Page 52 of The Witching Moon Manor (The Spellbound Sisters #2)
A Cardinal
Emerges alongside a message from someone who has passed on.
Snowflakes caught in the curves of Anne’s curls as she gazed at the blackthorn that had taken root in Mr. Crowley’s grave.
She should have been unnerved by the sight of the thick tangle of thorns that rose from the soil and twisted upward despite the heavy weight of the ice and unrelenting pull of the wind.
But as she reached a hand toward the branches, the magic that had latched on to the soil pulsed against her skin, and all she could think about was how striking the thorns looked against the stark white of the snow.
They reminded her that even the slightest seed of hope can sprout in the direst of conditions.
She could nearly feel the power radiating from the roots through the soles of her shoes, a silent murmur that somehow managed to cut through the cold and warm the tips of her toes.
As Anne closed her eyes to listen to the gentle hum, she began to realize that the sound of snow crunching beneath someone’s footsteps was drawing closer and closer.
By the time she thought to turn, she could smell the scent of myrrh and had already guessed who she would see standing beside her. She would know him anywhere.
“I didn’t expect to find you here,” Vincent said as he stopped at the foot of the grave, just close enough that Anne could have brushed the tips of her fingers against his sleeve if she tried.
“Neither did I,” Anne replied, some of the cold in her fingers thawing as she leaned closer to Vincent and tucked a hand through the crook of his arm. “But I woke up this morning and found the outline of a coat on the rim of my cup.”
“And what does that mean?” Vincent asked.
“Sadness brought on by parting with someone you love,” Anne explained as she turned back to the blackthorn bush. “I suppose that I still needed to say one last goodbye.”
They stood at the foot of the grave and watched the branches brush against one another in the wind, more so finding their footing in the silence than slipping away from the present moment.
“Have you come to do the same?” Anne finally asked after the wind died down a bit and the branches became still again.
“I’m not sure why I’m here,” Vincent admitted.
“Everything’s been put to rights. The house has opened its doors to my family again, and our power is startling to trickle back.
I can hear the spirits whispering now even when I don’t call for them, their voices growing clearer and more hopeful with every passing moment. ”
“But you aren’t quite settled yet,” Anne said, more a comment than a question.
“No,” Vincent replied. “I’m not.”
Anne glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, trying to read the firm set of his jaw and lines of his face for a sign of what he might be thinking.
He was staring straight down at the blackthorn bush, trying to peer between the branches to see the stone that had been buried beneath, his expression as hard as the granite that Mr. Crowley’s name was etched upon.
“I don’t think he meant to keep the ring away from your family forever,” Anne said, assuming that Vincent might still be clinging to some resentment over his uncle’s choice to leave his Task undone. “He wasn’t trying to punish you.”
Vincent turned to face Anne then, one of his brows lifting ever so slightly.
“What?” Anne asked, confused.
“Nothing,” Vincent said. “It’s only that I thought you might have realized.”
“What are you talking about?” Anne asked, shifting so that they were facing each other now.
“I don’t think my uncle intended to hide the ring away at all,” Vincent continued. “Otherwise, why would he have picked you of all people to leave it to?”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Anne admitted.
“He could have left the ring to anyone. Or better yet, tossed it in the gutter where it didn’t have a hope of being picked up ever again. But he didn’t. He left it to you,” Vincent said.
“I still don’t see . . . ,” Anne murmured.
“If my uncle didn’t want the ring returned, why would he have given it to the one witch who’d be able to figure out how to fit all the pieces together at just the right moment?” Vincent asked.
Stunned, Anne shifted her gaze back to the blackthorn bush, wondering if what Vincent said could be true. Had Mr. Crowley left her the ring because he knew that she’d discover where it belonged?
“I think he knew that the journey to finishing his Task would help put all of us on the right course,” Vincent murmured as his gaze shifted away from the tombstone, the tension in his expression softening the barest whisper as his eyes came to rest on Anne’s face.
“That in trying to tie together the loose threads, we’d find pieces of ourselves that we didn’t know were missing in the first place. ”
“Then why are you here?” Anne asked curiously. “If you feel so strongly that your uncle wanted you to be happy in the end, what are you still searching for?”
Vincent looked as if he was going to draw back into himself then. The icy mask that had become a familiar sight was already starting to stiffen his features. But before it could reach his eyes, something gave way, and he released a deep sigh.
“When someone comes to us searching for help, the trouble isn’t often tied to anything they did to the person who’s passed on,” Vincent explained.
“What keeps them from feeling at rest are the actions that they neglected to take. Arguments and broken promises: those are things that you can hope someone forgave knowing what your true feelings were. It’s what you leave unsaid that lingers on and makes you wonder. ”
“Wonder what?” Anne whispered.
“If they knew they were loved,” Vincent whispered. “That they weren’t alone.”
“He must have known how you felt,” Anne insisted.
“I’m not so sure,” Vincent said, his mouth tightening as he reached a hand toward the branches.
“He held himself apart, and I never asked why. Never tried to understand what he was trying to protect beneath all those thorns that kept everyone at bay. Perhaps, if I had . . . but now I’ll never know.
It’s the words I failed to say, you see, that haunt me still.
I tried speaking to him after he passed, but even in death, he would not let me any closer. ”
“You can’t keep carrying that kind of burden,” Anne murmured. “It will gnaw at you from within until there’s nothing left but a shell.”
“I know,” Vincent said, drawing his hand even closer to the grave. “But that doesn’t stop me from wondering.”
The moment Vincent’s fingertips touched the bush, though, his thumb nicked the edge of one of the thorns, breaking the skin and causing a few drops of blood to drip onto the branches.
Before Anne was aware of what she was doing, she stepped toward Vincent and reached for his hand.
She held it in her own, assessing the wound and reaching into her reticule for a handkerchief to press against it, but before she could retrieve the cloth, her attention was drawn back to the blackthorn, which was starting to shift of its own accord.
At first, Anne thought the wind must be rustling the branches, but she didn’t feel a chill whipping against her cheeks.
Then, ever so slowly, plump green buds began to grow along the bare branches, softening the sharpness of the thorns before bursting into thousands of delicate white flowers.
They looked startlingly beautiful beneath the falling snow, all the hard edges having given way to something far more inviting.
Vincent’s hand gripped Anne’s as he gazed at the flowers, as if he needed some sense of purchase while taking in the sight that had unfolded before them.
For blackthorn that grew on a grave of a witch bloomed only when someone they loved pricked their fingers against one of its thorns.
“He left you a sign after all,” Anne whispered.
“I suppose you’re right,” Vincent said as he continued to gaze at the buds that were still unfurling, his steely expression having softened at the sight. “As you so often are.”
Anne placed her other hand atop Vincent’s and leaned against his shoulder as they took in the sight unfurling before them.
Soon, she’d need to return to the chaos of the tearoom, where whispers of new troubles would come to her attention as quickly as steam pouring from the top of a spout.
But for now, she was content to merely savor the scent of flowers blooming in the snow and the comfort of knowing that there are two things in this world stronger than death: stories and love.