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Something was breathing in the dark.
The sound pulled unevenly through the house, damp and ragged and wet. The sound drifted unevenly through the room like lungs struggling to fill somewhere just beyond her line of sight, and each breath seemed to drag the air cooler around her. Arabella stood barefoot against wooden floorboards with cold pressing through the soles of her feet and the taste of copper settling against the back of her tongue. The bedroom around her flickered weakly beneath a dying candle set somewhere behind her shoulder, its amber glow barely reaching the open doorway ahead. Beyond it stretched a narrow hallway swallowed in shadow, the wallpaper softening and tightening in slow pulses that made the entire house feel faintly alive.
Each breath she took felt shallow, strained like she was suddenly in a higher elevation than she had been only a moment ago. The fine hairs along the back of her neck prickled hard enough to ache beneath the sensation of being watched. She became aware of the woman gradually, a pale shape standing motionless at the far end of the hallway where the darkness thickened deepest. Arabella’s mind reached for the simplest explanation immediately: a mirror.
The resemblance felt too exact for anything else. Red hair spilled over slender shoulders in tangled waves. The angle of her jaw, the shape of her mouth, even the rigid set of her posture belonged unmistakably to Arabella herself. The woman stood perfectly still for several long seconds before slowly tilting her head to one side, and a sickening chill slid through Arabella when her own neck followed the motion a heartbeat later without permission.
The candle sputtered sharply behind her, and the woman looked wrong now that Arabella could truly see her. Dirt streaked across pale skin in smeared lines while old blood cracked darkly against the fabric of a thin white slip hanging from her shoulders. Terror hollowed her face in a way that sharpened every feature beneath it. Her eyes glistened too brightly. Her breathing looked shallow and frantic. She kept glancing over her shoulder toward the door behind her like something waited just beyond sight, close enough that she could feel it breathing against the back of her neck.
The hallway seemed deeper now. It stretched far beyond the dimensions the house should have allowed, disappearing into a suffocating dark that rolled slowly along the floorboards in thick currents. Arabella could hear stone grinding somewhere below her feet, low and heavy, each slow shift vibrating faintly through the walls around her. The air grew colder with every passing second until her lungs began to ache from it. Sweat dampened the back of her neck despite the cold. She took a small, tentative step closer, and the floorboard beneath her creaked. The woman at the end of the hallway stiffened violently at the sound, but she had not moved when Arabella did.
Then she looked directly at her, eyes connecting. Her lips moved quickly now, forming words Arabella couldn’t hear. The desperation in her face landed harder than panic ever could. Arabella stepped forward again before realizing she meant to, her pulse thundering painfully through her chest as the shadows behind the woman shifted and thickened. Something moved there. Large enough to distort the darkness around it. The candlelight dimmed further until the hallway dissolved almost entirely into black, leaving only the woman’s pale face still visible at the end of it. She raised one shaking hand suddenly and slammed it hard against the wall beside her, and she only had the briefest moment to glimpse some sort of ancient sigil drawn on the wall in what looked to be blood and then—
The candle went out.
Darkness crashed through the room all at once. Arabella jerked backward blindly as cold swept over her skin in a violent wave, thick enough that it felt almost physical. The house groaned around her. Another breath sounded directly beside her ear this time, deep and grotesquely damp and impossibly close. Panic surged hot through her body as something brushed lightly along the back of her neck. She squeezed her eyes shut hard enough to hurt while the sound of grinding stone swelled louder beneath the earth below, and somewhere inside the dark, something exhaled slowly into her ear like it had finally found her.
Arabella jerked awake hard enough that the mattress springs groaned beneath her. For one disorienting moment she simply stared, breath shallow and pulse still hammering violently from the nightmare as unfamiliar walls swam slowly into focus around her. Cheap wood paneling stretched across the motel room in dark amber strips stained by age and cigarette smoke, while thin morning light filtered weakly through sheer curtains that stirred faintly beside the window unit humming beneath them. The room smelled faintly of old coffee and overused detergent. Somewhere outside came the muffled sounds of car doors slamming and distant laughter drifting through the parking lot below, the town already awake and moving beneath the gray October morning as they prepared for their annual Halloween festivities. Then memory settled heavily back into place. Pine Ridge. The motel. Arriving sometime after four in the morning exhausted enough to barely remember checking in.
A soft weight shifted against her ribs. Bramblebit blinked up at her from where he had curled himself tightly against her side during the night, yellow eyes narrowed in sleepy irritation at the abrupt movement. His black fur looked almost blue beneath the washed-out morning light spilling across the bedspread. She exhaled shakily and leaned down instinctively, pressing a lingering kiss against the top of his head while her fingers smoothed slowly along the length of his spine. The familiar warmth and scent of him grounded her far more effectively than logic ever could.
Home rose sharply in her chest at the feeling of him beneath her hands, followed almost immediately by the hollow ache that now accompanied the thought of it. Her small house back in Connecticut already felt strangely distant in her memory, as though she had crossed much farther than state lines to get here.
The shower barely stayed warm long enough for her to wash the sweat from her skin. Pipes rattled somewhere deep within the walls while weak water pressure sputtered unevenly overhead, and by the time she stepped back into the motel room the mirrors had already fogged at the edges from lingering steam. Pine Ridge seemed colder than she had prepared herself for. Last night’s drive through the mountains had left the cold settled deep into her bones, and after checking the weather app on her phone she found little comfort in the day ahead: fifty-two degrees, heavy clouds, heavy wind rolling in by afternoon.
Arabella stood staring into her open suitcase for several long moments before finally dressing practically instead of for the holiday. Dark brown corduroy trousers sat high against her waist beneath a fitted ribbed sweater the color of bitter coffee, while a worn leather satchel rested comfortably against her hip once she slung it over her shoulder. She braided her long red hair loosely down her back afterward, fingers working automatically through damp strands until the braid settled against her waist.
By the time she finished feeding Bramblebit and refilling his water dish, the town outside had grown louder. Arabella paused briefly at the motel door before stepping outside, her fingers tightening unconsciously around the strap of her bag as cold mountain wind slipped immediately beneath the fabric of her sweater. The motel wrapped around a narrow parking lot lined with faded white paint and cracked asphalt, its flickering vacancy sign buzzing softly near the roadside.
Everything about the place felt worn thin by time. Rust climbed the railings outside the second-floor walkway, and somewhere nearby came the hollow metallic clatter of an ice machine struggling to stay alive. Arabella glanced once toward the dark line of pine forest stretching beyond the town below before starting toward the street, unease from the dream still sitting quietly beneath her ribs, though the memory of it was already slipping away.
Arabella winced faintly as she eased her Bronco into a parking spot along Main Street, the vehicle looking painfully out of place beside the line of older trucks and weathered sedans crowding the curb. Directly ahead of her sat an old Chevy pickup half-swallowed in rust and streaked in dried mud, the sort of truck that looked as though it had belonged to the town longer than some of the buildings had. Her own vehicle gleamed darkly beneath the cloudy morning light by comparison, too new, too clean, and much too expensive. She lingered behind the steering wheel for a moment after killing the engine, fingers tightening briefly against the leather as unease settled low in her stomach. It was ridiculous. No one cared that she was here. Outside, half the town seemed busy stringing faded orange garlands and paper ghosts around wrought iron lamp posts while old speakers somewhere down the block crackled out muffled Halloween music beneath the wind.
Arabella pushed the door open and slipped out into the cold. Wind immediately caught loose strands of red hair around her face while she hauled the heavy leather satchel over her shoulder and shoved the Bronco door shut with her hip. The weight of the books inside dragged uncomfortably against her side as she glanced once up and down Main Street, still struggling to shake the feeling that she had stepped sideways into another decade the moment she crossed into Pine Ridge. Older trucks lined the curb beneath wrought iron lamp posts draped in faded Halloween garlands, and nearly every storefront looked worn smooth by time and mountain weather alike. Her own Bronco sat among them like something intrusive and polished and painfully temporary.
Her eyes drifted toward a nearby wooden utility pole layered thick with staples, rusted nails, and years worth of weathered paper. Fresh tape flapped softly against the wood in the wind. A missing persons poster stared back at her beneath the gray morning light, the smiling blonde girl on it far too young for the hollow feeling that immediately settled in Arabella’s stomach. Clare Ann. Twenty years old. Medium-length honey blonde hair tangled loosely around sun-browned skin, soft bangs swept across her forehead, bright eyes nearly hidden by the warmth of her smile. The photograph looked candid, taken outside somewhere rural with open fields stretching behind her while wind caught strands of hair across her face. She looked vibrant, familiar somehow in the deeply human way all missing persons posters did once someone reduced a life into a single smiling photograph and a date beneath it. Missing since August 5th, 2026.
The corners of the poster curled slightly where rain had already gotten to it. Beneath Clare’s face, older flyers remained partially buried beneath newer ones, fragments of names and photographs still visible where time and weather had failed to fully strip them away. Someone had torn several others down entirely at some point, leaving only ragged scraps of paper trembling around deeply embedded nails near the base of the pole. Damp white fragments littered the sidewalk below like dead leaves. Arabella frowned faintly, cold creeping deeper beneath her sweater as another gust of mountain wind swept through the street. The unease she’d been carrying since arriving tightened quietly beneath her ribs again. Missing people. More than one, apparently.
Her fingers curled harder against the satchel strap while she looked away from the pole and toward the black-painted brick storefront tucked between two older buildings. It looked like it had once been an old bank before someone hollowed it out and filled it with candlelight and old herbs instead. BLACK LANTERN APOTHECARY stretched across the sign overhead in faded gold lettering, warm amber light glowing softly through the windows against the dreary morning around it. Then she felt it again, eyes on her. A man across the street was watching her. Arabella glanced up instinctively and found him standing beside the hardware store, cigarette hanging loose between two fingers while smoke curled lazily into the cold air around him. He wasn’t staring in an aggressive way. If anything, he looked mildly curious. That somehow made it worse. Heat crawled faintly up Arabella’s neck anyway beneath the weight of being visibly unfamiliar in a town that clearly noticed outsiders quickly. She turned away before he could catch her looking back and hurried down the sidewalk faster than she intended, boots scraping softly against damp pavement while the wind tugged at her hair.
The bell above the door gave a soft chiming note as she stepped inside. Warmth wrapped around her almost immediately, carrying the thick familiar scent of dried sage, pine resin, old parchment, incense smoke, and something darker beneath it all that reminded her faintly of rain-soaked earth. The smell landed hard enough in her chest to ache. It smelled like her mother’s study late at night, like afternoons spent sitting cross-legged beside her great-grandmother while old books lay open across the kitchen table. Arabella stood still for several long seconds while her eyes adjusted to the dim amber lighting spilling softly across the shop. Dried herbs hung bundled from dark wooden beams overhead while towering apothecary cabinets lined the walls beneath bookshelves stretching nearly to the ceiling. Glass jars, candles, crystals, tarot decks, and scattered curiosities crowded nearly every surface near the front of the store, arranged carefully enough to feel intentional rather than cluttered. Somewhere deeper within the building came the soft rustle of wings.
A black cat lounged lazily across the lowered counter near the back steps, yellow eyes half-lidded as it watched her from beneath the hanging glow of brass lantern lights. Red-winged blackbirds fluttered somewhere higher overhead between shelves and exposed rafters, their claws clicking softly against wood before settling again. Beyond the counter, partially hidden by strands of black beads and sheer dark fabric, Arabella caught sight of the massive circular bank vault door. Her fingers tightened anxiously against the satchel strap resting beneath her hand while she took a few tentative steps farther inside, eyes lingering across old books and labeled drawers and dried flowers hanging upside down from ceiling hooks.
The cat lifted its head slightly as she hesitated, and despite herself Arabella softened immediately at the sight of it, looking momentarily tempted to pause and scratch behind its ears. Instead she hesitated near the doorway another second too long before glancing back toward the street outside, chewing lightly against her bottom lip. This was ridiculous. She should have gone directly to the sheriff's office, or called Noah, instead of wandering into an occult shop on the off chance someone knew anything about her great great great great great great grandmother who, apparently, fancied herself a witch.
Deep in the shop, hidden somewhere out of sight beyond lined bookshelves and velvet curtains, a woman sang out, "Just a moment, dear." The voice didn’t sound like a shopkeeper greeting a customer, but a mother welcoming home a child or an old friend that had been gone far too long. It was like a sweater on a crisp fall morning, warm enough to comfort but not crowding or stifling. And beneath the effortless kindness was an authority that was not demanded or taken, but earned, wise and patient beyond her years.
Before a response could be a given, the sharp whistle of a kettle cut through the quiet peace of the shop. It sent startled blackbirds fluttering about the rafters, while the cat lounging along the counter remained unbothered, only managing a yawn and an adjustment of his head before returning to his daily nap. The noise did not last long, deft hands were poised and ready to silence it, ending the cry just as quickly as it came. The sound reverberated off the walls like an echo, ringing in their ears as the serenity crept back in, settling in the soft groan of old floorboards, the creak of brass lanterns swaying, and the distant trickle of steaming water from a kettle.
A moment or two passed as if the quiet surrender of the shop had never been interrupted in the first place. Then came the sharp tap of thick heels against uneven wood in a steady, unhurried rhythm. Bamboo beads rattled and clicked together as a polished hand swept them aside and a figure emerged from the backroom. She was tall and slender, carrying herself with a regalness that seemed almost out of place in a tiny occult shop in a town like Pine Ridge. Pleated black trousers cinched at her waist and swayed around the ankle of her pointed leather boots. A soft clink similar to the sound of rattling keys preceded her. Crystals and gemstones hung from her belt by silver chains, bouncing off her thigh with every step, colliding into each other like a personal windchime.
The woman slowly ascended the small staircase that led from the heart of the shop up to the elevated, more tourist focused, entrance area. Slender fingers adorned in a polish that matched the rich maroon of her coat curled around the porcelain handle of a teacup. Her other hand held a small string, rising and falling with a timeless patience as she steeped the teabag. Steam billowed from the cup, breaking against the woman’s sharp jaw. Dark hazel eyes looked out from beneath raven hair that had slipped from where it had been pinned back out of her face. A warm and welcoming smile curled freely at the corners of her mouth. "Apologies for your wait. A day like this calls for a warm cup of tea," she mused like one would with a friend. "How can I help you?"
Arabella had been seconds away from leaving. The instinct had risen sharp and sudden the longer she stood near the entrance, fingers curled tightly around the strap of her satchel while unease climbed steadily beneath her ribs. The shop felt too familiar in ways she couldn’t comfortably explain to herself. The smell of herbs and parchment. The low creak of old wood settling beneath unseen footsteps somewhere deeper within the building. Even the warmth of the space reminded her painfully of evenings spent tucked inside her mother’s study while candlelight flickered across old books and steaming mugs of tea. Then the woman’s voice drifted through the shop, soft as wool pulled fresh from a dryer, and something inside Arabella loosened before she could stop it. She stayed rooted to the floor instead of fleeing back out into the cold.
Her attention wandered nervously across shelves lined in crystals and hanging herbs until movement drew her gaze downward again. The woman emerging from behind the velvet curtains carried herself with the sort of quiet grace that made the cramped occult shop feel momentarily too small to contain her. Dark hair framed sharp, elegant features while steam curled softly around the line of her jaw from the teacup resting in her hand. Silver jewelry wound delicately along one ear in serpent-like curves that caught the light each time she moved. For one strange second Arabella found herself thinking the woman looked less like a shopkeeper and more like someone pulled directly from the pages of an old myth. The feeling unsettled her almost as much as it comforted her.
"Um," Arabella managed, oh so intelligently. Heat crept faintly up her neck as one hand fluttered instinctively toward the leather satchel hanging against her hip. The bag suddenly felt impossibly heavy beneath her palm, weighed down not just by books and journals but by every irrational decision that had carried her across the country to this town. Arabella exhaled slowly through her nose and stepped closer to the counter despite herself, boots creaking softly against old wood..
"It’s a little hard to explain," she admitted at last, shoulders drooping faintly beneath the exhaustion she had been holding together with caffeine and stubbornness for the better part of a month. Her gaze dipped briefly toward the steam curling from the woman’s teacup before lifting again. "I’m not even entirely sure where to begin, honestly. It’s sort of a mess." Her mouth twitched weakly as she attempted something resembling humor.
"Would you prefer to hear first about the missing mother, the deeply concerning books left behind by my great-great-whatever grandmother, or the cryptic note said missing mother apparently thought was an acceptable replacement for actual communication?" The joke landed with all the grace of a brick tossed through stained glass. Arabella grimaced almost immediately afterward, the expression tightening across her face before she glanced away toward the shelves behind the counter. Embarrassment prickled hot beneath her skin.
"Sorry," she muttered automatically, fingers tightening harder against the satchel strap. "That sounded less insane in my head during the drive here."
The elder witch listened with a patience that never felt heavy or rushed. Her piercing gaze drifted along the girl as she spoke, taking in her stature, the anxious wringing of her hands along the strap of her satchel, or most notably her hair, bright like copper in the soft glow of the lanterns that hung overhead. Sable’s head cocked to the side slowly like she was studying a specimen and weighing the components before making a hypothesis. Magic had an aura, a scent like ozone in the air before lightning strikes or the metallic taste of iron that preceded blood along the tongue. She could sense it on all of her witches. It was lighter, softer here, like the fragrance of a candle lingering after the flame had long since been snuffed. But she could still feel it.
And that red hair.
Nine women received the gift on that fateful day one hundred and seventy-eight years ago. Nine families carried the gift through their bloodline, passing it on from one daughter to the next. And only one of those families had hair like leaves at the peak of autumn, warm, vibrant, and unmistakably them.
"You are a Crowe." The words fell from Sable’s burgundy painted lips, landing somewhere between a rhetorical question and a confident fact. Her expression softened as a heaviness settled behind her eyes and in the subtle furrowing of her brow. "I think this might be a conversation best had over tea."
Sable’s boots tapped softly against the creaking floorboards as she stepped around the young woman. She threw the deadbolt on the door and flipped the ‘open’ sign to ‘closed,’ then turned back toward her guest with a smile that widened with the unspoken understanding of a teacher who had shared similar conversations countless times before. "Come," she instructed gently with a nod of her head toward the deeper parts of her store.
The woman did not wait to see if the anxious girl seeking answers followed or not. It was her decision and the door was right there. But Sable knew, like she always did, that she’d follow eventually. If not now, then in five minutes, or ten, or she’d return in a day… Time was irrelevant. It was the questions seeking answers that only she could give.
Sable crossed the store with the same unrushed grace she had approached with, sharp clicks of her heels, muffled swish of fabric, and the soft clack of crystals dangling at her hip. She descended the small set of stairs with a hand on the railing, rounded the counter, making sure to give Cinder a passing, affectionate pet, then disappeared beyond the same beaded curtain that had yet to settle from her emergence. Beyond it was a small breakroom, of sorts. There was a half-sized fridge, a narrow counter with a single burner, and a tiny hanging cabinet above it. A slender window framed in maroon velvet and sheer black curtains looked out toward the alley behind the store. And tucked against the wall was a small round table with just enough room for two.
She set her cup down in front of one seat, then turned toward the kitchenette with purpose. First, Sable opened the cabinet to pull out another porcelain cup. Unlike hers which was white with black filigree and gold leafing around the brim, this one was ivory adorned in rich orchids and green vinery. She set it before the other available chair, then grabbed the kettle that was still warm and began filling it. There was already a small wooden box of teabags resting on the table, leaning against the wall, along with a sugar bowl, but she grabbed the honeypot as well before sitting down. Her back remained straight as a pin, never resting against the chair, as she crossed her right leg over her left and finally let herself enjoy a sip of her tea, which had dropped to a manageable temperature.
Arabella paused the moment the woman spoke her last name. The expression that crossed her face tightened faintly at the corners like she had bitten into something unexpectedly sour, uncertainty flickering quick and sharp behind her eyes. She had spent the better part of a month feeling as though she were steadily losing her grip on reality, and hearing a stranger identify her family line on sight did very little to improve the sensation. Still, she didn't argue. Curiosity rooted itself more stubbornly than fear ever could, and despite the cool ribbon of apprehension that slid down her spine when the deadbolt clicked into place behind her, Arabella found herself following after her anyway. The shop seemed quieter deeper inside it, the sounds of Main Street dissolving entirely beneath the creak of old floorboards and the soft chiming collision of crystals hanging from the woman’s belt.
The back room felt strangely intimate compared to the sprawling occult warmth of the storefront. Steam curled lazily from the kettle while soft gray daylight filtered through sheer black curtains across the narrow window, turning the room silver around the edges. Arabella hesitated briefly beside the small round table before lowering herself carefully into the offered chair, satchel perched protectively in her lap. Her attention drifted toward the porcelain cup set before her and then toward the open wooden tea box leaning against the wall. The labels were elegant, handwritten in careful script across cream-colored paper tags. After a brief pause, she selected one labeled Lemon Balm & Valerian Root.
"Do you make the tea blends yourself?" she asked quietly, curiosity threading naturally into her voice despite the knot of anxiety still tightening her chest. The sheer sachet looked handmade, delicate herbs visible through the thin mesh as she lowered it carefully into the steaming water. She added honey rather than sugar afterward, generous enough that golden ribbons sank slowly through the tea before disappearing beneath the surface. Even exhausted, Arabella carried herself with the sort of unconscious polish years in academic circles tended to cultivate. She stirred the tea carefully side to side without allowing the spoon to tap once against the porcelain, posture straight despite the weariness softening faintly through her shoulders. Somewhere between the warm scent of herbs and the muted amber light, she became abruptly aware that the woman across from her was very beautiful, though the realization arrived accompanied by immediate embarrassment she carefully shoved aside.
Sable lifted her hand from the side of her cup, waving it with an easy nonchalance along with a single shrug of her slender shoulders. "It is a quiet and boring town. I don’t often get customers, and I can only reread the same books so many times," she mused with a warm chuckle, dragging the tip of her index finger along the gold foiled brim of porcelain. "It’s good to have hobbies."
Arabella looked faintly surprised by the easy honesty of the admission. Something in her softened despite herself, tension easing subtly from her shoulders as her gaze drifted back toward the neat little box of tea blends resting beside the honey pot.
"It’s a nice hobby to have," she murmured, fingertips brushing lightly against one of the paper tags. "My grandmother used to do the same thing." A small smile touched briefly at the corner of her mouth before fading into something quieter, more distant. "My mom too, actually. I..." Her eyes lowered toward the steam curling from her tea. "I never really got into a lot of the things they wanted me to." And there was something in that admission, something that was followed by the hollow, guilt-addled sense of quiet but haunting grief.
"You are still young," Sable countered before the heaviness she saw in the girl’s eyes turned to something dark within the recesses of her mind, something that told her she was cruel for following whatever path she chose. "And even if you weren’t, nothing is stopping you from taking interest in something new." Her thumb lightly tapped against the handle of her cup, before lifting it to her lips to take another sip. Now, if she meant some as trivial as tea making, who’s to say. The advice could be applied in more ways than one.
Without another word, Arabella finally loosened her grip on the satchel and reached inside. First came the journal, old leather worn soft with age as she placed it carefully in the space between them. Then the larger book followed, heavier and stranger, its spine cracked from decades of use.
"It’s not in English," she warned, lips pursing slightly as her fingers lingered against the cover. "Mostly Latin, but there’s enough Sardinian and French scattered through it to feel intentionally hostile. I haven’t translated much yet, but… enough." Her voice faltered briefly there while her gaze dipped toward the open pages. Enough to find Pine Ridge written repeatedly through the margins. Enough to begin understanding that Lenora Crowe had believed in things Arabella had spent her entire adult life dismissing as folklore and ritual psychology. Heat rose faintly into her face a second later as another realization struck her all at once.
"God, sorry—I never actually introduced myself," she said quickly, looking up again with clear embarrassment painted across her cheeks. "You’re right, I’m a Crowe, Arabella. How did you..." she cleared her throat, and suddenly her tea cup seemed very interesting as she curled her hands around it, feeling the warmth settle into her fingers, eyes set on the teabag.
The elder witch slid her cup aside, polished ceramic dragging across the tapestry table cloth, to make room for the books. Her eyes settled on the journal first, leatherbound and nothing particularly unusual at a glance, but the moment the second text came into view, the first became immaterial. Sable should have known, should have felt it before she saw it. But the way the cracked leather and heavy tomb settled onto the table, like it had been brought home after over a century of distance, it nearly drew the breath from her lungs.
Old parchment, worn from weathered hands pouring over the pages, crinkled with age as the young woman opened the book before her. Sable’s eyes narrowed, dragging across the text as a dormant nostalgia churned to life beneath her ribs, warm and unbidden at the sight of a familiar script she had long since forgotten. There was a desire—no, a pull—to reach out and touch it, to run her fingertips along the pages etched with the scrawlings of a friend long past. But, she did not. It was not her place, nor did she have permission, and respect was everything within the Circle.
Her gaze lifted, finding blue eyes staring back at her, framed in the flush of her cheeks and the rich copper of her hair. For a brief moment, she saw Lenora sitting across from her, as bright and curious as the day they met. Then she blinked and time and reality settled heavily back upon her shoulders. While age had taken its toll on Sable’s soul, it did not show across her face as young features softened into a warm smile of patient understanding and knowing. The sleeve of her jacket nearly brushed across the pages as she extended her right hand across the table. "I am Sable Pritchard."
She then nodded her head toward Arabella’s hair, one side of her smile curling the faintest bit brighter. "Not many wander into my shop. Most assume it’s Satanic—devil worship," she clarified with a soft, amused chuckle. "It takes a certain breed to stumble their way through my door, and your hair—Crowe red—is not easily mistaken." Sable rocked her head back and forth in a small, pensive motion before curling two fingers through the handle of her cup. She lifted it slowly until the brim rested against her bottom lip. Hazel eyes studied the woman across from her for just a moment, then fell to the sloshing amber liquid beneath her nose. "You also smell like magic," she added casually, not looking up before taking a long sip.
Arabella’s lips pursed faintly at the mention of Satanic panic and devil worship, the expression carrying the tired familiarity of someone who had spent most of her adult life buried in old folklore and obscure theology departments. The impulse to dismiss it rose immediately to the tip of her tongue. She wanted to explain that she did not believe in any of this sort of thing either, not really. Not crystals humming with energy or chakra alignment or sage cleansing bad spirits from apartments in Brooklyn. Her relationship with old texts had always been academic, historical, and practical. Devils and Gods belonged to stories people told themselves when science failed to provide prettier answers.
Then Sable casually informed her that she smelled like magic.
Arabella’s mouth shut with a soft, audible click.
She blinked twice across the table, suddenly looking faintly unmoored in a way that sat strangely against the otherwise composed sharpness of her posture. Heat crept slowly into her face while her brain struggled uselessly to decide whether this conversation had crossed into charming eccentricity or full-blown insanity. Such a shame, honestly. The woman was distractingly pretty. "Right," Arabella said after a beat too long, her voice pitching slightly higher than it had been a moment earlier. "Well, that’s—um. That’s nice."
Her fingers twitched lightly against the warmth of her teacup while tension gathered visibly through her shoulders. For a fleeting second she looked on the verge of scooping the books back into her satchel and fleeing the shop entirely. The feeling passed almost as quickly as it came. Curiosity settled heavier than fear ever managed to, steady and relentless beneath her ribs. Arabella glanced briefly toward the journal resting between them before lifting her eyes back toward Sable again, cautious and intensely focused all at once.
"What, uh..." She paused, lips pressing together faintly as though reconsidering the wisdom of the question already halfway formed in her mouth. "What does that smell like?" The question slipped out quieter than the others had. Earnest despite her obvious skepticism. Arabella wrapped both hands around the porcelain cup afterward, grounding herself in the warmth seeping against her palms while steam curled softly between them.
Sable couldn’t help the small chuckle that hummed from behind her lips that were still pressed softly to the porcelain. It was a surprisingly tame response, all things considered. She expected a reaction. A latent witch raised far from Pine Ridge who shows up at her doorstep with a grimoire and no knowledge of what it is was obviously out of her depth, or at least kept in the dark. But the confused calmness was still entertaining nonetheless.
Lenora Crowe did not disappear from Pine Ridge with an artifact, never to be seen again, with the intention of carrying on the knowledge of their gift to her daughters. That much was obvious. Arabella wouldn’t have been sitting across from her asking questions she should have known the answers to. She should have been fluent in Latin, studying those inscriptions since she could read, yet she was none the wiser. It seemed Lenora had no intentions on sharing their craft. Sable just didn’t know how she felt about her old friend keeping their truth secret… keeping her secret. There was a subtle sting that came with that knowledge, one that slipped between her ribs like silk and cut deep, even if it did not show across her face.
Then the witch’s brows lifted, blindsided by the question. Based on Arabella’s reaction, her assumption was that the girl would swiftly move the conversation to other more comfortable topics… Or grab her things and run for the door. But instead she asked, her curiosity outwinning any apprehension. Sable nodded her head in quiet acknowledgement, setting down her cup and running her hands along the table, smoothing out the old tapestry cloth. "Distinctly metallic, like ozone in the air before lightning strikes or the after taste of iron down the back of your throat following a nose bleed," she offered up the answer plainly, without any fanfare or skirting around the truth. "Though every witch has her own—" She rubbed her fingers together like she was searching her mind or palate for the correct descriptor. "—zest."
Her hands settled, resting against the table, one on top of the other as she continued. "One of my girls smells like eucalyptus, something soft and welcoming, with a peaceful sort of calm." Sable’s head lulled minutely to the side, her brows raising with a mother’s sort of knowing and exhaustion. "The other smells like patchouli. Sometimes it’s sweet and sometimes it’s more musky, but it’s powerful, overwhelming… I almost can’t smell the neutral aura of magic beneath it." Then her eyes narrowed as she leaned a fraction closer and drew in a deep breath. "You—" She inhaled once more, nostrils flaring as she pulled in the woman’s scent and catalogued it. "—smell like cedar. It's an earthy sort of warmth, soothing with a tinge of something unexpected like embers of a dying fire."
Sable leaned back into her chair fully, letting her back rest against the support with a small shrug that almost feigned innocence. "However I cannot tell you my scent, only another witch can." She held up a single finger, interjecting gently with her own thought. "Though my ancestors’ texts say that there is a scent profile that carries through bloodlines, distinctly different between each member, but there is a symbiosis between them all." Her hand then rose, motioning toward Arabella. "Like your scent, cedar, for example. I’d say it’s a fair assumption that other women in your family had scents like sandalwood, vetiver, or oakmoss… If I had to make an educated guess."
Arabella listened in complete silence, though her mind moved fast enough beneath the surface to leave her faintly dizzy with it. Part of her wanted desperately to reach for the notepad tucked inside her satchel and begin documenting every word before memory could distort it later. Scent association through bloodlines. Latent magical markers. Inherited sensory patterns. The academic in her practically vibrated at the edges of the conversation despite the increasingly surreal subject matter. She resisted the urge only because she suspected pulling out a pen mid-conversation to take field notes on witchcraft might finally tip her fully into humiliation. Instead she sat very still with one hand wrapped around her teacup while the nails of her opposite hand tapped lightly against the porcelain in uneven little rhythms whenever her thoughts snagged somewhere important.
There were too many things suddenly fitting together in ways she did not appreciate.
Her mother had always smelled faintly of sandalwood regardless of what perfume she wore. Arabella remembered burying her face into the collar of Eleanor’s sweaters as a child and breathing it in without ever questioning why the scent lingered so consistently. Her grandmother’s house had carried thick traces of oakmoss in every room, earthy enough that it used to make Arabella sneeze during holiday visits. And beneath those memories sat another older one she had not thought about in years; standing beside her great-grandmother’s bedside while the woman lay dying, the room filled with the cool green scent of vetiver so strongly it almost coated the inside of her mouth. At the time she had assumed it came from candles or oils or old furniture polish. Now the memory sat beneath her ribs with an entirely different sort of weight. Arabella drew in a slow sharp breath and pressed her lips tightly together while staring into the amber surface of her tea.
The silence stretched long enough to feel tangible. She could not quite bring herself to look directly at Sable again, mostly because the mortifying reality of trying to identify another person’s scent across a table felt deeply insane even by the rapidly deteriorating standards of this conversation. Still, once the thought lodged itself into her mind, she found herself noticing it anyway. The woman smelled distinct. Expensive, perhaps, but softer than traditional perfume. Floral notes lingered beneath something darker and resinous that reminded her faintly of old churches and antique libraries warmed by candlelight. Arabella chewed lightly against the inside of her cheek before finally glancing up again, brows furrowing faintly as she sorted carefully through the impressions.
"Amber… black orchid, maybe. Scarlet poppies?" she murmured slowly, fingertips tapping once against the side of her cup. "Carnation too, I think." The moment the words left her mouth, embarrassment crashed into her almost immediately afterward.
"This is…" Arabella paused, visibly searching for the least offensive phrasing while one hand rose to push loose copper strands nervously behind her ear. "Unique," she settled on finally, though the word carried clear strain around the edges. Her posture remained tense despite her efforts to appear composed, shoulders held too straight while uncertainty tightened quietly through her expression.
"You are just wearing a perfume though… right?" she asked carefully, though conviction wavered badly beneath the question. "Magic isn’t…" The sentence faltered halfway through. Arabella frowned faintly at her own reflection trembling in the surface of the cup. "I’m sorry, but magic isn’t real." The words landed softer than she intended. Less like certainty, more like something she was trying very hard to keep believing.
For a moment, Sable found herself intrigued, eyes narrowing and head tilting to the side as she ran her tongue along the back of her teeth. The other scents she had never heard and could very well be a result of her perfume, soaps, lotions, or plethora of other things that touch her skin throughout the day. But black orchid. She could remember it as if it was yesterday… Sybil in her ivory dressing gown so large that the ruffled hem dragged along the floorboards. Her wild black curls tamed into two braids fastened with uneven ribbon bows. She wasn’t yet five and was doing as young children often did, finding any and every reason to avoid going to bed. A few more moments, that is all.
She came stumbling up the hall, tripping over her nightgown and her own little feet that she hadn’t grown into yet. A single chubby finger was looped through the handle of a brass candlestick holder, the other clutching a flower so tight that the stem flattened in her grasp. She hurried up to Sable’s—Sabine’s—bedside, practically shoving the plant up into her face. "Look, momma," she squealed with excitement. "It smells like you." A single orchid, darker than night with a faint touch of burgundy along its petals, stared back up at her… A black orchid.
The memory then faded away like a vision in smoke as if Arabella’s words cut through the illusion and brought her back to the emptiness of the present. Sable’s curious smile faded beneath the unseen weight of grief and the girl’s own reluctance to accept her words for fact. But, not all can be convinced so easily and it was becoming blatantly obvious that Lenora had failed to educate her daughters and her daughter’s daughters. It was sad to see the absence of knowledge as a choice rather than the weathering of time. In the end, no one could help her see beyond the lies until she chose to open her eyes and see for herself.
"Ah, right," she mused with a soft laugh that was tired, like a woman who had heard the same sentiments whispered by others who wandered into her shop. "Magic and witches are just folklore… tales to scare children at night or tools to make the undeserving, like J. K. Rowling, wealthy." Sable lifted two fingers from where they rested on top of her other hand, motioning them twice without giving it much thought, almost like a tick rather than something given proper thought. Then somewhere beneath her coat, two small crystals that hung from her belt—one clear quartz and the other labradorite—shimmered faintly in the darkness.
"I am afraid then that your inquiries might be better answered at the local library, or the Sheriff’s Station." Her right hand shifted from where it was lying, lifting just in time to catch a paper business card and an ornate silver fountain pen as it floated through the air and drifted straight into her grasp. She set the card face down with no flourish or unnecessary pomp, and began to write directions with a steady hand in an elegant, curling cursive. "If you take a left out of my shop, the library will be the large building at the center of town on the right, with a clock on top." She gestured along as she spoke, before putting pen to paper once again and continuing. "And the road ends in the Sheriff’s Station. You can’t miss it."
With that, Sable scooped up the business card and held it out to Arabella with a faint smile that, if for but a moment, showed the weariness of her age behind her eyes. "I do hope you find all the answers you seek."
Arabella felt herself stiffen almost immediately at the woman's words, heat rising up the back of her neck and blooming across her cheeks in a quiet wave. Something defensive lifted its head inside her chest before she even had time to understand why. She sat a little straighter in her chair, fingers tightening around the warm porcelain of her cup as she prepared herself to argue—to explain that she wasn't dismissive, that she wasn't ignorant, that skepticism and judgment were not interchangeable things. Whatever speech had begun assembling itself in her mind died a sudden and graceless death.
Because the pen floated through the air.
Her mouth dropped open slightly as her eyes tracked the silver fountain pen and business card drifting cleanly across the room before settling neatly into Sable's waiting hand. Arabella stared at them without blinking. The expression crossing her face held no simple shock to it. Her thoughts moved too quickly for that. Heat lived behind her eyes now, a frantic sort of focus, the expression of someone staring at a puzzle already halfway solved but with no understanding of how the pieces had been placed together in the first place. Her face puckered faintly, lips twisting as though she'd bitten into something unexpectedly sour before smoothing out again. "I most certainly wouldn't connect the possible existence of actual magic with the likes of someone like J.K. Rowling," she huffed, sounding weirdly offended by it despite herself. "I was raised being told by my family with clear emphasis that magic was never, and never would be real. So excuse me for being a little skeptical."
Sable had expected the anger, but that did not help it settle any softer in her chest. She did not blame Arabella for her lack of knowledge or the offense that flashed sharp behind her eyes, she blamed Lenora and her descendants. Magic was a gift, yes, but also a responsibility. One by one the other lines dwindled or vanished, and as the Circle grew smaller the weight grew heavier upon Sable’s shoulders. It was not fair to her, or to her girls. It used to be nine lineages strong and now it was three, four if she counted the reluctant woman across from her… And knowing that knowledge was withheld sat almost as uneasily as the truth did for Arabella.
"You were raised to believe a lie," Sable corrected gently like a mother would to an upset child. Her words were soft and gentle, like an olive branch of understanding.
The words landed harder than they should have. Arabella felt the impact of them low in her chest, sudden and strange, like stepping down a staircase and finding one step missing. Her shoulders tightened instinctively and she flinched before she could stop herself, the movement small enough that most people might have missed it if they had not been looking closely. She said nothing, because for one horrible, fleeting moment, some small frightened part of her had wondered what if the woman was right.
The irritation faded almost as quickly as it came. Something heavier settled in its place. Arabella looked down toward the card resting between them and suddenly felt very, very tired. She had come here for help. Not answers necessarily, not certainty, not miracles, but help. Some quiet selfish part of her had walked into this strange little shop and sat across from this woman believing that perhaps, finally, someone would look at the mess in her hands and tell her she wasn't chasing shadows. Instead she felt gently pushed back toward the door, toward libraries and police stations and practical things she'd already exhausted herself on months ago. The feeling slipped beneath her ribs with surprising ease. A lost cause. The thought sat there before she could stop it. Not dramatic. Just quiet. Familiar.
Arabella swallowed hard and set her cup down carefully onto the tablecloth before reaching forward to gather the books against her chest. The leather covers felt heavier now than they had minutes ago. "Right," she said softly, the stiffness in her voice working harder than she was. "Sorry for bothering you." She never reached for the card with directions. She had memorized the town map before arriving, memorized roads and names and landmarks because she had needed to feel prepared for something. Anything. Rising too quickly from her chair, she held the books tightly against herself instead of placing them back inside the satchel. Moisture burned sharply at the corners of her eyes and she took a slow breath through her nose, blinking hard once before the feeling could spill over. All she wanted was her mom back. "Thank you for the tea."
Sable did not rise from her seat, nor did she try to stop her. Heavy revelations took time to process. She understood that and wasn’t going to demand recognition. Her head nodded just once toward the books clutched tight against the girl’s chest. "It is a grimoire, a book of witchcraft." Long slender fingers laced together and rested against the edge of the table with a patience learned from over two centuries of life. "I understand, and I can sympathize with your anger. I do not fault you for directing it at me." A heavy sigh fell from her burgundy tinted lips as her gaze fell to the porcelain before her and the tea that had run cold.
She did not stand up, did not attempt to stop the young woman or convince her to stay. The crystals that dangled from thin silver chains at her hip vibrated to life once more, glowing faintly beneath the hem of her coat. On the opposite side of the shop the deadbolt unlocked and the sign that hung from the door flipped to ‘open.’ "When you’re ready… My door is always open." Sable didn’t look up, and even with her face half hidden behind loose black curls, she still looked weary with the sort of exhaustion that came from lifetimes of knowledge and loneliness. It was odd, the way it clung to her features, misplaced for someone who was apparently so young. But beneath it, a sad smile persisted, patient and calm in its understanding. Then without another word, her finger curled around the handle of her cup, and she lifted it to her lips, drinking the tepid remains of her tea… because unlike Lenora Crowe, she was not wasteful.
The sound pulled unevenly through the house, damp and ragged and wet. The sound drifted unevenly through the room like lungs struggling to fill somewhere just beyond her line of sight, and each breath seemed to drag the air cooler around her. Arabella stood barefoot against wooden floorboards with cold pressing through the soles of her feet and the taste of copper settling against the back of her tongue. The bedroom around her flickered weakly beneath a dying candle set somewhere behind her shoulder, its amber glow barely reaching the open doorway ahead. Beyond it stretched a narrow hallway swallowed in shadow, the wallpaper softening and tightening in slow pulses that made the entire house feel faintly alive.
Each breath she took felt shallow, strained like she was suddenly in a higher elevation than she had been only a moment ago. The fine hairs along the back of her neck prickled hard enough to ache beneath the sensation of being watched. She became aware of the woman gradually, a pale shape standing motionless at the far end of the hallway where the darkness thickened deepest. Arabella’s mind reached for the simplest explanation immediately: a mirror.
The resemblance felt too exact for anything else. Red hair spilled over slender shoulders in tangled waves. The angle of her jaw, the shape of her mouth, even the rigid set of her posture belonged unmistakably to Arabella herself. The woman stood perfectly still for several long seconds before slowly tilting her head to one side, and a sickening chill slid through Arabella when her own neck followed the motion a heartbeat later without permission.
The candle sputtered sharply behind her, and the woman looked wrong now that Arabella could truly see her. Dirt streaked across pale skin in smeared lines while old blood cracked darkly against the fabric of a thin white slip hanging from her shoulders. Terror hollowed her face in a way that sharpened every feature beneath it. Her eyes glistened too brightly. Her breathing looked shallow and frantic. She kept glancing over her shoulder toward the door behind her like something waited just beyond sight, close enough that she could feel it breathing against the back of her neck.
The hallway seemed deeper now. It stretched far beyond the dimensions the house should have allowed, disappearing into a suffocating dark that rolled slowly along the floorboards in thick currents. Arabella could hear stone grinding somewhere below her feet, low and heavy, each slow shift vibrating faintly through the walls around her. The air grew colder with every passing second until her lungs began to ache from it. Sweat dampened the back of her neck despite the cold. She took a small, tentative step closer, and the floorboard beneath her creaked. The woman at the end of the hallway stiffened violently at the sound, but she had not moved when Arabella did.
Then she looked directly at her, eyes connecting. Her lips moved quickly now, forming words Arabella couldn’t hear. The desperation in her face landed harder than panic ever could. Arabella stepped forward again before realizing she meant to, her pulse thundering painfully through her chest as the shadows behind the woman shifted and thickened. Something moved there. Large enough to distort the darkness around it. The candlelight dimmed further until the hallway dissolved almost entirely into black, leaving only the woman’s pale face still visible at the end of it. She raised one shaking hand suddenly and slammed it hard against the wall beside her, and she only had the briefest moment to glimpse some sort of ancient sigil drawn on the wall in what looked to be blood and then—
The candle went out.
Darkness crashed through the room all at once. Arabella jerked backward blindly as cold swept over her skin in a violent wave, thick enough that it felt almost physical. The house groaned around her. Another breath sounded directly beside her ear this time, deep and grotesquely damp and impossibly close. Panic surged hot through her body as something brushed lightly along the back of her neck. She squeezed her eyes shut hard enough to hurt while the sound of grinding stone swelled louder beneath the earth below, and somewhere inside the dark, something exhaled slowly into her ear like it had finally found her.
Arabella jerked awake hard enough that the mattress springs groaned beneath her. For one disorienting moment she simply stared, breath shallow and pulse still hammering violently from the nightmare as unfamiliar walls swam slowly into focus around her. Cheap wood paneling stretched across the motel room in dark amber strips stained by age and cigarette smoke, while thin morning light filtered weakly through sheer curtains that stirred faintly beside the window unit humming beneath them. The room smelled faintly of old coffee and overused detergent. Somewhere outside came the muffled sounds of car doors slamming and distant laughter drifting through the parking lot below, the town already awake and moving beneath the gray October morning as they prepared for their annual Halloween festivities. Then memory settled heavily back into place. Pine Ridge. The motel. Arriving sometime after four in the morning exhausted enough to barely remember checking in.
A soft weight shifted against her ribs. Bramblebit blinked up at her from where he had curled himself tightly against her side during the night, yellow eyes narrowed in sleepy irritation at the abrupt movement. His black fur looked almost blue beneath the washed-out morning light spilling across the bedspread. She exhaled shakily and leaned down instinctively, pressing a lingering kiss against the top of his head while her fingers smoothed slowly along the length of his spine. The familiar warmth and scent of him grounded her far more effectively than logic ever could.
Home rose sharply in her chest at the feeling of him beneath her hands, followed almost immediately by the hollow ache that now accompanied the thought of it. Her small house back in Connecticut already felt strangely distant in her memory, as though she had crossed much farther than state lines to get here.
The shower barely stayed warm long enough for her to wash the sweat from her skin. Pipes rattled somewhere deep within the walls while weak water pressure sputtered unevenly overhead, and by the time she stepped back into the motel room the mirrors had already fogged at the edges from lingering steam. Pine Ridge seemed colder than she had prepared herself for. Last night’s drive through the mountains had left the cold settled deep into her bones, and after checking the weather app on her phone she found little comfort in the day ahead: fifty-two degrees, heavy clouds, heavy wind rolling in by afternoon.
Arabella stood staring into her open suitcase for several long moments before finally dressing practically instead of for the holiday. Dark brown corduroy trousers sat high against her waist beneath a fitted ribbed sweater the color of bitter coffee, while a worn leather satchel rested comfortably against her hip once she slung it over her shoulder. She braided her long red hair loosely down her back afterward, fingers working automatically through damp strands until the braid settled against her waist.
By the time she finished feeding Bramblebit and refilling his water dish, the town outside had grown louder. Arabella paused briefly at the motel door before stepping outside, her fingers tightening unconsciously around the strap of her bag as cold mountain wind slipped immediately beneath the fabric of her sweater. The motel wrapped around a narrow parking lot lined with faded white paint and cracked asphalt, its flickering vacancy sign buzzing softly near the roadside.
Everything about the place felt worn thin by time. Rust climbed the railings outside the second-floor walkway, and somewhere nearby came the hollow metallic clatter of an ice machine struggling to stay alive. Arabella glanced once toward the dark line of pine forest stretching beyond the town below before starting toward the street, unease from the dream still sitting quietly beneath her ribs, though the memory of it was already slipping away.
_______________________________________________
Arabella winced faintly as she eased her Bronco into a parking spot along Main Street, the vehicle looking painfully out of place beside the line of older trucks and weathered sedans crowding the curb. Directly ahead of her sat an old Chevy pickup half-swallowed in rust and streaked in dried mud, the sort of truck that looked as though it had belonged to the town longer than some of the buildings had. Her own vehicle gleamed darkly beneath the cloudy morning light by comparison, too new, too clean, and much too expensive. She lingered behind the steering wheel for a moment after killing the engine, fingers tightening briefly against the leather as unease settled low in her stomach. It was ridiculous. No one cared that she was here. Outside, half the town seemed busy stringing faded orange garlands and paper ghosts around wrought iron lamp posts while old speakers somewhere down the block crackled out muffled Halloween music beneath the wind.
Arabella pushed the door open and slipped out into the cold. Wind immediately caught loose strands of red hair around her face while she hauled the heavy leather satchel over her shoulder and shoved the Bronco door shut with her hip. The weight of the books inside dragged uncomfortably against her side as she glanced once up and down Main Street, still struggling to shake the feeling that she had stepped sideways into another decade the moment she crossed into Pine Ridge. Older trucks lined the curb beneath wrought iron lamp posts draped in faded Halloween garlands, and nearly every storefront looked worn smooth by time and mountain weather alike. Her own Bronco sat among them like something intrusive and polished and painfully temporary.
Her eyes drifted toward a nearby wooden utility pole layered thick with staples, rusted nails, and years worth of weathered paper. Fresh tape flapped softly against the wood in the wind. A missing persons poster stared back at her beneath the gray morning light, the smiling blonde girl on it far too young for the hollow feeling that immediately settled in Arabella’s stomach. Clare Ann. Twenty years old. Medium-length honey blonde hair tangled loosely around sun-browned skin, soft bangs swept across her forehead, bright eyes nearly hidden by the warmth of her smile. The photograph looked candid, taken outside somewhere rural with open fields stretching behind her while wind caught strands of hair across her face. She looked vibrant, familiar somehow in the deeply human way all missing persons posters did once someone reduced a life into a single smiling photograph and a date beneath it. Missing since August 5th, 2026.
The corners of the poster curled slightly where rain had already gotten to it. Beneath Clare’s face, older flyers remained partially buried beneath newer ones, fragments of names and photographs still visible where time and weather had failed to fully strip them away. Someone had torn several others down entirely at some point, leaving only ragged scraps of paper trembling around deeply embedded nails near the base of the pole. Damp white fragments littered the sidewalk below like dead leaves. Arabella frowned faintly, cold creeping deeper beneath her sweater as another gust of mountain wind swept through the street. The unease she’d been carrying since arriving tightened quietly beneath her ribs again. Missing people. More than one, apparently.
Her fingers curled harder against the satchel strap while she looked away from the pole and toward the black-painted brick storefront tucked between two older buildings. It looked like it had once been an old bank before someone hollowed it out and filled it with candlelight and old herbs instead. BLACK LANTERN APOTHECARY stretched across the sign overhead in faded gold lettering, warm amber light glowing softly through the windows against the dreary morning around it. Then she felt it again, eyes on her. A man across the street was watching her. Arabella glanced up instinctively and found him standing beside the hardware store, cigarette hanging loose between two fingers while smoke curled lazily into the cold air around him. He wasn’t staring in an aggressive way. If anything, he looked mildly curious. That somehow made it worse. Heat crawled faintly up Arabella’s neck anyway beneath the weight of being visibly unfamiliar in a town that clearly noticed outsiders quickly. She turned away before he could catch her looking back and hurried down the sidewalk faster than she intended, boots scraping softly against damp pavement while the wind tugged at her hair.
The bell above the door gave a soft chiming note as she stepped inside. Warmth wrapped around her almost immediately, carrying the thick familiar scent of dried sage, pine resin, old parchment, incense smoke, and something darker beneath it all that reminded her faintly of rain-soaked earth. The smell landed hard enough in her chest to ache. It smelled like her mother’s study late at night, like afternoons spent sitting cross-legged beside her great-grandmother while old books lay open across the kitchen table. Arabella stood still for several long seconds while her eyes adjusted to the dim amber lighting spilling softly across the shop. Dried herbs hung bundled from dark wooden beams overhead while towering apothecary cabinets lined the walls beneath bookshelves stretching nearly to the ceiling. Glass jars, candles, crystals, tarot decks, and scattered curiosities crowded nearly every surface near the front of the store, arranged carefully enough to feel intentional rather than cluttered. Somewhere deeper within the building came the soft rustle of wings.
A black cat lounged lazily across the lowered counter near the back steps, yellow eyes half-lidded as it watched her from beneath the hanging glow of brass lantern lights. Red-winged blackbirds fluttered somewhere higher overhead between shelves and exposed rafters, their claws clicking softly against wood before settling again. Beyond the counter, partially hidden by strands of black beads and sheer dark fabric, Arabella caught sight of the massive circular bank vault door. Her fingers tightened anxiously against the satchel strap resting beneath her hand while she took a few tentative steps farther inside, eyes lingering across old books and labeled drawers and dried flowers hanging upside down from ceiling hooks.
The cat lifted its head slightly as she hesitated, and despite herself Arabella softened immediately at the sight of it, looking momentarily tempted to pause and scratch behind its ears. Instead she hesitated near the doorway another second too long before glancing back toward the street outside, chewing lightly against her bottom lip. This was ridiculous. She should have gone directly to the sheriff's office, or called Noah, instead of wandering into an occult shop on the off chance someone knew anything about her great great great great great great grandmother who, apparently, fancied herself a witch.
Deep in the shop, hidden somewhere out of sight beyond lined bookshelves and velvet curtains, a woman sang out, "Just a moment, dear." The voice didn’t sound like a shopkeeper greeting a customer, but a mother welcoming home a child or an old friend that had been gone far too long. It was like a sweater on a crisp fall morning, warm enough to comfort but not crowding or stifling. And beneath the effortless kindness was an authority that was not demanded or taken, but earned, wise and patient beyond her years.
Before a response could be a given, the sharp whistle of a kettle cut through the quiet peace of the shop. It sent startled blackbirds fluttering about the rafters, while the cat lounging along the counter remained unbothered, only managing a yawn and an adjustment of his head before returning to his daily nap. The noise did not last long, deft hands were poised and ready to silence it, ending the cry just as quickly as it came. The sound reverberated off the walls like an echo, ringing in their ears as the serenity crept back in, settling in the soft groan of old floorboards, the creak of brass lanterns swaying, and the distant trickle of steaming water from a kettle.
A moment or two passed as if the quiet surrender of the shop had never been interrupted in the first place. Then came the sharp tap of thick heels against uneven wood in a steady, unhurried rhythm. Bamboo beads rattled and clicked together as a polished hand swept them aside and a figure emerged from the backroom. She was tall and slender, carrying herself with a regalness that seemed almost out of place in a tiny occult shop in a town like Pine Ridge. Pleated black trousers cinched at her waist and swayed around the ankle of her pointed leather boots. A soft clink similar to the sound of rattling keys preceded her. Crystals and gemstones hung from her belt by silver chains, bouncing off her thigh with every step, colliding into each other like a personal windchime.
The woman slowly ascended the small staircase that led from the heart of the shop up to the elevated, more tourist focused, entrance area. Slender fingers adorned in a polish that matched the rich maroon of her coat curled around the porcelain handle of a teacup. Her other hand held a small string, rising and falling with a timeless patience as she steeped the teabag. Steam billowed from the cup, breaking against the woman’s sharp jaw. Dark hazel eyes looked out from beneath raven hair that had slipped from where it had been pinned back out of her face. A warm and welcoming smile curled freely at the corners of her mouth. "Apologies for your wait. A day like this calls for a warm cup of tea," she mused like one would with a friend. "How can I help you?"
Arabella had been seconds away from leaving. The instinct had risen sharp and sudden the longer she stood near the entrance, fingers curled tightly around the strap of her satchel while unease climbed steadily beneath her ribs. The shop felt too familiar in ways she couldn’t comfortably explain to herself. The smell of herbs and parchment. The low creak of old wood settling beneath unseen footsteps somewhere deeper within the building. Even the warmth of the space reminded her painfully of evenings spent tucked inside her mother’s study while candlelight flickered across old books and steaming mugs of tea. Then the woman’s voice drifted through the shop, soft as wool pulled fresh from a dryer, and something inside Arabella loosened before she could stop it. She stayed rooted to the floor instead of fleeing back out into the cold.
Her attention wandered nervously across shelves lined in crystals and hanging herbs until movement drew her gaze downward again. The woman emerging from behind the velvet curtains carried herself with the sort of quiet grace that made the cramped occult shop feel momentarily too small to contain her. Dark hair framed sharp, elegant features while steam curled softly around the line of her jaw from the teacup resting in her hand. Silver jewelry wound delicately along one ear in serpent-like curves that caught the light each time she moved. For one strange second Arabella found herself thinking the woman looked less like a shopkeeper and more like someone pulled directly from the pages of an old myth. The feeling unsettled her almost as much as it comforted her.
"Um," Arabella managed, oh so intelligently. Heat crept faintly up her neck as one hand fluttered instinctively toward the leather satchel hanging against her hip. The bag suddenly felt impossibly heavy beneath her palm, weighed down not just by books and journals but by every irrational decision that had carried her across the country to this town. Arabella exhaled slowly through her nose and stepped closer to the counter despite herself, boots creaking softly against old wood..
"It’s a little hard to explain," she admitted at last, shoulders drooping faintly beneath the exhaustion she had been holding together with caffeine and stubbornness for the better part of a month. Her gaze dipped briefly toward the steam curling from the woman’s teacup before lifting again. "I’m not even entirely sure where to begin, honestly. It’s sort of a mess." Her mouth twitched weakly as she attempted something resembling humor.
"Would you prefer to hear first about the missing mother, the deeply concerning books left behind by my great-great-whatever grandmother, or the cryptic note said missing mother apparently thought was an acceptable replacement for actual communication?" The joke landed with all the grace of a brick tossed through stained glass. Arabella grimaced almost immediately afterward, the expression tightening across her face before she glanced away toward the shelves behind the counter. Embarrassment prickled hot beneath her skin.
"Sorry," she muttered automatically, fingers tightening harder against the satchel strap. "That sounded less insane in my head during the drive here."
The elder witch listened with a patience that never felt heavy or rushed. Her piercing gaze drifted along the girl as she spoke, taking in her stature, the anxious wringing of her hands along the strap of her satchel, or most notably her hair, bright like copper in the soft glow of the lanterns that hung overhead. Sable’s head cocked to the side slowly like she was studying a specimen and weighing the components before making a hypothesis. Magic had an aura, a scent like ozone in the air before lightning strikes or the metallic taste of iron that preceded blood along the tongue. She could sense it on all of her witches. It was lighter, softer here, like the fragrance of a candle lingering after the flame had long since been snuffed. But she could still feel it.
And that red hair.
Nine women received the gift on that fateful day one hundred and seventy-eight years ago. Nine families carried the gift through their bloodline, passing it on from one daughter to the next. And only one of those families had hair like leaves at the peak of autumn, warm, vibrant, and unmistakably them.
"You are a Crowe." The words fell from Sable’s burgundy painted lips, landing somewhere between a rhetorical question and a confident fact. Her expression softened as a heaviness settled behind her eyes and in the subtle furrowing of her brow. "I think this might be a conversation best had over tea."
Sable’s boots tapped softly against the creaking floorboards as she stepped around the young woman. She threw the deadbolt on the door and flipped the ‘open’ sign to ‘closed,’ then turned back toward her guest with a smile that widened with the unspoken understanding of a teacher who had shared similar conversations countless times before. "Come," she instructed gently with a nod of her head toward the deeper parts of her store.
The woman did not wait to see if the anxious girl seeking answers followed or not. It was her decision and the door was right there. But Sable knew, like she always did, that she’d follow eventually. If not now, then in five minutes, or ten, or she’d return in a day… Time was irrelevant. It was the questions seeking answers that only she could give.
Sable crossed the store with the same unrushed grace she had approached with, sharp clicks of her heels, muffled swish of fabric, and the soft clack of crystals dangling at her hip. She descended the small set of stairs with a hand on the railing, rounded the counter, making sure to give Cinder a passing, affectionate pet, then disappeared beyond the same beaded curtain that had yet to settle from her emergence. Beyond it was a small breakroom, of sorts. There was a half-sized fridge, a narrow counter with a single burner, and a tiny hanging cabinet above it. A slender window framed in maroon velvet and sheer black curtains looked out toward the alley behind the store. And tucked against the wall was a small round table with just enough room for two.
She set her cup down in front of one seat, then turned toward the kitchenette with purpose. First, Sable opened the cabinet to pull out another porcelain cup. Unlike hers which was white with black filigree and gold leafing around the brim, this one was ivory adorned in rich orchids and green vinery. She set it before the other available chair, then grabbed the kettle that was still warm and began filling it. There was already a small wooden box of teabags resting on the table, leaning against the wall, along with a sugar bowl, but she grabbed the honeypot as well before sitting down. Her back remained straight as a pin, never resting against the chair, as she crossed her right leg over her left and finally let herself enjoy a sip of her tea, which had dropped to a manageable temperature.
Arabella paused the moment the woman spoke her last name. The expression that crossed her face tightened faintly at the corners like she had bitten into something unexpectedly sour, uncertainty flickering quick and sharp behind her eyes. She had spent the better part of a month feeling as though she were steadily losing her grip on reality, and hearing a stranger identify her family line on sight did very little to improve the sensation. Still, she didn't argue. Curiosity rooted itself more stubbornly than fear ever could, and despite the cool ribbon of apprehension that slid down her spine when the deadbolt clicked into place behind her, Arabella found herself following after her anyway. The shop seemed quieter deeper inside it, the sounds of Main Street dissolving entirely beneath the creak of old floorboards and the soft chiming collision of crystals hanging from the woman’s belt.
The back room felt strangely intimate compared to the sprawling occult warmth of the storefront. Steam curled lazily from the kettle while soft gray daylight filtered through sheer black curtains across the narrow window, turning the room silver around the edges. Arabella hesitated briefly beside the small round table before lowering herself carefully into the offered chair, satchel perched protectively in her lap. Her attention drifted toward the porcelain cup set before her and then toward the open wooden tea box leaning against the wall. The labels were elegant, handwritten in careful script across cream-colored paper tags. After a brief pause, she selected one labeled Lemon Balm & Valerian Root.
"Do you make the tea blends yourself?" she asked quietly, curiosity threading naturally into her voice despite the knot of anxiety still tightening her chest. The sheer sachet looked handmade, delicate herbs visible through the thin mesh as she lowered it carefully into the steaming water. She added honey rather than sugar afterward, generous enough that golden ribbons sank slowly through the tea before disappearing beneath the surface. Even exhausted, Arabella carried herself with the sort of unconscious polish years in academic circles tended to cultivate. She stirred the tea carefully side to side without allowing the spoon to tap once against the porcelain, posture straight despite the weariness softening faintly through her shoulders. Somewhere between the warm scent of herbs and the muted amber light, she became abruptly aware that the woman across from her was very beautiful, though the realization arrived accompanied by immediate embarrassment she carefully shoved aside.
Sable lifted her hand from the side of her cup, waving it with an easy nonchalance along with a single shrug of her slender shoulders. "It is a quiet and boring town. I don’t often get customers, and I can only reread the same books so many times," she mused with a warm chuckle, dragging the tip of her index finger along the gold foiled brim of porcelain. "It’s good to have hobbies."
Arabella looked faintly surprised by the easy honesty of the admission. Something in her softened despite herself, tension easing subtly from her shoulders as her gaze drifted back toward the neat little box of tea blends resting beside the honey pot.
"It’s a nice hobby to have," she murmured, fingertips brushing lightly against one of the paper tags. "My grandmother used to do the same thing." A small smile touched briefly at the corner of her mouth before fading into something quieter, more distant. "My mom too, actually. I..." Her eyes lowered toward the steam curling from her tea. "I never really got into a lot of the things they wanted me to." And there was something in that admission, something that was followed by the hollow, guilt-addled sense of quiet but haunting grief.
"You are still young," Sable countered before the heaviness she saw in the girl’s eyes turned to something dark within the recesses of her mind, something that told her she was cruel for following whatever path she chose. "And even if you weren’t, nothing is stopping you from taking interest in something new." Her thumb lightly tapped against the handle of her cup, before lifting it to her lips to take another sip. Now, if she meant some as trivial as tea making, who’s to say. The advice could be applied in more ways than one.
Without another word, Arabella finally loosened her grip on the satchel and reached inside. First came the journal, old leather worn soft with age as she placed it carefully in the space between them. Then the larger book followed, heavier and stranger, its spine cracked from decades of use.
"It’s not in English," she warned, lips pursing slightly as her fingers lingered against the cover. "Mostly Latin, but there’s enough Sardinian and French scattered through it to feel intentionally hostile. I haven’t translated much yet, but… enough." Her voice faltered briefly there while her gaze dipped toward the open pages. Enough to find Pine Ridge written repeatedly through the margins. Enough to begin understanding that Lenora Crowe had believed in things Arabella had spent her entire adult life dismissing as folklore and ritual psychology. Heat rose faintly into her face a second later as another realization struck her all at once.
"God, sorry—I never actually introduced myself," she said quickly, looking up again with clear embarrassment painted across her cheeks. "You’re right, I’m a Crowe, Arabella. How did you..." she cleared her throat, and suddenly her tea cup seemed very interesting as she curled her hands around it, feeling the warmth settle into her fingers, eyes set on the teabag.
The elder witch slid her cup aside, polished ceramic dragging across the tapestry table cloth, to make room for the books. Her eyes settled on the journal first, leatherbound and nothing particularly unusual at a glance, but the moment the second text came into view, the first became immaterial. Sable should have known, should have felt it before she saw it. But the way the cracked leather and heavy tomb settled onto the table, like it had been brought home after over a century of distance, it nearly drew the breath from her lungs.
Old parchment, worn from weathered hands pouring over the pages, crinkled with age as the young woman opened the book before her. Sable’s eyes narrowed, dragging across the text as a dormant nostalgia churned to life beneath her ribs, warm and unbidden at the sight of a familiar script she had long since forgotten. There was a desire—no, a pull—to reach out and touch it, to run her fingertips along the pages etched with the scrawlings of a friend long past. But, she did not. It was not her place, nor did she have permission, and respect was everything within the Circle.
Her gaze lifted, finding blue eyes staring back at her, framed in the flush of her cheeks and the rich copper of her hair. For a brief moment, she saw Lenora sitting across from her, as bright and curious as the day they met. Then she blinked and time and reality settled heavily back upon her shoulders. While age had taken its toll on Sable’s soul, it did not show across her face as young features softened into a warm smile of patient understanding and knowing. The sleeve of her jacket nearly brushed across the pages as she extended her right hand across the table. "I am Sable Pritchard."
She then nodded her head toward Arabella’s hair, one side of her smile curling the faintest bit brighter. "Not many wander into my shop. Most assume it’s Satanic—devil worship," she clarified with a soft, amused chuckle. "It takes a certain breed to stumble their way through my door, and your hair—Crowe red—is not easily mistaken." Sable rocked her head back and forth in a small, pensive motion before curling two fingers through the handle of her cup. She lifted it slowly until the brim rested against her bottom lip. Hazel eyes studied the woman across from her for just a moment, then fell to the sloshing amber liquid beneath her nose. "You also smell like magic," she added casually, not looking up before taking a long sip.
Arabella’s lips pursed faintly at the mention of Satanic panic and devil worship, the expression carrying the tired familiarity of someone who had spent most of her adult life buried in old folklore and obscure theology departments. The impulse to dismiss it rose immediately to the tip of her tongue. She wanted to explain that she did not believe in any of this sort of thing either, not really. Not crystals humming with energy or chakra alignment or sage cleansing bad spirits from apartments in Brooklyn. Her relationship with old texts had always been academic, historical, and practical. Devils and Gods belonged to stories people told themselves when science failed to provide prettier answers.
Then Sable casually informed her that she smelled like magic.
Arabella’s mouth shut with a soft, audible click.
She blinked twice across the table, suddenly looking faintly unmoored in a way that sat strangely against the otherwise composed sharpness of her posture. Heat crept slowly into her face while her brain struggled uselessly to decide whether this conversation had crossed into charming eccentricity or full-blown insanity. Such a shame, honestly. The woman was distractingly pretty. "Right," Arabella said after a beat too long, her voice pitching slightly higher than it had been a moment earlier. "Well, that’s—um. That’s nice."
Her fingers twitched lightly against the warmth of her teacup while tension gathered visibly through her shoulders. For a fleeting second she looked on the verge of scooping the books back into her satchel and fleeing the shop entirely. The feeling passed almost as quickly as it came. Curiosity settled heavier than fear ever managed to, steady and relentless beneath her ribs. Arabella glanced briefly toward the journal resting between them before lifting her eyes back toward Sable again, cautious and intensely focused all at once.
"What, uh..." She paused, lips pressing together faintly as though reconsidering the wisdom of the question already halfway formed in her mouth. "What does that smell like?" The question slipped out quieter than the others had. Earnest despite her obvious skepticism. Arabella wrapped both hands around the porcelain cup afterward, grounding herself in the warmth seeping against her palms while steam curled softly between them.
Sable couldn’t help the small chuckle that hummed from behind her lips that were still pressed softly to the porcelain. It was a surprisingly tame response, all things considered. She expected a reaction. A latent witch raised far from Pine Ridge who shows up at her doorstep with a grimoire and no knowledge of what it is was obviously out of her depth, or at least kept in the dark. But the confused calmness was still entertaining nonetheless.
Lenora Crowe did not disappear from Pine Ridge with an artifact, never to be seen again, with the intention of carrying on the knowledge of their gift to her daughters. That much was obvious. Arabella wouldn’t have been sitting across from her asking questions she should have known the answers to. She should have been fluent in Latin, studying those inscriptions since she could read, yet she was none the wiser. It seemed Lenora had no intentions on sharing their craft. Sable just didn’t know how she felt about her old friend keeping their truth secret… keeping her secret. There was a subtle sting that came with that knowledge, one that slipped between her ribs like silk and cut deep, even if it did not show across her face.
Then the witch’s brows lifted, blindsided by the question. Based on Arabella’s reaction, her assumption was that the girl would swiftly move the conversation to other more comfortable topics… Or grab her things and run for the door. But instead she asked, her curiosity outwinning any apprehension. Sable nodded her head in quiet acknowledgement, setting down her cup and running her hands along the table, smoothing out the old tapestry cloth. "Distinctly metallic, like ozone in the air before lightning strikes or the after taste of iron down the back of your throat following a nose bleed," she offered up the answer plainly, without any fanfare or skirting around the truth. "Though every witch has her own—" She rubbed her fingers together like she was searching her mind or palate for the correct descriptor. "—zest."
Her hands settled, resting against the table, one on top of the other as she continued. "One of my girls smells like eucalyptus, something soft and welcoming, with a peaceful sort of calm." Sable’s head lulled minutely to the side, her brows raising with a mother’s sort of knowing and exhaustion. "The other smells like patchouli. Sometimes it’s sweet and sometimes it’s more musky, but it’s powerful, overwhelming… I almost can’t smell the neutral aura of magic beneath it." Then her eyes narrowed as she leaned a fraction closer and drew in a deep breath. "You—" She inhaled once more, nostrils flaring as she pulled in the woman’s scent and catalogued it. "—smell like cedar. It's an earthy sort of warmth, soothing with a tinge of something unexpected like embers of a dying fire."
Sable leaned back into her chair fully, letting her back rest against the support with a small shrug that almost feigned innocence. "However I cannot tell you my scent, only another witch can." She held up a single finger, interjecting gently with her own thought. "Though my ancestors’ texts say that there is a scent profile that carries through bloodlines, distinctly different between each member, but there is a symbiosis between them all." Her hand then rose, motioning toward Arabella. "Like your scent, cedar, for example. I’d say it’s a fair assumption that other women in your family had scents like sandalwood, vetiver, or oakmoss… If I had to make an educated guess."
Arabella listened in complete silence, though her mind moved fast enough beneath the surface to leave her faintly dizzy with it. Part of her wanted desperately to reach for the notepad tucked inside her satchel and begin documenting every word before memory could distort it later. Scent association through bloodlines. Latent magical markers. Inherited sensory patterns. The academic in her practically vibrated at the edges of the conversation despite the increasingly surreal subject matter. She resisted the urge only because she suspected pulling out a pen mid-conversation to take field notes on witchcraft might finally tip her fully into humiliation. Instead she sat very still with one hand wrapped around her teacup while the nails of her opposite hand tapped lightly against the porcelain in uneven little rhythms whenever her thoughts snagged somewhere important.
There were too many things suddenly fitting together in ways she did not appreciate.
Her mother had always smelled faintly of sandalwood regardless of what perfume she wore. Arabella remembered burying her face into the collar of Eleanor’s sweaters as a child and breathing it in without ever questioning why the scent lingered so consistently. Her grandmother’s house had carried thick traces of oakmoss in every room, earthy enough that it used to make Arabella sneeze during holiday visits. And beneath those memories sat another older one she had not thought about in years; standing beside her great-grandmother’s bedside while the woman lay dying, the room filled with the cool green scent of vetiver so strongly it almost coated the inside of her mouth. At the time she had assumed it came from candles or oils or old furniture polish. Now the memory sat beneath her ribs with an entirely different sort of weight. Arabella drew in a slow sharp breath and pressed her lips tightly together while staring into the amber surface of her tea.
The silence stretched long enough to feel tangible. She could not quite bring herself to look directly at Sable again, mostly because the mortifying reality of trying to identify another person’s scent across a table felt deeply insane even by the rapidly deteriorating standards of this conversation. Still, once the thought lodged itself into her mind, she found herself noticing it anyway. The woman smelled distinct. Expensive, perhaps, but softer than traditional perfume. Floral notes lingered beneath something darker and resinous that reminded her faintly of old churches and antique libraries warmed by candlelight. Arabella chewed lightly against the inside of her cheek before finally glancing up again, brows furrowing faintly as she sorted carefully through the impressions.
"Amber… black orchid, maybe. Scarlet poppies?" she murmured slowly, fingertips tapping once against the side of her cup. "Carnation too, I think." The moment the words left her mouth, embarrassment crashed into her almost immediately afterward.
"This is…" Arabella paused, visibly searching for the least offensive phrasing while one hand rose to push loose copper strands nervously behind her ear. "Unique," she settled on finally, though the word carried clear strain around the edges. Her posture remained tense despite her efforts to appear composed, shoulders held too straight while uncertainty tightened quietly through her expression.
"You are just wearing a perfume though… right?" she asked carefully, though conviction wavered badly beneath the question. "Magic isn’t…" The sentence faltered halfway through. Arabella frowned faintly at her own reflection trembling in the surface of the cup. "I’m sorry, but magic isn’t real." The words landed softer than she intended. Less like certainty, more like something she was trying very hard to keep believing.
For a moment, Sable found herself intrigued, eyes narrowing and head tilting to the side as she ran her tongue along the back of her teeth. The other scents she had never heard and could very well be a result of her perfume, soaps, lotions, or plethora of other things that touch her skin throughout the day. But black orchid. She could remember it as if it was yesterday… Sybil in her ivory dressing gown so large that the ruffled hem dragged along the floorboards. Her wild black curls tamed into two braids fastened with uneven ribbon bows. She wasn’t yet five and was doing as young children often did, finding any and every reason to avoid going to bed. A few more moments, that is all.
She came stumbling up the hall, tripping over her nightgown and her own little feet that she hadn’t grown into yet. A single chubby finger was looped through the handle of a brass candlestick holder, the other clutching a flower so tight that the stem flattened in her grasp. She hurried up to Sable’s—Sabine’s—bedside, practically shoving the plant up into her face. "Look, momma," she squealed with excitement. "It smells like you." A single orchid, darker than night with a faint touch of burgundy along its petals, stared back up at her… A black orchid.
The memory then faded away like a vision in smoke as if Arabella’s words cut through the illusion and brought her back to the emptiness of the present. Sable’s curious smile faded beneath the unseen weight of grief and the girl’s own reluctance to accept her words for fact. But, not all can be convinced so easily and it was becoming blatantly obvious that Lenora had failed to educate her daughters and her daughter’s daughters. It was sad to see the absence of knowledge as a choice rather than the weathering of time. In the end, no one could help her see beyond the lies until she chose to open her eyes and see for herself.
"Ah, right," she mused with a soft laugh that was tired, like a woman who had heard the same sentiments whispered by others who wandered into her shop. "Magic and witches are just folklore… tales to scare children at night or tools to make the undeserving, like J. K. Rowling, wealthy." Sable lifted two fingers from where they rested on top of her other hand, motioning them twice without giving it much thought, almost like a tick rather than something given proper thought. Then somewhere beneath her coat, two small crystals that hung from her belt—one clear quartz and the other labradorite—shimmered faintly in the darkness.
"I am afraid then that your inquiries might be better answered at the local library, or the Sheriff’s Station." Her right hand shifted from where it was lying, lifting just in time to catch a paper business card and an ornate silver fountain pen as it floated through the air and drifted straight into her grasp. She set the card face down with no flourish or unnecessary pomp, and began to write directions with a steady hand in an elegant, curling cursive. "If you take a left out of my shop, the library will be the large building at the center of town on the right, with a clock on top." She gestured along as she spoke, before putting pen to paper once again and continuing. "And the road ends in the Sheriff’s Station. You can’t miss it."
With that, Sable scooped up the business card and held it out to Arabella with a faint smile that, if for but a moment, showed the weariness of her age behind her eyes. "I do hope you find all the answers you seek."
Arabella felt herself stiffen almost immediately at the woman's words, heat rising up the back of her neck and blooming across her cheeks in a quiet wave. Something defensive lifted its head inside her chest before she even had time to understand why. She sat a little straighter in her chair, fingers tightening around the warm porcelain of her cup as she prepared herself to argue—to explain that she wasn't dismissive, that she wasn't ignorant, that skepticism and judgment were not interchangeable things. Whatever speech had begun assembling itself in her mind died a sudden and graceless death.
Because the pen floated through the air.
Her mouth dropped open slightly as her eyes tracked the silver fountain pen and business card drifting cleanly across the room before settling neatly into Sable's waiting hand. Arabella stared at them without blinking. The expression crossing her face held no simple shock to it. Her thoughts moved too quickly for that. Heat lived behind her eyes now, a frantic sort of focus, the expression of someone staring at a puzzle already halfway solved but with no understanding of how the pieces had been placed together in the first place. Her face puckered faintly, lips twisting as though she'd bitten into something unexpectedly sour before smoothing out again. "I most certainly wouldn't connect the possible existence of actual magic with the likes of someone like J.K. Rowling," she huffed, sounding weirdly offended by it despite herself. "I was raised being told by my family with clear emphasis that magic was never, and never would be real. So excuse me for being a little skeptical."
Sable had expected the anger, but that did not help it settle any softer in her chest. She did not blame Arabella for her lack of knowledge or the offense that flashed sharp behind her eyes, she blamed Lenora and her descendants. Magic was a gift, yes, but also a responsibility. One by one the other lines dwindled or vanished, and as the Circle grew smaller the weight grew heavier upon Sable’s shoulders. It was not fair to her, or to her girls. It used to be nine lineages strong and now it was three, four if she counted the reluctant woman across from her… And knowing that knowledge was withheld sat almost as uneasily as the truth did for Arabella.
"You were raised to believe a lie," Sable corrected gently like a mother would to an upset child. Her words were soft and gentle, like an olive branch of understanding.
The words landed harder than they should have. Arabella felt the impact of them low in her chest, sudden and strange, like stepping down a staircase and finding one step missing. Her shoulders tightened instinctively and she flinched before she could stop herself, the movement small enough that most people might have missed it if they had not been looking closely. She said nothing, because for one horrible, fleeting moment, some small frightened part of her had wondered what if the woman was right.
The irritation faded almost as quickly as it came. Something heavier settled in its place. Arabella looked down toward the card resting between them and suddenly felt very, very tired. She had come here for help. Not answers necessarily, not certainty, not miracles, but help. Some quiet selfish part of her had walked into this strange little shop and sat across from this woman believing that perhaps, finally, someone would look at the mess in her hands and tell her she wasn't chasing shadows. Instead she felt gently pushed back toward the door, toward libraries and police stations and practical things she'd already exhausted herself on months ago. The feeling slipped beneath her ribs with surprising ease. A lost cause. The thought sat there before she could stop it. Not dramatic. Just quiet. Familiar.
Arabella swallowed hard and set her cup down carefully onto the tablecloth before reaching forward to gather the books against her chest. The leather covers felt heavier now than they had minutes ago. "Right," she said softly, the stiffness in her voice working harder than she was. "Sorry for bothering you." She never reached for the card with directions. She had memorized the town map before arriving, memorized roads and names and landmarks because she had needed to feel prepared for something. Anything. Rising too quickly from her chair, she held the books tightly against herself instead of placing them back inside the satchel. Moisture burned sharply at the corners of her eyes and she took a slow breath through her nose, blinking hard once before the feeling could spill over. All she wanted was her mom back. "Thank you for the tea."
Sable did not rise from her seat, nor did she try to stop her. Heavy revelations took time to process. She understood that and wasn’t going to demand recognition. Her head nodded just once toward the books clutched tight against the girl’s chest. "It is a grimoire, a book of witchcraft." Long slender fingers laced together and rested against the edge of the table with a patience learned from over two centuries of life. "I understand, and I can sympathize with your anger. I do not fault you for directing it at me." A heavy sigh fell from her burgundy tinted lips as her gaze fell to the porcelain before her and the tea that had run cold.
She did not stand up, did not attempt to stop the young woman or convince her to stay. The crystals that dangled from thin silver chains at her hip vibrated to life once more, glowing faintly beneath the hem of her coat. On the opposite side of the shop the deadbolt unlocked and the sign that hung from the door flipped to ‘open.’ "When you’re ready… My door is always open." Sable didn’t look up, and even with her face half hidden behind loose black curls, she still looked weary with the sort of exhaustion that came from lifetimes of knowledge and loneliness. It was odd, the way it clung to her features, misplaced for someone who was apparently so young. But beneath it, a sad smile persisted, patient and calm in its understanding. Then without another word, her finger curled around the handle of her cup, and she lifted it to her lips, drinking the tepid remains of her tea… because unlike Lenora Crowe, she was not wasteful.
interactions ....|.... sable ............... mentions ....|.... noah, nelthea, willow ............... collabs ....|.... @Mjolnir
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