Page 40 of Once Charmed, Twice Cursed
I shift in my chair. “About how his mom refused to touch him when he was a kid? That she made him sleep in the kitchen so he wouldn’t be anywhere near her or his siblings? That every time something went wrong, she punished him, even though his curse was never his choice? Even though sometimes, he hadn’t been nearby, and whatever had happened had come down to actual luck? Yeah. He did.” I end with a click of my teeth, my jaw tight.
Helena scans me with new eyes. “Well. Yes, that’s it exactly.She wouldn’t even hold him when he was born. I don’t think she ever did, to tell you the truth. Not once.”
Outrage scalds my airway, and for a moment, I can’t speak. “I hate her,” I finally say. “I know I shouldn’t say that, because she’s your sister and everything, but whoever she is,wherevershe is, I hate her guts.”
Helena leans back. Appreciation glimmers in her eyes. After a pause, she says, “I like you. A lot.”
A smile tugs at my mouth, equal part bitter and touched. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
She flashes a grin and goes to the kettle, returning a minute later with two teacups on saucers. She drops in the bags and offers me a cube of sugar. “No milk, I’m afraid. Weston was insistent on it all going to your side.”
My chest constricts, but I sip the tea until the tightness passes. Helena and I chat for a while, mostly about inconsequential topics that feel far safer than our opening one.
When I finally drain my teacup, I carry it to the sink and work the pump handle to bring up water. I wash out my dishes, then move on to Helena’s, since she’s still in recovery.
Also, I just plain like her.
“Will you come see me again tomorrow?” she asks, at the door.
I smile. “I’d like that.” And I mean it. Despite the fact that she reminds me of Weston, she provides a welcome distraction from the emotional debris the other night left me buried beneath.
“I’d like it, too.” She smiles. “And Bria, you should know that I’m leaving. In a few days. I’ve had my visit—eventful as it was—and now it’s time to go home.”
She must catch my crestfallen expression, because sheadds, “Don’t worry, it’ll be better once I’m gone. It’ll give you two a chance to talk. Alone.”
“It won’t, though.” I hate how glum I sound. “Weston won’t come anywhere near me.”
“He will, eventually. Without me here, he’ll get lonely.”
My gaze sharpens. “Wait, what? Does that mean he visits you?”
At that, she looks sheepish. “Sometimes. Only for a few minutes. But...I always get the sense it’s not really me he wants to see. That he’s teetering on the edge, and all he needs is a push.”
I huff, wanting so badly to believe that, but something hollow and hungry nips at me.
“Or maybe a good, hard shove,” she tacks on.
A good, hard shove. Right.
Not exactly my area of expertise.
Back on my side of the cabin, I freeze the instant I close the door. Someone has been here. The book I left splayed face-down now lies closed on the table, a sprig of goldenrod serving as a bookmark. The sturdy canvas bag Weston uses for groceries sits on the counter, filled with bread and cheese and potatoes, while a bottle of milk sweats gently on the counter. And...
My stomach flips. There’s a hairbrush. Placed carefully in front of the grocery bag, where I can’t miss it.
I draw near, my pulse accelerating to a hum. I turn the brush over. It’s made of wood, carved smooth and fitted with boar bristles. My initials have been seared into the back. BIR. Bria Iris Radcliffe.
A flurry of emotions pops off within me, like thegunpowder firecrackers Brendan and I used to play with at New Year’s as kids.
Weston made me this brush. For me. With his own hands.
I like it infinitely better than the last one. And I’m flabbergasted that he knew my middle name, considering I didn’t know his.
Ignoring the groceries—I’ll put them away later—I wander over to the dead fire and sink into the armchair. I unravel my makeshift braid and work the knots from my locks, brushing until my hair is smooth and lustrous.
Then I look down at the gift Weston made me.
“Just give him a good, hard shove,” I tell it. “Bold as brass.”
