Page 8 of Tanglewood Legacy (The Three Sisters 3)
What last night was a sapling struggling to cling to its last shred of life, was now at least ten feet tall, its braided trunk solid and strong. She walked under its lush branches and placed her hands on the section that was smooth and sleek, just like her wand, with elongated knots that stretched toward the sun. The branches that grew from it were home to darker green leaves than the rest of the tree. They wrapped low around the trunk, preferring the shade from Medea’s and Circe’s branches.
“Good to have you back, my friend,” she said to the tree, placing a kiss upon its bark.
A scuffle behind her announced Circe and Medea at the tent flap. Their faces lit up just as hers had, and they rushed to her side.
“It worked!” Circe squealed, rounding the tree to the part that birthed her wand. Its trunk veered toward the center of the tree and went straight up, exploding into tiny, pale leaves that danced in the slightest breeze.
Medea leaned into the side of the tree that connected to her magic. It filled in the gaps, blending the energy of Circe’s bright magic with Isis’s shadowy sorcery. “Oh, I can feel it.” She rested her forehead against the bark. “Thank the goddess.”
Rhys ran a hand through his beard. “Incredible. It’s like we never uprooted her.”
“If anything, I feel stronger than before,” Circe said. “I think she likes it here.”
After a few moments appreciating the tree’s beauty, Medea grew restless and turned to face the wooded horizon. “Come, sisters. It’s time to build our future.”
* * *
Days later,Isis stood on the wraparound porch of the big farmhouse, staring out across a field of indigo that was just sprouting from the fertile soil. They’d constructed the house using magic, felling the trees, slicing them into boards and interlocking them in the way that homes were built in Darnuith. It felt like home, made more so by the furnishings they’d conjured or brought with them from France.
“Finally, a place to lay roots,” Circe said. Rhys took her hands and started dancing with her to a song that must have been in both of their heads because they moved in perfect unison beside her.
Medea smiled warmly. “Brings back memories.” Tears welled in her eyes.
As much as Isis wanted to be happy for Circe, her chest felt heavy as if a ball of lead had formed there. She’d never been in love. Never felt the all-encompassing need for another person the way Rhys and Circe seemed to feel about each other. There was ownership there, as if they were two parts of a whole that had finally found each other, completing each other. Medea had it with Tavyss before he was killed and Circe had it with Rhys now, but Isis had never experienced it. And although she was delighted for both her sisters, she felt an acute emptiness at the thought.
If she could never trust anyone here with who she really was…what she really was…she’d never love or be loved. What kind of life, then, would remain for her? Was she to exist as no more than an accessory to her sister’s relationship? A sidekick to Circe’s story?
Tears pricked her eyes. It wasn’t enough. She wanted more.
“Sister, is everything all right?” Medea asked.
Isis blinked away her unshed tears. “Excuse me. I need some rest.”
She climbed the winding staircase at the center of the house and entered the room she’d chosen as her own. It was sparsely decorated with a four-poster bed and a set of drawers. But it was the full-length mirror in the corner she sought out. Wiping under her eyes, she opened the wooden box she kept on her dresser and retrieved a single hair, the color of coffee grounds.
She shouldn’t use it.
Nothing could ever happen between her and Pierre.
Just one look couldn’t hurt, though, could it?
Raising her wand, she pressed the hair against the silver and muttered a spell. The hair sank into the mirror, the surface rippling like a disturbed pool. And there he was.
ChapterFive
Pierre sketched the blooms of the oleander tree into his journal, anxious to write to his colleague in France about the plant’s properties. The parish’s new botanical garden was coming together nicely, with a growing selection of native plants, now named, hazards and uses identified. Eventually, he planned to publish his findings in a guidebook of the region.
“What stunning pink flowers.” Her voice came from behind him just as the scent of evening primrose and something fresh—cucumber, he decided—met his nose.
He stood and whirled, finding her smiling under the shade of a parasol. “Isis, what a pleasure to see you again.” Itwasan intense pleasure. The woman was as stunningly beautiful as he remembered.
Her smile grew wider. “And you, Pierre.” She approached, grazing his shoulder with her own as she gazed down at his notebook. “Is this the secret occupation you refused to share with me days ago? You study plants?”
Pierre cleared his throat, but his tongue felt thick as he spoke. “One of them.”
Her brows rose toward expertly coiffed black hair. “A man of many talents.”
“I prefer to think of myself as a student of many disciplines,” he said. “What is science after all, but an organized desire to know things previously unknown?”
