to change her mind.

“I don’t trust him not to take the ring once he learns the truth.

And then Mr. Crowley and Philip will be separated again.

We need to discover what’s keeping Philip from moving forward before we complete Mr. Crowley’s Task. ”

Violet watched as Anne drew back into her chair, a sense of weariness settling across her shoulders that revealed some of the weight she carried.

“We may be getting closer in that respect,” Violet interjected. “You remember the mark I found on the doorframe in the apartment? The one with ‘May’ etched into the wood? I think she was Philip’s sister.”

“A sister?” Anne murmured. “But Mr. Crowley never mentioned a sister.”

“May was Philip’s sister,” Violet repeated, her voice growing stronger. “I can’t explain it, but I’m certain. I feel it as strongly as the beat of my own pulse.”

Violet waited with bated breath to see how her sisters would respond.

A year ago, she knew that Anne would have simply dismissed her, preferring to depend on signs that revealed themselves to her and her alone.

And although Beatrix’s thoughts were always entangled in fairy tales, she possessed a levelheadedness that had kept her from following Violet’s wildest flights of fancy.

As she glanced between her sisters, though, Violet was relieved to find excitement flickering in their eyes instead of the skepticism that she’d expected.

“Yes, it is possible,” Anne said as she sat against the back of her chair with a thoughtful expression.

“But if Philip did have a sister, how can we find her?” Beatrix asked. “She could be anywhere, and who’s to say that the reason he hasn’t passed on is because she’s a ghost herself?”

“If we brought Vincent to the apartment, he’d be able to tell us if she’s still alive, wouldn’t he?” Violet asked, an idea taking root in her mind.

Anne’s mouth tightened, evidentially understanding the direction Violet’s thoughts had turned.

Some witches who practiced death magic had the ability to pick up an object that someone else had given the barest touch and say with certainty whether they were still alive or not. Though she wasn’t sure if Vincent possessed this skill, Violet knew from Anne’s stories that he was powerful.

“I don’t know that he’ll be so obliging once he discovers what I’ve been keeping from him,” Anne said hesitantly.

“As you’ve already told us, Anne, we don’t have much time,” Beatrix said. “The fabric that holds all our magic together is unraveling. If we want to keep everything together and have a hope of saving Philip and Mr. Crowley, we’re going to need all the help we can get.”

“He’s stubborn,” Anne sighed. “And determined to finish Mr. Crowley’s Task.”

“So is someone else we know,” Violet murmured as she stared pointedly at Anne.

“You can’t mean me,” Anne scoffed.

“That is exactly who I mean,” Violet replied. “If anyone can convince him that this is a Task worth waiting to complete, it’s you.”

“Do you really feel he’s so unbending, Anne?” Beatrix asked softly.

Anne’s shoulders pinched together in the way they always did when she was about to grasp even tighter to her opinion, and Violet prepared to make her case once more, but then something flickered across her sister’s eyes, dulling the hard glint there.

“Whenever he speaks about the spirits, it’s as if he’s truly lived their joys and fears,” she whispered. “I can see the sympathy so clearly etched across his face. It makes me wonder ”

Anne paused then, letting the unspoken words linger in the silence, but her sisters understood their meaning nonetheless.

Would his sympathy for wandering souls be enough to overcome his desire for the ring?

“I’ll do my best,” Anne finally relented. “Though I can’t say that I’m looking forward to our conversation.”

“You should go to the apartment to see what you can find,” Violet suggested. “And bring Vincent with you to help. Memories are lingering there, so potent that you can feel the weight of them whenever you draw a breath. Together you may be able to uncover something that I haven’t been able to see.”

“Perhaps,” Anne repeated, though she didn’t sound as certain as Violet had.

“And while you’re dealing with Vincent, I’m going to have a talk with our landlady,” Violet added. “Now that we have a name, she may be able to tell us a thing or two.”

Though Brigit hadn’t seemed to know anything about the history of the building, a sudden urge to ask her again was prickling at the corners of Violet’s awareness, so potent that it made her temples tingle.

She would trust herself this time, following her impulses instead of burying them beneath the weight of the worst possibilities.

Anne nodded in agreement as she leaned forward to let the rich notes of cocoa and hazelnuts chase away the worst of the day’s worries.

But just as she touched the warm porcelain to her lips, something on the other side of the window made her grow still.

“What is it?” Violet asked as she watched her sister’s face fall.

Instead of answering, though, Anne rose from her chair and moved toward the glass pane, pushing aside the curtains so that her sisters could see through the window.

“Medusa’s curls,” Violet cursed when she turned around and saw what awaited them there.

The snowflakes that had been drifting to the sidewalk only moments before were now shifting in the opposite direction, like stars on strings that were being slowly lifted by a puppeteer who realized too late that they weren’t meant to be in the scene.

“Our time is running out,” Anne whispered, her declaration fogging the glass as she gazed out the window and wondered how long they had before the threads of Fate were so frayed that they wouldn’t have a hope of weaving them back together.