Page 66 of Summer of Sacrifice

Paired with her newly-remembered binding spell, the threads of spider silk were beginning to weave together, or unravel—she wasn’t certain which.

There were so damn many.

And it all hinged on their daughters. She could feel it.

The Sisters Solstice.

The manor loomed before her like a ghostly wound of phantom pain, soothed and aching all at once. Each step forward felt like a walk to the gallows, to the hanging trees. Yet, each step forward whispered of hope. Of love. Of sweet memories that would sift through her fingers like fog.

This time, instead of repeating the experiences of her earlier trip to the great room, Agatha made a beeline for the stairs. Climbing slowly toward the second floor, she stopped to take in each painting that lined the storm-grey wall. Most were the art of night creatures—moths, nightingales, bats, fireflies—with skeletal renderings of each. But there was a smattering of works that were clearly completed with a child’s sloppy, untamed hand and proudly hung by their parents, simply to show the child that they, the artist, matter. Strategically placed between these paintings, were five others—portraits.

Lord Night did not face the world in the portrait with his wife. No, Thanasim looked only at Asteria, at her. She could remember that day. Remember what had caused the fiendish smile barely hinted at on his face—the wholly inappropriate things he whispered to make her laugh when sitting there had grown boring and tiresome.

Couldn’t he just paint with magic? she’d hissed when she became antsy. And miss the details of true movement? No, my love. Picture all the things I’ll do to you when this is over if you’re a good little witch. She’d laughed, and that was the moment the artist had captured—Asteria’s head tipped slightly back, fiery, copper hair falling wildly over her shoulders, blue eyes full of mirth.

Captivating. They were captivating.

“We were captivating,” she murmured to herself, fingers tracing the line of Thanasim’s jaw.

The only thing that had remained the same in all the lives that she could recall was the colour of their hair. Midnight-black for him, Autumnal-red for her.

Sniffling at the wisps of memories, Agatha moved on. She reached the next portrait, her hand lifting to clasp her mother’s locket around her neck, the amulet tinking against her crystal cage as she did so. She wished her Sisters were with her. Or Mabon.

The next portrait was of a graceful young woman, her chin high and shoulders back. Her hair hung in strawberry ringlets, her eyes an impossible shade of violet, so like her father’s. Talan, her heart whispered.

The next was of a smirking girl, one brow slightly raised as if she spent the entirety of her time sitting for the portrait toying with the artist. Agatha smiled. Hissa. Her hair was dark as night, like her father’s. Her eyes a crystalline blue like her mother’s.

Beside that portrait was one of a soul so sweet you could see it in her eyes, a stunning mixture of her parents’ and so bright they sparkled. Monarch. Her bow-like smile paired perfectly with the beauty mark on her cheek and the dark auburn hair that she wore long like her mother’s, yet hers was board straight.

The last portrait gave Agatha pause. Belfry. This little witchling looked like Agatha as a child, down to the honey eyes, copper hair, and freckles. The only difference was that she bore Lord Night’s dimple on her right cheek.

There were wild hearthtales about mortals perishing violently, then being reborn into their family line a few generations or so later, but those were always filled with outlandish stories of the reborn remembering their time in the family before. It had always seemed like utter insanity to Agatha, but she was staring its proof in the face.

There had to be more answers in the manor.

Bracing herself for whatever may come, Agatha ascended the final steps to the second floor. The corridor walls were dark like the stairway, but decorated in a pattern of damask that Agatha quite liked, and lit by sconces she could only assume held eternal flames. Unless, of course, they’d spelled the house to recognise the moment they arrived, and magically lit the sconces as she used to command her candles to light in her cottage upon her arrival. Now that she thought of it, that was probably precisely it. The manor knew. It knew her, it knew them. And it knew they were home. Home amongst The Primordial, their slice of The Void.

How difficult it must have been for them to walk away.

Trailing her fingers along the beautifully patterned wall, Agatha stopped at a little reading nook. Two black velvet and silver chairs sat situated, one on either side of a small table piled high with books. Two silver teacups adorned with bats sat adjacent to the chairs, long-dried tea leaves settled at the bottom. Agatha bent to look into them, curious how they had not disintegrated after so long.

To her utter shock, both cups’ leaves had the same message as the last time she’d read her and Grimm’s leaves. Just like on that blustery Autumn day, tricked by a queen to have tea with her son, these leaves lay in the distinct shape of a crescent moon and a bone, encased in an unbroken circle.

It was time they broke that circle. Not around the two of them, but the circle of an endless loop.

Brushing her hands down her skirts, Agatha trudged on, peering into the first door on the right. It was the only space of pure light she’d seen in the manor, all golds and creams, lace and chiffon, flowers and winged creatures.

A coward, Agatha was too petrified to go in. Too frightened to feel the pain it would cause. Instead, she ran her hand down a perfectly intact appliqué of a butterfly hanging just inside the door, that should have been moth fodder long ago.

Moving on, she came to the next room on the left. The moment she opened the door, a half-sob, half-laugh erupted. Autumnal colours burst to life in the space, so vibrant that it even smelt of pumpkin and spice.

And her youngest daughter.

Her chest seized suddenly, breath unable to make it into her lungs. Swiftly, Agatha shut the door, sliding down the wall to sit. Pressing a hand firmly to her chest, she held onto her crystal cage with the other.

Ride the wave, she repeated inwardly. Ride the wave.

Slowly, her breathing returned to somewhat normal, and she rose to continue on before she lost her nerve.

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