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Gwen expected Sirus to argue or say something. He didn’t.
Henry came over and motioned toward the two open doors that led to the terrace. With one final glance at Gwen, Sirus stalked right past her toward the exit.
The moment he was gone, Abigail downed the rest of her glass and handed it over to Roman before taking another off the tray. “I can’t believe you brought him,” Abigail scolded Levian as she glided to one of the couches and sprawled out so that there was no room for anyone else. Gwen assumed that the only way she wasn’t spilling out of her dress was thanks to some kind of magick.
“I didn’t realize you were so at odds?” Levian replied innocently. Gwen nervously followed the mage’s lead and took a chair across from Abigail. She’d been right—the furniture was terribly uncomfortable. “The last time you two were together, you seemed to be getting along shockingly well.”
“We were—until he got a little too full of himself,” Abigail retorted sharply. She huffed in frustration as she fiddled with a wrinkle in her gown. Roman came over, set his tray on a table, and began to rub her shoulders. The witch smiled affectionately up at him, and once more Gwen’s stomach churned. She wasn’t sure how much more of this she could take.
“All is forgiven, though,” the witch went on, brushing Roman’s hand gently with her own. “Besides, he’s far too old for me anyway.”
A jolt of shock tore through Gwen, and her back went rigid. Was Abigail saying what she thought she was saying? That she and Sirus had been—together?
A pang of something far too close to jealousy cascaded over her. Was Abigail the kind of woman Sirus was into? The idea made Gwen squirm even more. Maybe that’s why he’d really wanted to come here. Not to help her, but to see Abigail. Gwen suddenly felt nauseous.
“I’m far more interested in you,” Abigail said, her eyes dropping from Roman to Gwen.
“Me?” she replied, a touch too shrilly, thanks to her wound-up nerves and sour stomach.
The witch smiled. “Yes, you.” She patted Roman’s hand. “That’s enough, Cookie. I’ll call you if you’re needed.”
Without a word, Roman gathered his tray and slipped out of the room, leaving the three women alone. Everything suddenly felt far more focused on Gwen, and she desperately wished Roman would come back.
“So,” Abigail began with a curious eye toward her. “I am to understand you know Bridgette?”
Gwen blinked back her surprise. “Miss Jones?” she blurted in astonishment.
“She’s still going by Jones, is she?” Abigail replied with a small, snarked laugh.
They were both witches, Gwen realized. Maybe all witches just knew each other, and word had somehow spread. “She was my neighbor,” Gwen replied awkwardly, still fidgeting with her champagne glass. “In New York.”
“We’re cousins,” Abigail told her.
Gwen tipped her glass, spilling champagne on her jeans. “Cousins?” she repeated in shock.
The witch had looked familiar, and now that Abigail had said it, Gwen could see it as clear as day. Abigail was far rounder than Miss Jones, but they had similar noses and mouths and the same thick dark brows. Though that’s about as far as the resemblance went. As people, they seemed polar opposites.
“Our mothers were sisters,” Abigail confirmed, though she didn’t look at all pleased by the familial connection.
“How serendipitous,” Levian observed with curiosity.
“Hardly,” Abigail replied, downing what remained of her champagne. “Her mother was a master at potions,” the witch went on in clear admiration. “And she could bake delights beyond expression.” She sneered and cocked a brow of distaste. “Bridgette shouldn’t be allowed within a hundred feet of a cauldron or an oven. She turned my brother Horace into a speckled newt once. It took her three months before she figured out how to turn him back. He still licks his lips like a lizard.”
It seemed Gwen had gotten away easy with only suffering the occasional stomachache and weirdly colored tongue.
“She does have a keen third eye, though,” Abigail added. “I’m not surprised you ended up in her orbit.”
Gwen’s brows knitted together. “What do you mean?”
“She’s always managed to collect oddities,” Abigail explained with a sweet smile at Gwen. “Not that you’re an oddity, dear.” Gwen wasn’t sure if she was being complimented or not, but she was pretty sure she wasn’t, so she didn’t offer a reply. “She’s a magnet of sorts,” Abigail went on, mindlessly fiddling with her diamond necklace. “Creatures of magick with strange abilities or odd afflictions have always seemed to find their way to her. As if they know she can guide their path.”
“You mean she knew about what I am?” Gwen huffed. She still hadn’t entirely forgiven Miss Jones for not telling her about magick—or at least giving her a heads-up before her life had been turned upside down.
“Bridgette is not that gifted of a witch,” Abigail clarified. “She’s well-versed in the craft and can weave spells as well as any other elder witch who’s managed a prolonged life, but she’s far from a master. I imagine she sensed your presence approaching long before you ever came to her, and she merely helped guide you along based on her visions.”
Gwen bristled. She didn’t like all this talk of serendipity and fate. Like she’d just plodded along some mystical, foreseen path without any choice in the matter whatsoever. That, and listening to Abigail talk so low of Miss Jones was grating on her nerves. Sure, Miss Jones might have accidentally almost poisoned her a few times and lied by omission about magick for several years, but she’d also been something like a friend to Gwen. Something like family.
“And you think you can do better?” Gwen challenged with more bite than she’d intended.
