Page 39 of Hand-Fasting and Other Hazards
The manor’s massive purple doors groaned open, revealing an expressionless butler Nia had never seen before, who stared at them for an uncomfortably long time before turning wordlessly and striding into the house.
“I guess we follow him?” Lochlan murmured, warily.
“I guess so.”
Before they crossed the threshold, Lochlan slipped his fingers between hers, the sensation jarring and unfamiliar. Holding hands. They were holding hands. She’d done this as a child, but not since, and never like this. She told herself it was just the effect the house had on them both—the way it swallowed light, how the air felt thick with ghosts of the past. The connection was practical, grounding, and nothing more.
The manor’s interior was a labyrinth of dark and opulent furniture, shadowy corners, and an atmosphere that seemed to breathe. Each step echoed ominously.
Looking at it now, she couldn’t understand how she’d once thought this place was magical. The memory of her childhood wonder felt distant and distorted; the warmth she’d once believed in had never been real, only a carefully constructed illusion.
She had been hidden here, a secret tucked away, told it was for her own protection. Bad people don’t like the choices I’ve made, her father had said. That’s why your mother died.
She had believed him.
Until she turned eighteen and found the diary, tucked between forgotten tomes in the library. The delicate scrawl, the ink smudged in places from tears. The horror in those last pages. Her mother had been forced to marry Wulfric. His family had been cruel. She had wanted to escape, but never had the chance.
Nia had confronted him.
It was my fault, he’d admitted. I couldn’t keep her safe.
She had walked away then. Dropped her full name. Enrolled in college under a new one. Found work at a sandwich shop, and built a life of her own. Now, after all these years, she was back because her father was once again trying to take what wasn’t his—only this time, it was her freedom on the line.
They followed Wulfric’s butler in silence, his stiff movements giving no indication of where they were going or what awaited them. Lochlan held Nia’s hand until they reached the attic door. There, with quiet reluctance, she let go.
The door creaked open and they entered the shadowy expanse illuminated here and there by the warm orange glow of the setting sun streaming through grimy windows. The beams hanging over the large room were covered in cobwebs, and the walls were lined with shelves sagging under the weight of old tomes, dusty scrolls, and jars filled with mysterious substances that shimmered softly in the dim light.
Amid the curious and eerie items stood one pristine shelf. Not a speck of dust could be found on the wood, or the three stuffed animals sitting in a neat row. Their shiny button eyes gazed innocently but intently, as if guarding the secrets of the attic.
“Are those yours?” Lochlan asked, pointing toward the rat, dog, and an orange cat plushie on the shelf next to the thirteen books on necromancy.
“No.”
They were her father’s.
He stood in the center of the room, glowing lines tracing intricate patterns on the floor, all leading to the large ornate altar where he worked. Chopped herbs and other ingredients lay scattered across its surface, evidence of his preparation.
“My lovely daughter and son-in-law,” Wulfric said, eyeing them over the rim of his half-moon glasses.
Nia rolled her eyes. “Let’s just get on with it.”
They stepped up to the altar, and she scanned the ingredients neatly ordered in a row.
Mugwort—to open the mind. Bleeding Heart—for love. Peppermint—for pure thoughts. And… Honeysuckle?
She frowned, glancing at her father. “Honeysuckle?”
“To sweeten the spell,” he replied smoothly.
Nia made a vague sound of acknowledgment, already moving on. The mugwort gave her pause. Magic came from the witch, but herbs and crystals helped steer it. And mugwort—that could cloud your judgment. Exactly what Wulfric would be hoping for.
Verbena, lemongrass, rose petals, and there: aspen.
“Lochlan is curious about your collection on necromancy,” she said nonchalantly.
He gave her a curious look but recovered quickly. “Yes, I haven’t seen such an extensive collection.”
Wulfric took the bait immediately, launching into a detailed account of how he had acquired all thirteen volumes. As he spoke, absorbed in his own self-importance, Nia made her move. With practiced ease, she dumped the mugwort beneath the altar and replaced it with an equal amount of aspen in the gold dish. Cleaner. Safer. Less likely to mess with their heads.
