Cursed (Enchanted Gods #1) - K.K. Allen Page 0,28

you hear that name?”

The last thing I want to do is drag Charlotte into this. She was only trying to help. “I asked around after I saw her statue at the library. She’s beautiful.”

Rose nods. “The most beautiful goddess of all time.”

“What kind of goddess is she?”

“The Goddess of Enchantment.”

I shake my head, confused. “I thought Circe was the Goddess of Enchantment.”

Rose’s brows lift. “Circe is the Goddess of Enchantments. A big difference in our world. Astina, however she came to be, was born on the summer solstice.”

Something triggers my memory of the conversation Alec and I had yesterday. “So, what? Was she a Wiccan or something?”

Rose glares, her nostrils flaring. “Absolutely not. Where would you get such an idea?”

I sigh, frustrated with how hard these dots are to connect. “All this talk of the solstice and how obsessed you are with your culture—I’m just trying to understand. I went to the library yesterday to find some books to try and understand what the big deal is. Did you know that there are people in this town who believe you’re a Wiccan?”

Rose takes a few seconds to answer, like she’s trying to find the right words. “Do I know the things people say behind my back? Yes, I am quite aware. Do I care? No. Am I a Wiccan? No. Not that there’s anything wrong with it. That’s simply a tired rumor that I wish you would not involve yourself in.”

Just hearing her say all of that makes me feel a million times better. I don’t expect her to elaborate.

Rose stands from the table. “There’s something I need to show you. I was planning to show you after your birthday, but I think you are ready now.”

I follow her reluctantly, hating that we blew over the fact that I have no intention of staying in town much longer. We pass through the house, and she leads me down the narrow hallway that Charlotte referred to as “Rose’s quarters.”

She stops halfway down the hall, where she pushes open a door to reveal a spacious, two-story room bursting with light. A library. It’s much smaller than the one I visited yesterday, but somehow much grander in beauty. Its cream shelves with gold trim and black spiral staircases on each side of the room give off a whimsical air that goes unmatched. I’m in awe as I pivot slowly to take it all in.

In front of the massive bay window facing the water is a living room setup. The domed ceiling is made entirely of glass, through which the morning sunlight shines in. The rest of the room is filled with rows upon rows of books.

I breathe deeply.

“This is the Summer library,” Rose says. “Your grandfather spent the majority of his time here.” She watches my face for a second before continuing. “You’ll find more information about our heritage here than in any public library can offer.”

I swallow, my fingers itching to touch the spines. “Okay.”

Rose gestures for me to follow her to a section of shelves. “Most of these are first editions. Some are just for entertainment, but most have been passed down from our ancestors. Some are even handwritten and very well preserved. Any information you seek on our heritage will be here, and maybe then you’ll understand why your birthday is such a special day.”

I’m still looking around in awe. “Thank you for showing me this. It’s incredible.”

Rose makes an appreciative noise. “I’m glad you like it. I hope you’ll spend time here. It has only seen dust since your grandfather passed.”

I nod, noting silently that there isn’t a speck of dust in the room from what I can see. “Thank you. But what does any of this have to do with why people connect the solstice to witchcraft?”

Rose looks as if she’s pondering her words carefully. “Well, dear, Wiccans practice the art of magic. They worship the earth, the gods, and goddesses. They sacrifice things to stay holy to their gods. The difference, however, is simple. Our family—the Summers—we merely come from the magic they worship.”

I let out an incredulous laugh, unable to help myself. “What?”

“Let me try that again.” I can tell Rose is struggling with her own vagueness. “We don’t practice any art, for we are that art.”

I glare at her, unappreciative of her joke. “The art of magic?”

Rose nods. “That’s right. Wiccans believe in the four elements—you know, earth, wind, fire, and water. They believe in the gods who supposedly control the elements like alchemy. It’s