Page 65 of The Witching Moon Manor
But as she sank into the velvet upholstery of the chair and turned to the page she’d marked the other evening, Beatrix knew with certainty that it wouldn’t be long before she finally turned a different kind of chapter, one strung from the fabric of good fortune and the magic she’d been waiting so long to remember once again.
CHAPTER 30
A Closed Hand
Predicts an argument.
As Anne stood on the front stoop of the Crowley manor, she wondered about the cost of keeping things from the places they belonged.
Though the chill of the street was sharp enough to make the hairs of her eyelashes stand on end, the ring wrapped around her finger was warm, as if it had been left on the windowsill during the brightest day of summer. It had begun to feel that way the moment Anne turned the corner, and with every step she took toward the door, a tingling sensation pricked at the delicate skin beneath the gold.
There was no mistaking where the ring belonged, but as Anne lingered in front of the house, she struggled with the potential consequences of telling Vincent the truth. She wanted so desperately to believe that he would listen to her, but as she lifted the knocker, she could only think about the way he’d looked when she’d lied to him, all the warmth in his expression chilled to the bone.
By the time the door creaked open, Anne had nearly convinced herself that keeping the truth from Vincent was the wisest choice, that she didn’t need his help to piece everything together.
But the moment he appeared in the threshold and his amber eyes met hers, the ring flashed to life again, so fiercely that she knew her skin was reddening under the heat, and in that instant, Anne made her choice.
“I don’t want to keep secrets any longer,” she said, her words as stark as the snow that still coated the street.
She watched as Vincent’s brows pulled together, his suspicion so potent that Anne didn’t know whether to take a step back or move nearer, closing the distance between them where no more halftruths could hide.
“So you are keeping secrets,” Vincent said, the final syllable causing gooseflesh to skitter across her skin.
“We both have,” Anne answered as she lifted her chin. “But secrets won’t save us. Not when there’s so little time left.”
“Then that’s what you want?” Vincent asked in the same tone she was beginning to recognize as the one he always used when weighing a cost. “An exchange?”
“What I want is to make you understand,” Anne replied, her tone softening then as she thought of what was at stake.
Vincent stiffened, and for a moment, Anne wondered if he was going to close the door and shatter all the possibilities she’d let herself imagine.
But as he stared down at her, something in his expression shifted ever so slightly.
“Then try,” Vincent finally said. “Try to make me understand.”
Anne blinked in surprise, wondering if she’d misheard, but then the ticking of her clock reminded her there wasn’t a moment left to waste.
“I need your help first,” Anne said. “If you’re willing to come with me.”
In answer, Vincent reached for his coat without hesitation and stepped onto the stoop, closing the door behind him.
“We aren’t going far,” Anne said as she followed Violet’s directions and began moving toward the door in the alleyway across the street that would lead them to the apartment.
They didn’t speak again until she lifted the key from the pocket of her skirts and began to slip it into the lock.
“Is it true that you can know whether someone is alive or dead simply by touching something they’ve held?” Anne asked, watching Vincent’s reflection in the surface of the dusty window of the door.
“It’s true,” Vincent replied, unable to hide the curiosity that flittered across his face.
“Follow me, then,” Anne said as she turned the knob and led them up the steps.
As the stairwell filled with the creaks that their boots made on the boards, Anne couldn’t help but remember what Violet had told them about the memories that saturated the apartment. With every step, she could feel the weight and texture of them bearing down on her. Some caused the skin just beneath her ear to tingle like it always did when she heard laughter ringing in the front parlor of the shop, and as her palm grazed the smooth wood of the railing, it practically vibrated with the sense of satisfaction its occupants had felt as they left the troubles of the outside world at the door and eased into the warm comfort of home.
But there were the echoes of other moments resting there as well, remnants of loss and longing so potent that they nearly took Anne’s breath away.
“Philip lived here,” she whispered once they reached the parlor, afraid that if she spoke too loudly, what they were searching for might skitter away.
“I know,” Vincent replied, though the words were softer than Anne had expected them to be, as if he’d glanced through the icy panes of the windows in his own house and wondered what, exactly, had drawn his uncle to the other side of the street so long ago.
