Page 45 of Rituals & Rivalry

Her lower lip trembles. “My mom is going to kill me.”

“No, she’s not. Your mother is a sweetheart.”

To my surprise and mortification, she sobs. Aurora is crying, and though it’s not directly my fault, it is. Everything surrounding this cottage is. It’s hard to say if the tears streaming down her face are tears or the rain, which whips around wildly and hits her in the face.

“You’re right,” she says. “But that makes it worse—and Leo. He left me alone. Which only seemed to upset the house more. I don’t think it likes him, and it probably doesn’t like me either, but it really likes you. I’m starting to get it, I think.”

The rain softens, and my heart races.

What is she getting? What does she know?

Aurora lets out a gentle sigh. “You’re reliable. I’ve never known someone like you, someone you can really trust to be there. Not even my own family, as much as I love them. They’re always gone. And how can I be mad? They can’t rely on me either. My dad always said I was as fickle as the moon⁠—”

“You’re not.”

She continues as if she can’t hear me, each word breathless. “Dad was supposed to be the reliable one, but he’s not either. He’s the only one who left me permanently.”

I can’t understand that—losing a parent. I’ve always had my dads, and while my birth mother isn’t as active in my life, we talk from time to time. But I’ve had losses of my own. I know what it’s like to be left alone. No matter what I say, I can’t make her feel understood right now. I’ve had nights like these myself, times when my mind felt like a storm.

Maybe that’s what the house is trying to communicate. She’s always had an overpowering way of getting her point across.

All I can do is listen. So, I do.

The front of Aurora’s hair seems to have sprouted more white streaks today. Or maybe it’s a trick of the light.

“That’s why you were so attached to your ideas for the festival,” she says. “I get it. I’m sorry.”

The words aren’t what I expect, and they do little to comfort me. It’s clear Aurora still doesn’t know what I am, but she shouldn’t be worrying about my feelings. Not right now, when hers are so big.

Even though the rain disappears, I’m still holding the umbrella. I nod. “You don’t need to apologize. I’m not upset. Just⁠—”

“Just what?” She steps closer, her fingers curling over mine. “Tell me. You’re so hard to read.”

Hard to read. Exactly what I aim to be, but when it’s with her, it feels wrong. I’ve been doing so much to keep her out, and I have since the day we met at the bar. I can’t stop now. Won’t stop.

I swallow thickly. “Worried…”

She takes the umbrella from me and closes it. Her wet hair hangs limper than usual, clinging to the sides of her face, and her dress is skin-tight. I don’t let myself look for long.

“About what?” she asks.

“About being forgotten. About not leaving a legacy, I guess. A legacy like the one your family has.”

“I still don’t understand it.”

The house isn’t flooded, thank the gods, but there’s still water coating the floor. “Let’s get this cleaned up, and I’ll share some stories I’ve heard about the Serens. Sound good?”

“Yeah.” She smiles softly. “I’d like that.”

Admittedly, Aurora has heard some of the stories I tell her, but there are others she hasn’t—like how her dad, as a teenager, bested half the witches in town in a competition. Sadness flickers on her features whenever I bring him up, but she listens, and by the end, the house is back to normal.

“See?” I lean against the living room wall. “Your mom doesn’t even have to know.”

She bites the inside of her cheek. “Yeah, but the fire.”

Right. The fire. It’s a little cold in the cottage now—probably because we’re both still wet—and the fire went out ages ago. I glance at the pathetic, wet logs.

“I’ll take care of that too,” I say. “Come on.”