Page 58 of Magic Touch
"Come in." Despite our earlier argument, my pulse pounds with anticipation of seeing her.
She opens the door but stays in the threshold. "I came because I owe you an apology."
Standing, I keep my distance. "You owe me nothing. We are friends, and as such, a small moment of discomfort is forgiven."
Her hair is windblown, and I long to brush it away from her face. She takes one step inside. "Still, I am sorry for my behavior. What you do is not my business, and judging you isn't fair."
I refuse to defend myself when I have done nothing that needs defense. "Thank you for the apology."
She shifts from foot to foot then looks at the journal open on my small desk. "Is there anything helpful in there?"
"I wanted a day away from the women of the house," I admit with a shrug.
Her smile is soft and her lips inviting. I want to lose myself in her mouth and never resurface. "I imagine you have had enough of witches to last a lifetime."
"It isn't easy to be a rooster in the hen house. I shall forever show more admiration for the male fowl in my purview."
"I'll leave you to your solitude then." She turns.
"Wait. I read something I didn't understand. Perhaps you can help?" I point to the book.
At the desk, she looks at the page. "I didn't think this book held any magic."
I hold the chair, and she sits. I look over her shoulder and my senses fill with florals and spices. I flip the page back and point. "Serena wrote that the others were coming for a worship, and then it would be done. She writes about being afraid but knowing it's the right thing."
Esme reads the passage while I read over her shoulder. Maybe I missed something the first time, and it's an excuse to be close to her.
It's the day that will begin my end, and that of my good family. There is no other choice. We must do this, or it will be the end of our line. Somehow, those who would see magics dead can divine it in us.
* * *
Millicent thinks it the work of a dark witch. I shudder at the notion of any witch, light or dark, betraying their own kind. It is hypocrisy at its worst.
* * *
The amputation will leave me lost, but alive, and that will have to be enough.
Esme rubs her forehead and sits back in the chair, which brings her shoulders against my abdomen. It's hard to think, but even harder to take the step back. With a long breath, I do just that. "After that, the entries are mundane and a bit sad."
She turns the page. "How are they sad?"
"Serena seems to have fallen into a depression after the cryptic event. Even her choice of words becomes less interesting. A few months later, she made her last entry."
Esme flips to the last page with writing.
There's little hope of a life worth living. My boy is safe with his aunt, and she will keep him quiet and away from those who would harm. I know I should be grateful for my life, but I cannot find that hope inside myself.
* * *
Should this be read by any caring person, know that I died seventy-two days ago on the night I let them take what was mine by right.
* * *
Know that name Forrester and be warned.
Esme shakes her head. "I fear she did herself harm."
"I agree. What do you think she meant when she said that she died seventy-two days before?" I puzzled over the entry and read both over and over while I hid from the rest of the house.
