Page 69 of The Woodsmoke Women's Book of Spells
“None of them really mattered after I left.” Carrie smiles, the corners of her mouth twitching upward sadly. “None of them mattered, until Matthieu.”
“Come and meet Elodie. Please. Let’s get you discharged, and I can bring Elodie over to meet you. You’ll love her, she’s a little monster in human form. Please, Carrie... just, please.”
Carrie’s smile grows more real, then she sighs, leaning forward to touch her forehead to Jess’s. Jess’s heart stutters. She remembers... oh, how she remembers... the way they used to stand like this, how it used to be with the two of them, how she used to feel complete with Carrie next to her.
“God, I’ve missed you,” Carrie says with a sigh. “You have no fucking idea how much I’ve missed you.”
Jess stifles a sob and wraps her arms around Carrie, her hot tears leaking into Carrie’s hair. “I’m sorry. That night when I came to see you—”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“But—”
“It really, really doesn’t matter,” Carrie says, her voice muffled by Jess’s jumper. “All that matters is this. Now. We’ve lost ten years. I don’t want to lose another ten years.”
Jess’s phone vibrates in her pocket and she reaches down, pulling away from Carrie. She frowns down at the screen, at the flashing wordsno caller idpeering up at her, and swipes to answer. “Hello?”
Her features sink as she listens to the voice on the other end. She blinks quickly, taking it in, fighting back the nausea writhing inside her. Blowing out a quick breath, she answers as calmly as she can, her gaze slicing to Carrie, the nausea clawing up her throat. When she hangs up, she takes a moment to gather herself, placing her hands on her belly, fighting for strength.
“Jess...” Carrie says, knowing it’s bad, both wanting and not wanting to know.
“It’s Cora. And—and Howard.” Jess’s eyes fly open, fixing on Carrie’s. She reaches once more for Carrie’s hands, as though to brace her. As though bracing herself. “I’m so sorry. So very, very sorry.”
Chapter 53
Carrie
Two Weeks Later
I drive over to their house after the wake, going alone with Kep. I need to feel close to them. When I kick off my black heels in the hallway, my presence ripples through the silence. Kep whines and wanders away to search for them, nosing his way into the kitchen, and I let her. This is her goodbye as well, after all.
I can feel the house stirring beneath my stockinged feet, and maybe it’s them here with me. Maybe Cora is trailing her fingertips along the wall, walking behind me as I step like a ghost through the rooms. I stand on the threshold of the lounge, holding the keys to the front door in my palm. It’s all so perfect, so neat and orderly. Just like Cora. I sniff, pressing my rouged lips together. I didn’t wear mascara today. My eyes are red and raw from the past two weeks, and the red slash of lipstick was the only color I could stand.
“You know why I’m here,” I say into the listening quiet. “I know you will have left it for me, and I’ve come to collect.”
I move into the kitchen, eyeing the now-empty yard out back. The chickens were collected, taken to a local farm, and Kep came to live with me, so we could walk the old ways between the fields together. It’s what Howard would have wanted.
I run a hand over Cora’s favorite mug, pressing my fingertip into the chip near the handle. There are certain things in thishouse that I won’t be able to let go of. Not costly items, but things that I know she loved. Things like this mug, and Howard’s. Items that still carry the imprint of their souls.
I turn to the bedroom, the room that is beckoning, calling to me. It takes only a handful of heartbeats to find the book, on top of the wardrobe. It’s like Cora is guiding me, showing me the path I need to follow to find it, where to reach for it.
How to claim it.
It’s heavy, weighed down by the many stories of the mountains. The many moments pressed into it in fading, handwritten ink. I cradle it to my chest and sniff again, knowing I can’t turn it to ash, as Howard wanted. I can’t set fire to Cora’s legacy, the legacy of so many Morgan women before me, to the thread binding me to her. It feels like I’m holding her life right here in my arms. As though the body we buried today was just a vessel, just a fleeting cage, and this is the real her. The truth of her is right here, nestled in these pages.
I imagine her watching me, willing me to take a look. To seek out the secrets inside, to finally understand what the Morgan women have carried with them, generation after generation—the ancient ways of the mountains. I sink to the floor, lean against the bed, and open to the beginning. Some of the pages are so old and frail that I’m worried they will tear like tissue beneath my fingertips. I’ve read a few of these stories before, but that was years ago. Today, reading this book as an adult, and knowing I am its keeper, feels different. Monumental. I read a few words, carefully turning the pages, then move quickly to the back.
To the final story.
“Of course,” I breathe. Cora has written the last story in the book. Her careful script, slightly slanted, crawls across the pages, detailing a story about two sisters, one tall and fair, one brittle and bitter. The book is given to the fair sister, who does not care forit. The other sister covets it, and a chasm opens between them, growing wider with each passing year.
Then the fair sister offers up the book to the bitter sister. She gives her the book, wanting her to be happy. They seal the gift of the book with blood from a slash across their palms. The bitter sister believes that there was no cost to this transaction, that somehow she had paid no price for accepting the book from her sister.
Until...
I gasp.
The fair sister has a grandchild. A girl with stars for eyes, who loves adventure, who falls in love with an apple thief, who paints and draws and creates and wonders...
