Total pages in book: 21
Estimated words: 19879 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 99(@200wpm)___ 80(@250wpm)___ 66(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 19879 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 99(@200wpm)___ 80(@250wpm)___ 66(@300wpm)
“If you want to meet them,” I add.
Hazel reaches forwards, hesitating for a second, then choosing the top book on the stack. I was careful about the books I chose. Only books I’ve read, spirits I’ve felt comfortable with in the past years.
She brings it close to her body, biting her lip.
I can feel the intention of the spell circling us, and the books. The spirits aren’t always visible, but I hope they will be. Impress her. I plead with them.
Just this once, allow her to know what I do.
The hair on my nape stands up, and I brace for the magic to surround Hazel.
Nothing happens.
She lets out a breath. “Is there anything else I should do,” she asks, a note of disappointment in her voice.
“Try the next one.” I offer and make myself comfortable on the blanket around her. It takes time. Afterall, it’s only an offering. The ghosts must accept.
Hazel lays the first book carefully aside as if she wants to remind it that it’s still important, even if the spell didn’t work immediately. Her thumb caresses the worn leather and as she lifts the second volume from the pile, her right hand remains on the first. As if not wanting to let go.
I recognize the hand made paper of the one she now holds. This one was written by a soldier who fought in World War I. It’s a diary that reads like a novel. He had a way with words, which isn’t a surprise. A man who never found love and was far too wounded to think himself worthy of it until his dying days.
“His maternal grandmother was part of the coven you’ve been studying.” I speak the fact beneath my breath. As if afraid to give too much away.
Hazel’s brow arches. “You’ve been keeping track of what I’m studying?” Her tone is teasing. I love it.
“You visit the same shelves every time. You’re the only one who’s brave enough to sit at that table.”
“It’s just a table,” she says with a little laugh. I love the way her shoulders shake slightly when she laughs. “Why would it take bravery?”
“The ghosts make some people nervous.”
She watches me for a beat, probably to see if I’m joking. Is that a blush on her cheeks? Her lips part just slightly as if she’s wanting to say something but she doesn’t. The flickering candlelight makes it hard to see, but that blush is as evident as it is beautiful.
My face is hot, too. I’ve never spoken to anyone about the spirits here. Over the years I’ve learned some souls simply don’t believe in ghosts. So I keep it to myself. But this is something I could share with her. I’m sure of it.
I don’t know what’s happening to me. Suddenly it seems important for her to know the depths of my knowledge, too. I know she reads about a coven long ago. She spends hours nearly every night craving their tales and to know what’s real. I’ve felt the spirits here and I know they’re not some trick of my mind. I know it’s all real—the magic and the spells and the ghosts.
“This place is haunted.” Hazel states although her tone makes it sound like a question. She’s confirming it for herself. She must have sensed it, and why wouldn’t she have? She’s been looking into the supernatural truth of this town for years. I merely nod and she answers, “I knew it.”
My lips kick up into a smirk.
Hazel holds the book closer to her chest, her eyes fluttering closed.
I want to kiss her so much. I’ve never felt such a pull to another.
“Maybe you’re not in the mood,” Hazel says to the book, her voice soft. She lays it aside. “Next one?”
I almost forgot about the spell altogether. “Go ahead.”
She never gives up hope. Touching one book after the other. Holding them, reading the first page or flipping through the pages.
By the time she gets to the last one, my head is spinning with disappointment.
I needed this to work. I needed to show her what I did. I needed to impress her, so she knows I—
My thoughts cut out.
Hazel gently places the last book on top of the stack she made, and I can see her prepare to tell me ‘it’s fine’.
It’s not fine, but I’d almost believe it, coming from her.
“Have you eaten?” I ask, before she can say a word.
“I haven’t,” she says, running her fingers through her hair.
“Then it’s time for a picnic.” Quickly, I grab two bags that I stowed to the side. They’re not as aesthetically pleasing as a wicker basket would be, but wicker baskets don’t keep cold food cold and hot food hot. These thermal bags do.
Hazel scoots closer as I set out the plastic containers. It’s mostly finger foods that go with wine—cheese, apple slides, crackers, and sliced meats—but also imported chocolates and speciality spreads. A bit upscale. I also pull out melted chocolate, to dip.