Page 31 of Witchy Woman

The word ‘whispers’ catches my eye. It’s not ‘fire,’ but considering I’m barely paying attention to what I’m reading, it may be there anyway.

Virginia Pruitt, 1746. She would have been Elizabeth’s great-granddaughter.

Let’s see what you have for me, Virginia.

Chapter 14

Virginia Pruitt

Virginia Pruitt was born in 1746, the daughter of Annabelle Pruitt Beckett and Timothy Beckett. She and her sister, Dorothy, were twins, raised together with knowledge of their magical background.

Just like the women before her, Virginia’s powers manifested themselves when Virginia started her first course. It began with whispers, as she described them to her mother, from seemingly nowhere.

After months of testing elements, trying to see where Virginia’s powers lay, they finally found the whispers coming from the candle flame.

Not much else is known about the early days of Virginia’s training, as those journals were lost in a fire.

Virginia tragically went insane and died unexpectedly at the age of eighteen. Family historians have concluded it was a heart attack, but the nature of which is still unknown.

The family line continued through her twin sister, Dorothy.

Chapter 15

That’s Not Ominous At All

That’s not ominous at all.

Journals lost in a fire? Virginia dying of a heart attack ateighteen?

The math ain’t mathing.

Something was up with her magic, and I have a feeling it was because she was a Fire witch. Maybe this is why we’re the rarest type of elemental. Most of us don’t make it that far in life.

I have to keep learning magic. I can’t let Draven show up and fuck my family up even worse than he already has. No matter that I’ve had permanent goosebumps and a lump in my throat ever since I read the words ‘heart attack.’

This is turning into a perfect fucking day. And it’s going to get worse.

Because I have to talk to Hazel and Grandma about this. It’s pretty clear I’m in over my head, and as stubborn as I’d like to be about it, I’m not trying to end up dead.

What even is my life at this point?

The flame on the scented candle next to me flickers and snaps, as if it’s trying to get my attention.

“Don’t you fucking start with me,” I hiss at it. “I am very much not in the mood.”

Now I’m fighting with fire. Awesome.

I need a shopping break. Shopping is second nature to me, if I’m shopping I don’t have to think. I don’t have to fixate on heart attacks and burned journals and the fact that Virginia was only eighteen.

With a nod, I stand. I place the ‘back in fifteen minutes’ sign on the table and stride off toward the accessories.

There’s a yearning in my gaze as I look at all the bits and bobs, seeing part of the dreams I used to have. But I can’t stay away from them. I can’t help noticing the shifts in patterns, materials, and techniques.

I can’t help wondering why I can’t have my dreams.

The bagsI drag home from the market don’t help me feel any better. I’m dreading this conversation, and no amount of shopping can change that.

Despite how desperately I tried.