A low layer of clouds settles over the manor, hiding it from the moon. Soft orange light flickers from glass lanterns that hang on either side of the door, illuminating dense ivy that stretches from the earth to the pitched roof. To the side of the house is a garden, a sea of white in an otherwise dark night.
“Are those all moonflowers?” I ask, mesmerized at the sight of so many at once.
“They are.”
I’ve explored every inch of this island and never once seen the manor before me. I’m amazed that this kind of power lives inside Wolfe, magic so strong it can hide an entire manor for years on end. A power that he thinks lives in me, too.
“This is your home?” I ask, taking in the cracked stone pathways and the candlelight flickering on the brick walls.
“It is,” he says, looking up at the manor. “We all live here together.”
“How many of you are there?”
He pauses. “Seventy-three.”
“Seventy-three?” I repeat, shocked. “There are seventy-three witches practicing dark magic on this island?” I feel an immediate urge to run home and tell my mother, tell her that the old coven is alive and well, thriving on our island.
We’ve been fooled.
All of us.
In this moment, my mother’s lie doesn’t seem so bad, not when this exists. Not when there is a manor full of dark magic and old witches and powerful spells. She’ll be devastated.
“Mortana, you’re at my home,” Wolfe says. “Do you think you can refrain from using offensive terms while you’re here?”
I barely hear him. I think there was a lightness to his voice, but I’m not sure. My mind is racing and the world seems to spin around me. My stomach clenches and my head lolls back. “I don’t feel well,” I say.
The spinning gets faster. Wolfe’s arm catches me around my waist as I collapse. Then, total darkness.
* * *
When my eyes open, I’m in a cozy room on a soft bed. Dark mahogany beams stretch across the ceiling, and the same wood makes up the four-poster bed. A large fireplace rises from floor to ceiling on the opposite wall, the logs popping and crackling as they burn. A glass bottle on the bedside table reflects the firelight, and I recognize it as the memory keeper I gave Wolfe. And sitting beside it is a jar of oil with the flowers and herbs we gathered together: his peace perfume.
An ache starts in my chest.
A pile of leather-bound books covers the table on the other side of the bed, and a canvas with a half-finished portrait rests on an easel between two large windows. Wooden brushes sit in jars, and tubes of paint are scattered around them. I don’t recognize the person in the portrait, but that makes sense. Theirs is a hidden life, just like Wolfe’s. I’m mesmerized by the painting, by the incredible detail it holds, by the hours he must be spending on it to get it exactly right.
I wonder what my portrait would look like if he were to paint me, but a sadness moves through me as soon as I think it. I have no need for one because I will be remembered.
I slowly stand, but I sit back down when I hear voices beyond the door.
“What were you thinking, bringing her here?” a voice says.
“She doesn’t see…” I can’t make out the rest of Wolfe’s reply.
After several more sentences that are too quiet for me to hear, the door opens and Wolfe steps inside. He gently closes it behind him.
“How long was I out?”
Wolfe pauses when he hears my voice. “Long enough for me to get you settled in my room.”
My cheeks heat as I wonder how he got me here, how much of this evening I’ll spend enveloped in his arms. Wolfe looks at the fire and the flames get stronger, and for half a second I’m stunned. Then I remember where I am.
“I always forget you can use magic at night.”
“So can you,” he says plainly.
I sigh. “Do we have to argue right now?”
“No,” he says. “We can do it later.”
He moves closer to me, and I realize it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him indoors. Candlelight flickers against his dark hair and pale skin, and he seems softer here in the refuge of his home. His gray eyes don’t hold the same anger they usually do, and the muscle in his jaw isn’t tensing every few seconds.
He’s still him, but he’s comfortable here. Comfortable and perfect.
“You’re staring at me,” he says.
“You don’t look as disagreeable here.”
There’s a slight tug at the corner of his mouth that worsens the ache in my chest. “I’m flattered.”