Where You Go ― Jason Grace

xxi. a divine visit from ophelia's grandmother

❖

Ophelia opened her eyes to her childhood living room.

She looked around her, taking in the small, cozy room as recognition flickered in her mind. She couldn't conjure up any memories of the place, but she knew she'd been here before. The leather couch, with scratches on the arms and sides; the coffee table, with faint water rings decorating the surface; the fireplace, already lit with a deep purple fire, filling the dimly lit room with warmth and a faint purple glow. 

She knew fire wasn't supposed to be purple. It was a strange, disconcerting sight, as the purple flames crackled quietly behind a mesh screen. Its presence should have filled Ophelia with dread about what other strange things were to come, but all it elicited was a faint warmth that had nothing to do with the flames' heat. 

In front of the fireplace, carved into the wooden floor was a circle of symbols Ophelia couldn't decipher. The circle was just big enough for an adult to kneel in the middle of it, but Ophelia didn't dare to go near it. She had a feeling the symbols didn't mean anything good. 

Ophelia walked toward the coffee table, her boots thudding softly against the hardwood floor. She ran a hand over the arm of the couch as she passed it, the briefest flicker of a memory coming to mind—Ophelia, tiny and held tight in the arms of someone who smelled like sage and tea. 

Ophelia swallowed against the unexplainable lump in her throat and knelt down next to the coffee table.

The coffee table wasn't cluttered, but it wasn't bare, either. There was a tray with three candles standing half-burned in it, along with a matchbook and a bundle of what looked like dry leaves bound together by a white string. Another flicker of memory—the smell of sage burning in the air, and the faint sound of Latin chanting. 

Unsure why, Ophelia reached for the matchbook, and lit the three candles. The flame was orange as she struck the match, but the second it touched the wick of the tallest candle, it changed to the same shade of purple as the fire in the fireplace after only a moment. Ophelia took the lit candle and lit the other two before setting the first back down in the middle. 

Next to the tray was a silver necklace, and next to that laid a blank piece of cardstock the size of a birthday card. 

She picked up the necklace, holding the closed locket in her hand. It fit neatly in the middle of her palm, barely larger than a quarter. The front of it was engraved with a symbol—two lit torches crossed over each other. 

The same symbol that was apart of Ophelia's strange tattoo. 

Carefully, she wedged her fingernail into the locket, opening it. There were two tiny pictures inside.

The first was of Ophelia, but she was much younger—two, maybe three. She was sitting on the lap of a woman who almost exactly like Ophelia, only older, though she looked no older than twenty-five.

Even without her memories, Ophelia knew it was her mother—the woman who smelled like sage and tea.

Next to her, smiling at the camera, was a woman who looked so much like Ophelia and her mother that they had to be related. This woman didn't look much older than Ophelia looked now. Her hair was shorter and dyed a shade of purple just a little lighter than the fire that burned in the living room, but her dark eyes and soft smile were the same. 

The second picture in the locket was just the second woman, who beamed at the camera, her eyes crinkling at the corners. She looked about the same age as she'd looked in the first picture, but her black roots had grown out, the purple ends of her hair standing out against her white top. Her smile was radiant, full of joy, but for a reason Ophelia couldn't understand, the photo filled her with grief.