Page 16 of Where the Roses Bloom (Gospels & Grimoires #1)

Willow

The attic stairs creaked beneath our feet, each step sounding louder in the stillness. Rhett walked ahead of me, his hand loose in mine, the other resting lightly on the railing. In my free hand, I held a bundle of herbs—lavender, rosemary, and sage—tied together with a scrap of twine.

He glanced back at me, a teasing glint in his eye. “You really bringing a spell satchel up to the attic?”

“It’s not a spell satchel,” I said, lifting it. “It’s for cleansing.”

“Grandma Hazel would’ve called that nonsense.”

“Pretty sure Hazel was a witch,” I told him. “She used to bury dimes in the garden for luck.”

Rhett cocked an eyebrow. “She tell you that herself?”

“No,” I said. “I just guessed…you know, from finding all those dimes buried out in the garden.”

That earned a quiet huff of laughter. “…Fair.”

The attic was warmer than the rest of the house, the sun warming it through a single window at the other side of the room, dust particles floating in a shaft of bright light. We stood at the top of the stairs, letting our eyes adjust .

“It’s not as cluttered as I thought,” I murmured.

“She kept it neat,” Rhett said. “Had a lot of things to store, all of them precious. She didn’t want it getting messy up here…Grandma never liked a mess.”

Old trunks lined the walls, each labeled in fading script. A dress form leaned in the corner, draped in what might’ve once been a wedding veil. Crates were stacked under the eaves, and a rocking chair sat just out of the sunlight’s reach. Every object felt touched by memory.

I knelt by one of the trunks, opening it up to find that it was full of absolutely gorgeous quilts. I reached out, brushing my hand to touch one. “She made these?”

“Most of ’em. Some were her mama’s…and some were mine.”

I glanced at him. “Your mom was a quilter?”

“All the women in the family were,” Rhett said, crossing his arms. “Mama always lamented not having a girl…wanted to teach her how to sew, knit, the works.”

“Well, she could have taught you boys.”

A smile ghosted over Rhett’s face. “Yeah…which is why I’m so good with a sewing machine.”

I regarded him for a second, not sure if he was joking.

“Wait—are you?”

He grinned, shrugging one shoulder. “Hazel taught me the basics. Patchin’ jeans, hemmin’ curtains, makin’ throw pillows. Domestic as hell.”

“That’s actually kind of hot,” I said, running my fingers over the hand-stitched star pattern blooming across the quilt.

“Oh yeah?” he drawled. “Should I start offerin’ mending services around town? ‘Rhett Ward: sewing and seduction.’”

I snorted. “You’d have a waitlist.”

He was still smiling when I closed the trunk and moved toward the rocking chair. There was something about this place…not haunted, exactly, but alive. Like the attic itself had a pu lse. I turned in a slow circle, taking it all in—the shadows, the slants of light, the smell of cedar and rose.

Wait.

I stopped.

“There it is again,” I whispered.

Rhett tilted his head. “What?”

“Roses,” I murmured, already walking toward the far corner. “You really don’t smell that?”

He sniffed the air, brow furrowed. “Not really.”

But I did. Sharp and sweet, like the first summer bloom. The scent led me to a low-beamed nook just under the angled roof, and there, tucked between an old writing desk and a stack of yellowing books, was a jagged crack in the ceiling—barely visible unless you were looking for it.

Growing through it was a cluster of roses.

Pink. Fresh. Blooming.

I stared, breath lodged somewhere in my chest. The petals weren’t dried. They weren’t silk. They were real . Green stems, soft dewy leaves, and buds just beginning to open—like they’d pushed their way into the attic just to be found.

“Rhett,” I called, my voice small.

He was at my side in two strides. “Holy shit,” he whispered. “How the hell…”

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. I just knelt in front of the writing desk, hand hovering under the trailing bloom. The scent was stronger here, dizzying and wild.

Rhett caught my hand before I could open the desk drawer.

“Wait,” he said. “What if it’s dangerous?”

I tilted my head at him. “What do you think is going to happen?”

“It could have thorns.”

I laughed. “Rhett…I’m not a princess. I can handle thorns. ”

“But the curse?—”

“If the thorns are cursed and I fall asleep, it’s a good thing I have a prince to kiss me awake again, huh?”

Rhett rolled his eyes at me. “You think you’re so funny, don’t ya?”

I grinned. “I know I’m funny.”

Rhett chuckled and shook his head. “Go on then, princess.”

The drawer groaned as I pulled it open, the wood sticking like it didn’t want to give up its secrets. The scent that spilled out was sharp and earthy—old cedar, mothballs, dried lavender, and the faintest trace of rosewater.

Inside, nestled like it had been waiting a hundred years, was a bundle of linen tied with a faded pink ribbon.

The cloth was soft and brittle in places, worn thin along the folds, with the dusky golden tint of something that had soaked in decades of summer heat and winter dust. The ribbon itself was frayed at the ends, silky smooth beneath my fingertips despite its age. I glanced at Rhett again.

“Go on,” he murmured. “Whatever it is, Hazel meant you to find it.”

That was all the permission I needed.

I loosened the knot and unfolded the linen with careful hands. Inside was a stack of letters—twelve, maybe more—all wrapped tight together. The top letter had Rhett’s name written across it in looping script.

For Rhett

You’ll need these when she comes.

My mouth went dry.

“She wrote these for you ,” I whispered, holding the bundle out.

Rhett didn’t take them right away. He stared, his brow drawn, the muscle in his jaw ticking. “What does that mean? ‘When she comes’? ”

“I think…” I swallowed. “I think she meant me. I told you—witch.”

He finally reached for the letters, thumb brushing lightly over the ink. He didn’t open the top letter right away—just stood there holding it, staring at his name.

“When did she write these?” he asked, more to himself than me.

I stepped in close, peering down at the stack in his hands. The paper was thick, the kind you only used when you wanted something to last.

“Hazel always said she had dreams,” he murmured, thinking out loud. “She’d talk about ‘the other side of knowing.’ Like there were things she couldn’t explain but felt anyway.”

“You really think…”

His throat bobbed. “I really think she might have…she might have known something. You sure you’re ready for this?”

“No,” I said honestly. “But I think we already started. And whatever’s in those letters…I want to know.”