The Curse of Blackwood Estate

Chapter 2: Sabotage and Spells

Lily’s POV

“Admit it, Lily. You took the locket.”

The accusation sliced through me, sharp and unyielding. My heart hammered as I stared at Ethan, standing rigid in Nana’s cozy sitting room. The dim light from her old floor lamp cast shadows across his face, making his expression something cold, almost unrecognizable. My mind reeled. Nana’s locket—a delicate heirloom, one she cherished more than anything—was gone.

“Why would I want to steal from Nana?” My voice wavered, and I hated it, hated how he had me feeling like a cornered animal. I glanced at Nana, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her gaze flickering with worry. She’d been like a mother to me. And now... this?

But Ethan’s expression didn’t soften. If anything, his eyes narrowed, a gleam of accusation flickering there as he stepped closer, his tall frame looming. “Maybe because you think you’re owed something, Lily. Maybe because you’ve gotten so comfortable here, you thought it wouldn’t matter.”

Each word hit like a slap, stinging and hot. I forced myself to hold my ground, even though my throat tightened with emotion. He was twisting everything good into something ugly. “I care about her, Ethan,” I said, fighting to keep the shake out of my voice. “I would never—”

“Then why is it gone?” His tone was low, dangerous, each word carrying the weight of an accusation. He looked completely out of place in his tailored suit, so pristine against the worn wooden beams and cozy tartan blankets of Nana’s cottage. Maybe that’s what he wanted—to make me feel like I didn’t belong, so I’d quit and disappear.

My eyes met Nana’s, silently begging her to see the truth. Her gaze flickered back and forth between us, confusion clouding her features. I could almost feel the struggle within her, wanting to believe me but haunted by doubt. “Ethan,” she began softly, “Lily’s been with me a long time. She wouldn’t... she couldn’t…”

But Ethan shook his head, unmoved. “I can’t ignore this, Nana. Not when it’s something so precious to you.”

A fierce wave of anger surged through me, momentarily overpowering the hurt. How could he think so little of me? Every kind gesture, every moment of care meant nothing to him. “You don’t know a thing about me,” I managed, my voice shaking with barely contained frustration. “You waltz in here as if you own everything and everyone. You don’t know what Nana means to me.”

For a brief second, something shifted in his expression, something that looked almost like regret. But then his face hardened again. “Spare me the excuses,” he said, dismissive and cold. “If you can’t produce the locket, you’re fired.”

My knees buckled, and for a moment, the ground beneath me seemed to vanish. I grasped the edge of the table to steady myself, my stomach churning. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Nana’s face crumple, her lips parting as if to call out to me, but her voice never made it past her lips. Before I knew it, my feet had carried me out the door and into the night, the brisk Highland air wrapping around me like a dark, heavy cloak.

The forest beyond the village was cold and dense, the scent of pine and damp moss hanging in the air, grounding me as I stumbled down the narrow path to my cabin. Twigs cracked underfoot, the sound sharp in the eerie silence, and the biting chill nipped at my cheeks. Anger mingled with heartbreak, winding tightly in my chest as I wiped away my tears, furious with myself for letting him get to me.

When I finally reached my cabin at the edge of the woods, I barely registered my grandmother’s presence, seated by the stove in her usual chair, her eyes watchful and gentle. “Lily, sweetheart,” she said softly, concern threading through her voice. “What’s wrong?”

I forced a smile, the effort almost painful. “It’s... nothing, Nana,” I managed, not trusting myself to say more. How could I admit the humiliation of being accused? The sting of having my loyalty spat on?

I slipped into my room, closing the door behind me, and let myself sink onto the edge of my bed. The room felt suffocating, each familiar object pressing in—the dried lavender bundles over the window, the quilt folded neatly at the foot of the bed. My fingers shook as I buried my face in my hands, willing myself to keep it together.

“Maybe I should just leave,” I muttered, the words bitter on my tongue. But then my gaze fell on the old book resting on my shelf, the worn leather cover cracked and faded: my grandfather’s grimoire.

The sight of it stirred something deep within me, something fierce and unrelenting. I was tired of being controlled, tired of feeling helpless. My anger, hot and unyielding, burned through the sorrow, drowning out the rational voice in my head.

I reached for the book, my fingers brushing over its familiar cover. Grandpa had taught me some charms, small spells for blessing or luck. Nothing like this. My hand trembled as I leafed through the pages, each one thick with age, the script faint. Then my eyes landed on a spell—a spell that made my heart race, the words glowing faintly on the page.

Humility spell.

I traced the title, feeling the weight of the words. It wasn’t a curse, not exactly. Just a spell to give someone a taste of what they inflict on others. I glanced at the door, half-expecting my grandmother to walk in. She’d never approved of this, had always said spells cast in anger were dangerous, unpredictable. But she’d never had to deal with someone like Ethan.

Swallowing hard, I whispered the words, each syllable thick with the anger bubbling up inside me. “Let the weight he places on others fall upon him. Let him feel the struggle he scorns.”

The air thickened, charged with something electric. I felt a prickling heat crawl up my arms, a sensation that wrapped around me, tight and almost suffocating. As I finished the spell, a silence settled over the room, heavy and dense, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.

I closed the grimoire, feeling the energy ebb away, replaced by a strange calm. Maybe it wouldn’t work. Maybe nothing would come of it. But I felt lighter, as if I’d shed some of the pain, tossed it into the night like a pebble into a lake.

I lay back, my eyes drifting shut, feeling the remnants of my anger melt into a quiet peace. Maybe tomorrow he’d wake up with a shred of empathy, maybe even apologize. Or maybe he’d feel just a little of what he’d made me feel tonight.

But as I drifted off to sleep, I had the strangest dream about the forest beyond Glenwyck. In the dream, a low rumble echoed through the trees—a sound like distant thunder, or the deep growl of something ancient, something older than the Highland hills themselves. It was there in answer to the call of my spell.