Page 42 of The Witching Moon Manor (The Spellbound Sisters #2)

A Closed Hand

Predicts an argument.

As Anne stood on the front stoop of the Crowley manor, she wondered about the cost of keeping things from the places they belonged.

Though the chill of the street was sharp enough to make the hairs of her eyelashes stand on end, the ring wrapped around her finger was warm, as if it had been left on the windowsill during the brightest day of summer.

It had begun to feel that way the moment Anne turned the corner, and with every step she took toward the door, a tingling sensation pricked at the delicate skin beneath the gold.

There was no mistaking where the ring belonged, but as Anne lingered in front of the house, she struggled with the potential consequences of telling Vincent the truth.

She wanted so desperately to believe that he would listen to her, but as she lifted the knocker, she could only think about the way he’d looked when she’d lied to him, all the warmth in his expression chilled to the bone.

By the time the door creaked open, Anne had nearly convinced herself that keeping the truth from Vincent was the wisest choice, that she didn’t need his help to piece everything together.

But the moment he appeared in the threshold and his amber eyes met hers, the ring flashed to life again, so fiercely that she knew her skin was reddening under the heat, and in that instant, Anne made her choice.

“I don’t want to keep secrets any longer,” she said, her words as stark as the snow that still coated the street.

She watched as Vincent’s brows pulled together, his suspicion so potent that Anne didn’t know whether to take a step back or move nearer, closing the distance between them where no more halftruths could hide.

“So you are keeping secrets,” Vincent said, the final syllable causing gooseflesh to skitter across her skin.

“We both have,” Anne answered as she lifted her chin. “But secrets won’t save us. Not when there’s so little time left.”

“Then that’s what you want?” Vincent asked in the same tone she was beginning to recognize as the one he always used when weighing a cost. “An exchange?”

“What I want is to make you understand,” Anne replied, her tone softening then as she thought of what was at stake.

Vincent stiffened, and for a moment, Anne wondered if he was going to close the door and shatter all the possibilities she’d let herself imagine.

But as he stared down at her, something in his expression shifted ever so slightly.

“Then try,” Vincent finally said. “Try to make me understand.”

Anne blinked in surprise, wondering if she’d misheard, but then the ticking of her clock reminded her there wasn’t a moment left to waste.

“I need your help first,” Anne said. “If you’re willing to come with me.”

In answer, Vincent reached for his coat without hesitation and stepped onto the stoop, closing the door behind him.

“We aren’t going far,” Anne said as she followed Violet’s directions and began moving toward the door in the alleyway across the street that would lead them to the apartment.

They didn’t speak again until she lifted the key from the pocket of her skirts and began to slip it into the lock.

“Is it true that you can know whether someone is alive or dead simply by touching something they’ve held?” Anne asked, watching Vincent’s reflection in the surface of the dusty window of the door.

“It’s true,” Vincent replied, unable to hide the curiosity that flittered across his face.

“Follow me, then,” Anne said as she turned the knob and led them up the steps.

As the stairwell filled with the creaks that their boots made on the boards, Anne couldn’t help but remember what Violet had told them about the memories that saturated the apartment.

With every step, she could feel the weight and texture of them bearing down on her.

Some caused the skin just beneath her ear to tingle like it always did when she heard laughter ringing in the front parlor of the shop, and as her palm grazed the smooth wood of the railing, it practically vibrated with the sense of satisfaction its occupants had felt as they left the troubles of the outside world at the door and eased into the warm comfort of home.

But there were the echoes of other moments resting there as well, remnants of loss and longing so potent that they nearly took Anne’s breath away.

“Philip lived here,” she whispered once they reached the parlor, afraid that if she spoke too loudly, what they were searching for might skitter away.

“I know,” Vincent replied, though the words were softer than Anne had expected them to be, as if he’d glanced through the icy panes of the windows in his own house and wondered what, exactly, had drawn his uncle to the other side of the street so long ago.

Nodding, Anne silently led him toward the threshold on the other side of the room, where Violet had told her she’d find the marking along the frame.

“Can you tell me what you sense from this?” Anne asked, her fingers hovering above the name etched in the wood.

Vincent’s eyes met hers then, and Anne saw questions flash across them as clearly as if he’d spoken them aloud.

She could already feel her spine straighten as she prepared herself to answer each one, persuading him to continue.

But he surprised her again, turning to face the doorframe without a single comment and gently resting his palm on top of the carving.

Anne should have turned away, given him a moment as he began to work his magic.

Before, she’d closed her eyes whenever he’d started to thread his spells together, trying to draw herself into the sounds and textures of the moment.

But now, she was facing him and could see the way his features changed as he focused on weaving together an enchantment, the hard cut of his jawline relaxing and his lips parting as he murmured silent words meant to pull secrets from the very foundation of the house.

Eventually, though, the fragrance of cypress and myrrh faded, and Anne noticed the tension returning to Vincent’s shoulders, the blades pinching even closer together than they had before.

“What is it?” Anne asked, taking a step back, though what she wanted to do was place a hand on his forearm to keep him from pulling further away from her.

“The girl who touched this doorframe,” Vincent murmured, his voice tight. “Who was she?”

Anne’s heart began to quicken, but it was too late to turn back from the path she’d already started down.

“Philip’s sister,” Anne answered.

Vincent’s mouth tightened, and Anne knew he didn’t need to be able to read the future to know where their conversation was heading.

“I thought you were focused on trying to discover where the ring belongs,” he murmured. “But it seems your attention has been pulled elsewhere.”

Anne bristled at the silent accusation in his tone: that she’d neglected her duties as Diviner when the fate of the city rested so squarely on her shoulders.

“I already know where the ring belongs,” Anne announced, the strength of her words causing the picture frames along the walls to rattle on their hooks, scattering even more dust atop the baseboards.

Vincent stilled, staring back at Anne with such intensity that his own power caused the shadows in the corner of the room to stretch until they toyed at the heels of their boots.

“You know where the ring belongs,” he repeated. “And you haven’t thought to tell me.”

“I only realized yesterday,” Anne explained.

“Who does it belong to?” Vincent asked, taking the barest step closer.

Anne drew in a deep breath then, needing to remind herself that she was making the right choice.

“You,” she whispered. “It belongs to you.”

Vincent’s eyes widened, but then a spark of recognition flittered across his face, as if he’d been given an answer that confirmed a sneaking suspicion.

“You already knew,” Anne said as a sinking sensation gripped her stomach and threatened to pull her under.

Vincent was silent for a moment, but eventually, something in his expression broke, and the stiffness in his shoulders seemed to loosen.

“The possibility had crossed my mind,” he admitted before releasing a heavy sigh. “Ever since my uncle’s passing, the house hasn’t let anyone inside but me. I get the sense that it’s unsettled, holding its breath until something shifts into the proper place.”

That revelation startled Anne. Homes, especially those of a magical nature, enjoyed company.

“It let me in,” Anne countered, but then she glanced down at her gloved hands where the outline of the ring pressed against the fabric and understood what Vincent had already suspected.

The house had recognized the ring and welcomed her inside in the hopes that it might be returned.

“That’s what you think the ring’s power is, then?” Anne asked. “It gives the wearer control of the house?”

Vincent shifted his gaze, pressing a hand to his temple in a way that told Anne he was trying to decide how much of the truth to share with her. She could sense that there were still secrets lurking beneath the surface of their conversation, keeping them from moving forward.

“It’s more than that,” Vincent finally relented, his voice rawer now, more urgent. “Much more.”

“Tell me,” Anne said.

“The Crowley magic is fading,” Vincent replied, the confession rough.

“I don’t understand,” Anne said. “Your family is one of the most powerful in the coven.”

“It started when my uncle died,” Vincent explained. “After his passing, it felt like something cracked in the foundation of our magic.”

He paused then, clearly trying to find the words to describe something that must have felt so visceral and abstract all at once.