Page 26 of Veiled By Smoke (The Nature Hunters Academy #5)
“Life is what we choose to make it. We can have a crappy day and make it even crappier by getting stuck in that mindset. Or we can have a crappy day and sulk, pout, and throw down everything we pick up. Or we can put on our favorite song, blast it really loud, and dance around like a fool in the living room. Who are you? The pouter or the dancer? I’m gonna dance.
The crappier the day gets, the louder the music is going to get, and the harder I’m going to dance. ” ~ Aurora
S ometimes Aurora wondered if the weather had secrets it refused to share.
Lately, Danvers never seemed to have a proper morning.
The sun barely tried, just a pale suggestion behind clouds that hadn’t shifted in weeks.
Even now, as she pressed her forehead to her bedroom window, the world outside was a watercolor of gray, rain sketching restless rivers down the glass.
It was fall in Massachusetts, but the trees looked wrong, their leaves soggy and shivering, clinging to branches as if afraid of letting go.
The news murmured through the house every morning and evening, Fern’s anxious glance flicking to the radio as the anchor rattled off one peculiar story after another: freak lightning storms over the Atlantic, sinkholes swallowing whole intersections, a sudden uptick in break-ins and street fights, even in their usually sleepy town.
Some nights, Aurora thought she could feel the world holding its breath, waiting for something to break.
Fern was more on edge than usual, bustling around the kitchen with a nervous energy that made the air taste like cinnamon and worry.
“If you ask me, it’s all this weather,” Fern muttered as she poured batter into the skillet, the hiss and sizzle sharp against the hush of the house.
“Makes people jumpy. Makes the world feel . . . off.”
Aurora watched a single raindrop race another down the windowpane and sighed, her blue eyes tracking the wobbly path.
She’d always liked rain. To her, it felt like a cleansing of the earth, but lately it felt more like a warning than a comfort.
And the dreams she’d been having–dizzy, colorful, full of spinning lights and half-remembered voices–seemed to tangle with the storms. Sometimes she’d wake in the middle of the night to the house creaking and groaning, the wind howling like it was searching for something.
Things had changed. Fern’s friends whispered about it at church, talking in low voices about the “strangeness” in the air, about how their phones glitched for no reason and the neighbor’s cat kept yowling at the moon.
Aurora’s classmates had gone from excited about Thanksgiving break to quietly uneasy, as if the shadows were thicker than they should be.
No one mentioned the fire only a week ago that had gutted an old house on the edge of town.
It was like an unspoken rule to not bring it up.
But Aurora still dreamed about it, flames dancing in the darkness, the smell of smoke clinging to her even after she woke.
She ran her fingers through her dark hair, always a little wild, and caught sight of herself in the rain-blurred reflection.
Petite form, a small, slightly upturned nose, with blue eyes that were too big for her face.
She’d lived with Fern since she was a baby, but sometimes she felt like a ghost in her own life, haunting a house that was almost, but not quite, home.
Her room was a cozy clutter of books about Salem and witches stacked on every surface, a faded quilt on the bed, pressed leaves and postcards papering the walls.
She loved reading about magic, about girls who found their place in the world by discovering they were more than anyone thought.
Maybe that was why she felt so drawn to Salem, and to specifically the Blackhorn coven.
She’d found the place online when doing some research, and to her delight, they offered tours of the ancient home.
She’d asked Fern for just one thing for her twelfth birthday, her voice small and certain.
“Can we go to Salem? I want to see the Blackhorn coven.” Fern had hesitated, worry lines bracketing her mouth.
“With all this strange weather, love, and the news being what it is, are you sure you don’t want a movie or something safer? ”
But Aurora had shaken her head, and Fern, who never could say no when it really mattered, had agreed.
They’d go the weekend before her birthday, since Fern had to work the next.
“Just be ready for anything,” Fern said, packing extra snacks and double-checking their rain jackets.
“The world’s been a bit unpredictable lately. ”
On the morning of their trip, the sky was so heavy it seemed to press down on the house.
Fern’s old sedan rattled over puddles and cracked pavement as they drove toward Salem.
Every few minutes, Fern cast a worried glance at the swirling clouds above and the radio’s constant warnings about “unstable atmospheric conditions.” Aurora’s heart beat faster with every mile, a mix of excitement and unease curling in her stomach.
Salem was quieter than many of the other times she’d been there.
Even the tourists, who were easy to spot with their town maps and souvenir bags, seemed subdued, huddled under umbrellas as a cold wind chased leaves in circles.
As they pulled up to the Blackhorn Mansion, Aurora’s eyes widened as it loomed through the fog with its black stone, black trim, and garden tangled and wild.
They parked on the curb and she nearly closed the door on her coat in her haste to get out of the vehicle.
When she reached the iron gate it creaked as Fern pushed it open, her hand white-knuckled on the latch.
The air smelled of wet earth, sage, and something sharp–somethingAurora couldn’t name.
The intense quiet–no birds singing, no rustling leaves–felt like the world was holding its breath.
By the time they were at the large, wooden door, Aurora was vibrating with energy, nearly bouncing on the balls of her feet. She glanced at Fern, “May I?” She made a knocking motion.
Fern nodded, a small smile on her lips, despite the worry in her eyes.
Aurora knocked and then quickly tucked her hands behind her back, as if she’d done something wrong.
The door began to open, the hinges squealing with age, and a young woman greeted them.
Her russet curls were wild, her smile bright but edged with something watchful.
“You must be Aurora. And Fern. I’m Cordelia.
Welcome, though I wish the weather had been kinder and the day not so gloomy.
” Her voice was warm, but there was a flicker of concern on her creased brow.
Aurora noticed the way Cordelia scanned the sky before ushering them in, as if she, too, expected something strange to come down out of the clouds.
Inside, the mansion was lit with old chandeliers, burning candles, and oil lamps hanging on the walls.
It was like walking into a paranormal book.
The place felt alive with the scent of beeswax and herbs.
Every surface seemed crowded with artifacts, crystals, dried flowers, piles of battered books.
The parlor was a riot of dark, jewel tones and flickering firelight, shadows dancing on velvet curtains as the wind rattled the old glass.
“Please have a seat,” Cordelia motioned towards a table with chairs around it. At the center was a tray with cups, a kettle, and little square cakes. As they sat, Cordelia offered them tea and cake.
“Thank you,” Aurora said as she took a sip of the tea. It had a bit of spice to it and a sweetness that she found she liked. And when she bit into the cake, a burst of lemon filled her mouth. It was a nice contrast to the tea.
They sipped spicy tea and nibbled lemon cakes as Cordelia chatted about the coven, its history, and all the witch lore that people seemed to make up about it. She wrote off a lot of it as rumors and people being afraid of what they didn’t understand.
“Did you know that we believe names have power? And that we should pick the names of our children carefully, or any name we give to any object for that matter?” Cordelia looked at Aurora and smiled.
“For instance, your name, Aurora, was the name of the Roman goddess of the dawn. It means you are a light and bringer of new beginnings. As with the dawn, we each start a new day and can get to try again despite our failures the previous day. That’s a wonderful name to bear.
” Cordelia turned to Fern. “Your name, Fern, interestingly enough, is a symbol of new beginnings as well. It’s a little different because it is not attached to a royal lineage, and therefore not as powerful as Aurora’s.
It makes me curious, what is it you manifest because of your name? ”
“She’s my foster mom,” Aurora blurted out. “She gave me a new beginning.”
Fern smiled and ran a hand down Aurora’s hair. “Everyone deserves the best chance to succeed in this life. Unfortunately, some people are just dealt a harder lot than others.”
“You’re both very special people,” Cordealia said as she watched them closely.
Aurora felt as though the woman could see inside of her. The scrutiny had her suddenly blurting out her thoughts.
“I feel like something’s missing. Like there’s a part of me I can’t find.” Aurora fingered her mug, the warmth seeping into her hands. “And it’s not Fern’s fault,” she looked at her foster mom. “You’re amazing. Please don’t think otherwise.”
“I would never think that,” she assured her.
Cordelia’s gaze sharpened. “Would you like a reading? Sometimes, the universe is just waiting for us to ask.”