Page 54 of WitchBorn
Iblinked and realized I was still standing with my hand to her face, staring at the statue as tears dripped down my face.
“Was that supposed to be a good memory?” I asked. Her love had been unmistakable, both for me and forapadespite how confusing it all was. I dropped down at her feet, needing a moment to breathe and analyzing the millions of questions dancing through my head. How would Wesley have interpreted all that? Curling up to cradle my knees to my chest and rest my head on their tops, I let myself feel, no matter how complicatedthe emotions. Years of therapy had to be good for something. Understanding that love and pain were not two sides of one coin, but intrinsically woven inside every person, helped me see why the memory both hurt and made my heart dance at the same time.
My birth mom. Not that my adoptive moms hadn’t been amazing. I’d spent my entire life wondering why she hadn’t wanted me. Who left their kid in a forest? Rejection eating at me no matter how hard I tried to overcome it.
“You didn’t leave me on purpose, did you?” I asked her as I glanced up, finding her serene gaze comforting. The garden of statues glared my way as if daring to touch her added to their rage. “Memories,” I said to myself as I stared out at the long path filled with answers to my questions, but I hesitated to stand and touchapa.
Good and bad, love and pain, hope and fear, all intertwined. I just had to survive it with my sanity intact.
Thirty-Six
FINN
Ipaced for a while, gearing up to touch my father, and freaking myself out at the same time. The vision of him, a strange mess of darkness, not unlike the curse the wolf and I bore. Was that part of being the Autumn king? Did it mean there was no way to break free of Winter’s curse? Or perhaps it wasn’t related to Winter at all.
The whole fae thing made me miss my college friend, Cassidy, who had a strange obsession for serial killer documentaries and missing persons cases. She could pick details out of things and tie it together in dizzying ways.
I stared up at the man/beast thing, heart pounding, but beyond the garden of statues, and the walkway of berries, no one came or went, not even the wolf. Why had it cast me into this place? To torture me with memories? Why keep these memories? Were they the key to our broken state?
“I could use your sarcasm,” I said out loud as though Wesley could somehow hear me. “Or insight.” I took a long breath. “I hope you’re okay. The Summer king better take good care of you.”
The Summer king’s statue remained unchanged in the distance, quiet and serene, though I knew the memory of it hadbeen a dark terror of drowning in shadows. I took a step toward my father’s statue and clenched my fists.
“You can do this. Whatever you see, it’s already over,” I reminded myself. “Like a bad movie or a scene in a book that rips out your heart but you know will have a good ending.” I hesitated, and realized that I didn’t know that. “I will have a good ending,” I said. “My life and my actions are my choice. I carve my own path.” Wesley cursed the fates as though they were real people. Did that mean I didn’t really have a choice? They made us mates, if that were the case.
“Okay,” I acknowledged. “Some things are set, right? I can work with that.” I reached up to set my palm on my father’s arm. “Let’s do this.”
The world shifted to a small market, and I must have been older as I sold my mother’s tinctures and pouches of herbs at a table while she wandered through the other booths. No one haggled with me, as they were all grateful to receive the goddess’s blessing for everything from fertility to health through the coming winter.
Our route had changed over the years, my mind suddenly recalling a dozen towns and a several week trek changing into only a handful, making winters harsher with the lessened availability of supplies. Why?
I couldn’t yet grasp that memory as a young woman approached the table with her hands clutched to her chest. “Do you have something to help me hold a child? Auntie says the goddess is best to ask. The priest says only prayer can help, but that hasn’t worked.”
A new wave of a strange religion had popped up across the area. Mother and I had no interest in it, and avoided it when possible, their control over the small towns and their people, frightening.
“Yes,” I said, and gathered a basket of supplies. “It’s a simple tea,” I gave her the instructions and filled a small cloth bag.
The woman continued to glance behind her, watching the market with worry as she handed over a few coins. “Thank you,” she said as she darted away like she was afraid to be seen at our stand. The traffic had been unusually quiet, though the market area thrived with folks haggling for eggs and other delights like the sweet jams my mother often traded her teas and soaps to keep me in the delicacy all winter.
Mother approached; her expression guarded.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
“I’m going to pack a basket for you to bring to your apa,” she answered instead of acknowledging my question.
“Alright. But don’t you need help with the market?”
She gave me a careful smile and leaned in to kiss me on the cheek. “I’ll meet you at home.”
“I could trade labor for a few more supplies,” I offered. “I’m strong.”
“You are, baby. But no, bring this to apa and head home. Lena will meet you halfway.”
“That means you’ll have to pull the cart yourself.”
“Do you think your mama isn’t strong?”
I snorted, knowing better than most how strong she was.