Page 108 of Witches of Honeysuckle House

By the time everyone left, Evie’s heart was one part full and one part aching at the loss of one of her closest friends, a member of her family. They covered what remained of the fire with sand, and started to turn in.

Florence stood arm in arm with Owen, Ink on her shoulder.

“Do you want to stay here again tonight?” Evie asked, not quite ready to see Florence leave.

“I think we’re going to go back to my apartment,” Florence said.

“Before you go,” Evie paused. “You never came out to dip a candle. I thought, maybe …”

Slowly, a smile spread across her sister’s face. “You thought right. I’d love to make a candle with you.” She turned to Owen, rose up on her toes, and pressed her lips to his. “You okay to stay up a little while longer?”

“I think I can manage,” Owen said, taking the kitten from her.

Clara took his hand and said, “Let’s go thank the bees for all their hard work.”

“That’s a wonderful idea,” he said.

Once they were gone, Evie hooked her arm in Florence’s and led her down to the workshop. She opened the door and waited for the light to come on. After a few seconds, she remembered it wouldn’t—not anymore—and turned it on herself.

Together, they started up the boiler. As the wax melted, Evie turned to Florence. “What color?”

Florence looked over the shelf of dyes. After a few moments, she selected blue.

“For healing,” she said. “And forgiveness.”

“For Mom?” Evie asked.

But Florence shook her head. “For ourselves.”

Evie pressed her shoulder to her sister’s. Then, she cut a long piece of string. Together, they tied a weight to each end, like they’d done as children. They gripped the twine from the center and held it over the wax.

“May we always find peace and healing,” Florence said.

“And the power to forgive ourselves and each other,” Evie finished.

As the magic stirred in her heart, she saw it move in her sister’s. Golden light spilled from Florence’s fingertips and mingled with the light from Evie’s. When they lifted the wicks from the wax, the curtains fluttered. A light flickered. And the boards beneath their feet creaked softly.

The Honeysuckle House they knew was gone—its memories, its history, its love for the witches who called it home. But a witch’s house is a living, breathing thing, and it was only a matter of time before the building it had left behind would take on a life of its own.