A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 49: The Diary of Edouard Marchant

If she is a descendant of one of these lost families, then her magic is not an anomaly.

It is a continuation.

A living thread of something far older than any of us.

I have attempted to broach the subject with her—carefully, indirectly.

I cannot determine whether she is protecting a secret—

Or whether she is protecting herself.

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September 3, 1681
Normandy, Voclain Estate

I have studied many things in my life. Magic. History. The deepest and most complex theories of our craft.

But nothing—nothing—has captivated me quite like her.

She is unlike any witch I have ever encountered, and not simply because of the magic that hums beneath her skin. It is the way she carries it. The way she carries herself.

There is something about the way she exists that unsettles me.

She moves like she has always been here, like the cliffs themselves were carved around her, shaped to her presence. She does not walk; she glides, soundless as the mist rolling in from the sea. She speaks only when necessary, her words deliberate, sharp, never wasted.

This evening, I found her in the gardens. A storm was coming, the wind already thick with the taste of rain, but she stood beneath the branches of an old yew tree, eyes half-lidded, face tilted towards the sky.

She did not acknowledge me at first.

Then, just as I turned to leave, she spoke.

"Have you ever considered that we are not meant to understand everything, Monsieur Marchand?"

There was something in her voice—something wry, something almost amused.

I told her that I did not believe that. That all things, given time, could be understood.

She finally turned to me then, and for the first time since my arrival, she smiled.

"Then I wish you luck, scholar."

I do not think I have ever been so utterly undone by so simple a thing.

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September 14, 1681
Normandy, Voclain Estate

She allows me to sit with her now.

Not often. Not for long.

But sometimes, when the house is quiet, when the servants have gone to bed, she will let me sit by the fire as she reads. She does not speak much, nor do I, but I do not mind. I do not think she does either.

Tonight, I found her in the study, poring over a book so old the leather had begun to crack along the spine.

"What are you reading?" I asked.

"A mistake."

I frowned, glancing at the page. 'Ancient Rites and the Blood-Tied Gift'.

She closed it before I could read further.

"Do you know what they call witches like me, Monsieur Marchand?" she asked.

I did not answer.