special soap or cream.
Vittoria loved crafting perfume as much as I adored blending ingredients into sauces. She used to sit where I was, head bent over secret potions, tinkering until she got the scent right. A bit of floral notes, a touch of citrus, and she always included an undertone of something spicy to balance it out. She’d whoop with delight and make us all wear her latest creation until we were sick of it. One fall, she made everything out of blood orange, cinnamon, and pomegranate and I swore I’d never so much as look at any of them again. The memories were too much . . .
I pushed away from the island and kissed my grandmother. “Good night.”
Nonna inhaled deeply, like she wanted to impart some wisdom or comfort, but gave me a sad smile instead. “Buona notte, bambina. Sleep well.”
I climbed the stairs, dreading the silent empty room that was once filled with so much joy and laughter. For a second, I considered torturing myself with watching Nonna make spell candles again, but grief weighted my eyelids and tugged at my heart.
I slipped out of my muslin dress and into a thin nightgown, trying not to remember that Vittoria had the same one. Except where my ribbons were ice blue, hers were pale pink. The air was thick with summer heat, promising another restless night of tossing and turning.
I padded barefoot across the floor and pushed the window up.
I stared out across the rooftops, wondering if Vittoria’s murderer was out there now, stalking another girl. Nearby, I swore a wolf howled. A singular, mournful note hung in the air, sending a shudder down my spine.
In my haste to get into bed, I knocked over a glass of water. Liquid ran over a spot I’d forgotten about. It was a place in the floorboards where Vittoria hid things. Little trinkets like dried flowers, notes from the latest boy who loved her, her diary, and perfume she’d made.
I rushed across the room, dropped to my knees, and almost broke my fingernails as I pried the board up. Inside were all the objects I remembered.
Plus a gambling chip with a crowned frog on one side, and two thick sheets of black parchment tied with matching string. I blotted them on my nightgown, hoping I hadn’t ruined this precious piece of my twin. My hands trembled as I unrolled them. Gold roots edged the border, the ink shiny against the darkness of the oversized page. They were spells torn from a grimoire I’d never seen. I scanned the script, but couldn’t quite identify what it was used for. It listed herbs and specific colored candles and instructions in Latin. I pushed the sheets aside and pulled her diary into my lap.
I was willing to bet my own soul that this was the key to unlocking what she’d been doing—and who she’d mistakenly trusted—in the days and weeks leading up to her death.
I ran my fingers across the scarred leather. Holding her diary made me ache with memories. At night she’d write in it constantly, recording everything from each of my strange dreams, to Claudia’s scrying sessions, notes about her perfumes, spells and charms, and recipes for new drinks. I had no doubt she also told this diary each secret she’d been keeping from me.
All I had to do was crack the spine, and I’d discover everything I needed to know.
I hesitated. These were her private thoughts, and I didn’t want to commit one more violation when she’d already suffered so much. I sat quietly, considering what she would urge me to do. I easily heard her voice in my head, telling me to stop thinking about the fall and to just jump. Vittoria took risks. She made hard choices, especially if it meant helping her family.
In order to find out who killed her, I needed to follow in her footsteps, even if it made me uncomfortable. I inhaled deeply, and opened the diary.
Or I would have, if the pages weren’t stuck together.
I pulled a little harder, not wanting to destroy it, but worried the water had somehow damaged it. The book didn’t budge. I yanked it with all of my strength. It didn’t even bend. I scooted over to the wall, placed my feet on the lip of the back cover and my fingers along the front and tried prying it, and . . . nothing. A dark suspicion took shape.
I whispered a spell of unveiling, and tossed a pinch of