Bound In Blood (The Adams' Witch Series Book 1) (2 page)

BOOK: Bound In Blood (The Adams' Witch Series Book 1)
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I smacked the End button with my palm. The Bluetooth beeped…beeped…beeped. Silence.

 

Rose had answered the door in a bathrobe and wire curlers. Pink needle-like toothpicks stuck out from her hair in all directions and her eyes were practically crossed with sleep.

She wore the same thing now, sitting across from me at a dining room table, except her dark eyes stood out, more lucid, clear. My art teacher in tenth grade said eyes were reflections of the soul. She made our class draw eyes over and over. According to her, a face was never completely finished without the perfect pair of eyes. First, we drew in pencil, then in coal, and last in watercolor. Eyes were always hard for me. I lost points for drawing them with the corners turned down. For some reason, I could never convey happiness in them.

Ever so slightly, Aunt Rose’s eyes had turned from cloudy to mirrors. I tried not to talk as the shock wore off. She hadn’t known I existed either.

I suspected as much.

Steam from two cups of coffee curled up between us, carrying the smell of ripe, bitter coffee beans. I’d barely touched mine, choosing instead to peek around the house from where I sat. The inside of the house was in better shape than the outside. It was still old, but it was more like antique old and not rundown old.

Finally, my great aunt speared the silence. “Well, I need to call your mother.”

“What? Why? I am who I say I am.” I motioned toward my bags still sitting in the foyer. “I brought my birth certificate. You can see it."

“No need. I’m not doubting you’re David’s. Anyone who knew him can tell you’re his daughter.” She patted the rollers on her head. “You have the same color brown in your hair. And your hazel eyes. Do they——?” Rose paused and cleared her throat. “Do they change—?”

“—change to amber in the sunlight? Yes.” I smiled. “My mom let that slip once.”

Rose frowned. “I’m going to have to call her, Sarah.” She stumbled over my name, testing it on her tongue and then smiled somewhat sheepishly.

She was nice. Straightforward, but nice. I was a fan of people who told the truth.

“Could you not do that?” I winced. “She’s kinda melodramatic."

Rose’s eyebrow peaked. “Seems like you take right after her, showing up here late at night without even a phone call.”

Though she didn’t ask a question, the need to answer her, to prove I was nothing like my mom, pushed forward. “It was a last-minute decision. I was just so mad she didn’t tell me I had any other family. Besides,” I said, putting on my most trusting face. “I called her when I got here.”

Rose sipped her coffee, face immeasurable. “I have a few things to say to her myself so I’m calling her. I haven’t spoken to her in seventeen years. I think it's about time.” She handed over a napkin and pen that lay on the table. “Here. Write down the number.”

Rose tapped the side of her coffee cup with her fingertip. I thought about writing down the wrong number briefly. Very briefly.

“You can stay here for tonight. Upstairs, to the right, first door on the left. You look like you could sleep for days. I’ll call your mom tonight and we’ll talk about it in the morning.”

I started to get up, then sat back down again. I hadn’t given much thought to what would happen after I showed up, but there was one thing I desperately wanted to know. “Why do you think they never told you about me?”

Rose took a deep, steady breath before answering. “With your mother…” She paused, looking into my eyes. I wasn’t sure what she saw, but she shook her head. "Never mind. I said we’d talk about it in the morning, we’ll talk about it in the morning.” She raised her hand and shooed me away, hurrying me toward my bags.

Not about to test her hospitality, I left the mug there, praying she’d never offer me her bitter coffee again and practically ran back to the foyer to grab my luggage and haul it up the stairs. I couldn’t believe I was actually at my father's aunt’s house. On the way up to the room, I envisioned long, dizzying chats about my dad and hours spent poring over pictures. Trips to his high school, favorite hangouts, the grocery store. Anywhere my father went, I wanted to go too. If she wanted to call my mom and sleep on it first, then I guess I'd have to be okay with that.

The room to the right, first door on the left was large and girly with lace everywhere. It was as if a princess vomited in every corner. So different from the dark blues and harsh steel colors Mom decorated our house with back home. But that didn’t matter at the moment. I had to get down to business.

I eyed the door and then shut it with a bang on purpose, positive my aunt could hear it from downstairs. Unless she was deaf of course.

The clock on the nightstand read 11:33. I busied myself for a few minutes, taking out pajamas and laying them on the bed. One of the doors in the room led to a bathroom so I checked myself in the mirror. It wasn’t pretty. I rubbed off some of the smeared eye makeup and ran a brush through my hair.

No wonder why Rose wanted to talk to my mom. I must’ve looked like a complete lunatic showing up at her house so late at night. She probably wanted to make sure I wasn’t on any crazy meds before she officially let me stay.

The clock now read 11:35. Satisfied, I went back to the hallway door and eased it open, listening. My aunt’s voice drifted up the stairs, but not quite clear enough for me to hear what she said. I tiptoed to the staircase and started down.

About halfway, I could finally make out Rose’s side of the conversation. The older woman spoke in the same commanding tone she’d took with me, “You don't think I should have known about a niece? My only family. After David died, I didn’t have anybody.”

A long pause ensued where only the sounds of creaking footsteps and sighs made their way up the staircase. At least I wasn’t the only one who found my mother annoying. Maybe Rose rolled her eyes, too. Maybe it was just something about my mom that made people want to roll their eyes at her.

“I’m not sure I will send her home. She wants to stay.” Another pause. “She’s old enough to make her own decisions.”

I smiled. This. Was. Awesome. I liked the way this woman thought.

“No. She’s not going home tonight. I already sent her up to a room and I’m going back to bed now, too. Sarah will call you in the morning."

The phone clicked off and Rose’s shadow moved into the foyer. I turned, drowning a surprised cry threatening to squeak out, and ran back up the rest of the stairs trying to make as little noise as possible.

Once behind the bedroom door, I flung myself onto the rose-flowered quilt. Aunt Rose hung up on my mother. She actually hung up on my mother.

A huge smile took over my face.

That was my idea of family. A no-nonsense bad ass.

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

 

Isabella

1639

 

Isabella lay in a rope-strung straw mattress, a breath held in her tight chest. She listened for the stirrings of her parents who lay in their own small room just beyond the brick of the fireplace. Nothing but the night sounds surrounded their timbered cottage.

She rose, cringing when the ropes pulled taut and groaned its displeasure at her. The rooms remained still, though, and for that she gave thanks. Isabella slipped her stockinged feet into worn leather shoes and prayed for forgiveness for her actions as of late. Her mind felt not her own.

She stepped away and moved nimbly across the planked floor before pressing her ear against the wood of the door.

She held her breath. The house sat still.

She needed to be sure.

Before her, though she could scarce believe it still, was a desk made of fine wood. It was by far the most agreeable adornment that had ever graced their humble rooms. She reached to play her fingers over the wood.

Later
, she chided herself,
tomorrow I shall have a little time.

On her new desk, a candle flickered, threatening to go out. It bent low from the draft of the window and then shot straight up again. In haste she moved forward and took a piece of parchment from her pouch. Unfolding it, Isabella leaned in toward the flame, angling the paper so she could read the familiar words written in crisp, slanted writing.

Nerves scuttled through her, like the hundreds of mice hunting the town streets. She pressed the paper against her chest and sighed. Then, careful to fold along the same edges, she closed it once more. Her eyes flicked towards the door, but the parchment in her hands stayed her, reminding her of still yet another chore. She must not become forgetful.

Isabella passed the door along the outside of her room, careful not to go near the center. The floorboards creaked there, even with her slight step. She made her way to the opposite corner, bent down on hands and knees, and used the nub of her finger to pry open the loose floorboard there. Once free, she grasped the board with both hands and inched it open.

Isabella drew out a bundle of paper tied with sewing string. She let her eyes pause and delight a moment over the fine papers before placing the parcel on the floor next to her. Bringing the newest sacrament to her lips, she kissed it, then hid the letter with that of Thomas’ others.

She replaced the board, her heart beating faster with every moment and moved to the door. Her ear rested against the wood where she heard the sounds of slumber interrupting the quiet of the night. She was now free to slink out of the house unnoticed.

Without folly, Isabella slipped into the main room, making sure to avoid the areas that creaked. She spared a glance toward her parents’ bedroom. Curtains hid their sleeping bodies from view.

She crept further into the hall, the smell of barley still staining the air from the vegetable pottage cooked earlier, and escaped out the cottage door. Months of secret meetings allowed her to do this with little error and she soon felt the cool night air on her face.

The full moon proved enough light to see her way. Picking up her skirt, she ran across the grass, past the hog pen, and just inside her father’s barn. No Thomas.

Out of view from the small cottage, she allowed the fear to sweep through her. His letter implied importance, but might this be the day Thomas did not show? Might it be he revealed their love to the magistrate and the magistrate forbid his son to see her again? The feeling seized her, snapping her nerves like twigs.

Her mind so fixed in doubt, her heart gripped in agony, she did not hear the rustling of footsteps over the barn floor.

“Good day, Isabella.”

She whirled. Thomas.

Suppressing a smile bubbling like a brook inside her, she dipped and said, “Good day.”

She tried to steady her breath, which came at her now in rapid gulps. The once wash of fear turned to relief, leaving her in a stew of mixed agitation.

“Are you well?” Concern darkened his smile and his usual light eyes were shadowed over. His whole body was rigid like the high masts from the great ships her father told her of, the ones that brought him to this new world.

“I am.”

He considered her for a moment, his eyes taking in her flushed complexion bonneted by loose blonde strands that had separated from her braid. “I am sorry I have come later than usual. I almost did not come at all.”

Isabella’s heart beat like the flutter of wings. “But your letter spoke of importance.”

“I have news of the utmost importance.” He stared mute for a moment. “Another woman was taken today. Father is so very angry and vows to let no evil pass his notice. I do not want them to mistake…”

A smile shadowed her face, a secret in the dark, but she suppressed it. It was not a good thing Thomas liked her enough to defy his father, endanger his honor, his life. “I understand.”

“I am tormented worrying over you. ‘Tis not safe.”

Isabella stepped toward him, uneasy over the turn of his face, and then paused, minding herself. It was not as if they were pledged to one another, nor did her situation in life recommend her. “My father does not speak of this to me.”

“I doubt if anything should reach his ears. He is hardly ever in town, choosing to work his fields instead.”

“‘Tis true. My father works hard.”

“He may know of Mrs. Worth though.”

Isabella clenched her fists around her dress. “Mrs. Worth? I am sure it cannot be so.”

“It is so. Father said.”

“I doubt your father not. I am…confused. That is all.”

“Everyone is not like you and I.” Thomas reached for her. Untouched, his hand fell in the empty space between them. “Mrs. Worth was spotted in the woods late last night in the midst of making a fire. They found evidences of previous fires there.”

“Tell me, who found her?”

“My father did not say, only revealing that Mrs. Worth has been crying out her innocence ever since.” Thomas moved in, his face in earnest. “But Isabella, you know we cannot believe her. ‘Tis all lies. Remember what the churchwardens have said? Listening to anything they say is blasphemous. She might trick us with a spell, do harm to us and free herself.”

Isabella looked away. “I cannot believe that Mrs. Worth has signed with the devil, Thomas. She has a husband and two small children.”

BOOK: Bound In Blood (The Adams' Witch Series Book 1)
9.14Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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