Prologue

PROLOGUE

Highgate-on-Trent, Lincolnshire, 1804

Amarantha Goodwynne tucked the covers around her young niece and smiled down at the child. There was a sadness clinging to her, a grief that had gone deep within her and spread its roots far and wide. That was their legacy, she thought somewhat sadly. Grief. Loss. Mourning. While she would have done anything to spare her pain, she knew with certainty that Belladonna would prevail. She felt it. She'd seen it in the cards, in the tea leaves, in her dreams.

"Did Mama go to Heaven, Auntie Amarantha?"

"I like to think so," she said, brushing Belladonna's dark hair away from her forehead. Like all the Goodwynne women, her hair was coal black and her eyes a startling amber shade. She was a beautiful girl and would one day be a truly stunning woman. Amarantha often wondered if life would not be less complicated for them all if they could be a bit more plain, a bit more ordinary. It was not an easy thing, to be different from those around you and also to be unable to escape notice. They were neither the little brown wrens nor the strutting peacocks. They were the ravens, pitch dark but showing rainbow colors in the sun. It certainly would have been better for her sister, Celeste, and for the little girl who even now wondered about the state of her late mother's soul. "Why would you ask that question? Has someone said otherwise?" If so, she had a good idea who it might have been. While most of the people in the village were quite tolerant of their differences and even appreciative of them in most cases, there were others who were not.

Belladonna ducked her head, her chin resting against her chest. "Mrs. Halliman said that she was a witch and witches go to hell to be with their master… the devil. Why would she say that?"

Mrs. Halliman had also claimed that her baby, born looking like a toddler, had been premature. But that was not something she could say to Belladonna. "Mrs. Halliman is entitled to her opinions, but they are born of fear and ignorance. And your mother was never a servant of evil and certainly not the Devil. God is not found only within the stone and stained glass confines of the church. God, if one wishes to find him, is in all things. And that is what your mother did, and what I do. We look for God in the trees, the soil, the river that winds past us here, and the breeze that cools our skin with the sun is harsh. There is more than one way to live. More than one way to be. Do not let their ignorance deprive you of your birthright, Bella."

"What is my birthright?"

Amarantha smiled mischievously and then snapped her fingers. A blaze danced over her fingertips, never burning her skin, never flickering or wavering. Belladonna's eyes widened as she watched that flame, then a slow smile spread over her face, her expression transforming into one of glee.

"Will you teach me to do that?"

Amarantha inclined her head. "If you like. I will teach you all the things that you will ever need to know… and if I cannot give you that knowledge, I will give you the skills to find it on your own." She looked at the flame, it was perfectly still, controlled, and then, with nothing more than a wink, it was simply gone. "Magic, Belladonna. Magic is your birthright. And I will teach you to wield it as it was intended—only ever for good."

"Could Mama do magic?"

"Oh, yes," Amarantha said with a wistful smile. "When we were younger, your mother was simply astonishing with her ability to do such things. The flame, Belladonna—that is naught but a parlor trick. A way to show one's power, but it is a simple thing. Your mother could do that and so much more."

"Until me," Belladonna said. "She gave all that up for me."

"She gave all that up for love. And love, Belladonna, is the most magical thing of all… Rarer and more precious than jewels," Amarantha insisted.

"Who is my father?"

She sighed. It was only natural for the child to have questions. But it was heartbreaking that all of the answers were so tragic. "A young man whom your mother loved very much, but he was killed in a terrible accident before they could wed. He loved her though, just as he would have loved you."

"Are we truly cursed, Auntie?"

Amarantha wanted to lie. She longed to deny it. But in a hundred years, not a single Goodwynne had been born within the bounds of wedlock. They were marked by tragic loves, untimely deaths, and betrayal. How could she deny that? "That is what the legend says. Perhaps it is true. Perhaps not. I cannot say. I have never been in love, Belladonna. But I hope one day you will experience that. Your mother was never happier than when your father courted her. They fell in love at first sight." Which was only another aspect of the curse. If a Goodwynne woman fell in love, they did so instantly, fully, feverishly, and forever. But while the love was permanent, the happiness was terribly short-lived. Whether through death or circumstance, the lovers would part and heartbreak would consume them. It had been so with Celeste. From the moment Belladonna had been born, she had slowly faded away, her lungs growing weaker with each passing day until she'd eventually succumbed.

"Why? Why are we cursed?"

Amarantha sighed heavily. "Because generations ago, one of our ancestors coveted a man who was in love with someone else. She cast a powerful spell on him to make him love her instead. But she didn't understand the law of three… nor did she understand that a curse, once wrought, would become the legacy she passed down time and again. And that is why, when you do spells, Belladonna, you never do them to violate another's free will. You never do harm with our craft. It is for healing, for guidance, for wellness—but it is never to be used selfishly or thoughtlessly."

"I will remember… And the curse won't matter because I'll never fall in love."

"Why ever not?"

Belladonna was quiet for a moment, then she shook her head. "I don't want to do that. I don't want to let someone love me and be doomed for it. I want to be like you. I want to make potions, read tea leaves, and make fire dance on my fingertips. I don't want to be sad anymore. Not sad like Mama was."

With that proclamation, the little girl closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep, leaving Amarantha to stare down at her in both bemusement and consternation. In the softest of whispers, she put out a call to the universe, to God, to guardian angels, to the spirits of their ancestors—to whoever might listen. "Do not let her be like me. Do not let fear hold her prisoner. Let love find her and let that love be strong enough to weather all storms. If a curse is on our family, let her be the one to break it, to stand victorious in the face of fate and dare it to take her happiness… and let her triumph."

Outside, the wind picked up. Branches swayed and creaked, toads croaked and nightbirds called mournfully to one another as if perhaps they had heard Amarantha's plea.