Page 67 of Summer of Sacrifice

This time, she was prepared. When she opened the door to a room of pure, snowy white, and dotted by little trinkets of silver, she was ready to face the pain of Talan. Blessedly, tragically, no memories came. But she did inhale deeply the scent of her firstborn. And then she tucked it away in the depths of her wounded heart and moved on to the last door on the right.

Hissa. Agatha smiled through her tears. How were all the crawling, vibrant plants still alive? Thriving? A bed of silken red lay in the middle of what could only be described as a jungle. A fragmented memory came then, of Hissa and Talan giggling, hiding under the covers while Asteria pretended she didn’t know where they were. It passed quickly, and Agatha stored it in her heart alongside the other painful remembrances.

Moving past a set of stairs that must lead to a third floor, she reached one final door at the end of the hall. Terror and hope gripped her in equal measure as she opened it, memories already singing.

Belfry lay with her head in Monarch’s lap, Monarch stroking her hair gently. Hissa was upside down with her legs in a chair, her back on the floor, and a spellbook in her hands. Asteria watched her daughters from her place by the fire in her and Thanasim’s bedchamber.

Something still didn’t feel right. It hadn’t for a while. Not since that day in Aureland.

Talan rushed in, a hand thrust high in the air, holding a book of notes. As she dropped it on the table next to Asteria, her Sisters all sat up. “I’ve been over your binding spell of Athania endlessly.” She sat down across from her mother. “It is ironclad, save for one thing.”

The worry in Asteria’s gut unfurled.

“If Athania has both you and Father—any measure of your powers further than what she already possesses—then the spell and the binding on her are wholly undone.”

Asteria knew that much. They just hadn’t had the courage yet to tell their daughters what must be done. How could they?

“But she will never get to you,” Hissa interjected, her tone more fearful than factual.

“She could…” Monarch chewed on her bottom lip. “It’s not impossible.”

“How?” Hissa was shouting now, standing to her feet. “They’re gods and she is not! Not anymore.”

“Hissa.” Asteria stood, smoothing out her gown. “Slow down.” She turned to Talan. “How did you arrive at this conclusion?”

Enlacés nous trois,

De peur que la ficelle ne se brise?*

Asteria swallowed hard. Talan was right. And so was Monarch.

“Wait,” Belfry jumped in. “I–I don’t understand. Can’t you fix the spell?”

“No, sweet. Magic does not work like that.”

They’d put it off for as long as they could. Danced around what they knew needed to happen. What they’d known since the day they bound Athania.

It was time to tell them.

“Darlings,” she began, doing her best to hide the tremor in her voice. “Your father and I must leave here.”

“What?” Hissa and Belfry cried in unison.

Asteria held up a hand. “We’ve put it off as long as we can, but the truth is, I can feel Athania growing closer. Talan is correct. The spell was imperfect. If she has the two of us, she has everything she needs to return here, to take magic and destroy everything.”

“You can’t leave us here,” Belfry sobbed through tears. Hissa launched herself at Asteria, arms wrapped tightly around her waist. She returned her daughter’s embrace, and the other three joined in.

Monarch’s soft voice pierced through the fray of sobs. “We are the two of you.” They all broke apart and Monarch looked at her Sisters, who regarded her with fear. “All four of us.”

The memory dissipated like fog on the water.

No. More. Please, I need more. “Plus. J'ai besoin de plus. S'il vous plaît.”

Agatha squeezed her eyes shut, grasping onto the memory—that moment in time. Where had they gone after that conversation? Surely they would have found Thanasim. Where would her husband have been on a regular afternoon in Achlys?

Her eyes flew open and she rushed out into the hall and up the spiral staircase. It led to a turret of the manor she hadn’t yet explored, but now knew with stark clarity exactly what it was.

Flinging open the door, Agatha stepped into an observatory. A room that was so utterly Grimm, that her hand flew to her chest. Walls such a dark shade of green that they were bordering on black. A dark, mahogany desk scattered with an endless supply of parchments, inkwells, quills, astronomy tools, open books…

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