But the way Margot speaks…as if she and I knew Cora better than anyone else. As if I—Madam Lyrie’s son—wouldn’t be a threat to whatever twisted secret she has.
Wehave.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she says. There’s an urgency in her voice I’ve never heard before. I think back to our last conversations, but they were always quick. Easy. I never mentioned Cora,and neither did she. “Whatever you and Secora are doing now, I can’t be part of it.”
“What makes you think I would be doing anything withher?” I ask. It’s meant to be a snarl, but it’s a whispered, pathetic question. A burning desperation that claws up my throat, laced with self-loathing.
Tell me, Margot. Confirm what I now know is true. Tell me I once loved a monster, and she loved me back.
Margot flinches, putting space between us once more. She stares at me, brows furrowed, eyes darting between my features. And then, all at once, her face softens. In a single moment, she looks years younger.
“Oh, Secora,” she says. She’s not looking at me as she speaks, but off in the distance, as if speaking though the realms, all the way to that horrible, vampiric manor. When she looks back to me, her eyes are watering. “I suspected it. That she may have taken them. I guess I just hoped…”
“Margot, if you’re fucking with me, if this is some ploy that you and Cora conjured?—”
She huffs out a silent laugh, the tears remaining unshed in her eyes, making them impossibly blue.
“I haven’t spoken to Secora since the night they took her,” she says. “Clearly, you have. I can tell from the look on your face, I’m right. Did she take them all?”
“How would I know?” I snap. “She stole my memories, Margot. I barely remember her. And now, she’s giving them back, piece by piece, making it look like we weredating?—”
A surprised laugh sputters from her lips.
“She’s evil,” I snarl. “ShekilledHarrison. My best friend. And I’m supposed to believe?—”
“She loved you more than anyone, Elliot. Even herself,” Margot interrupts. She wipes at her eyes before finally looking back at me. Something like anger ripples beneath her expression,and her words echo through my mind like a pulsing drum. “If she took your memories, it was foryou. Not her. You may not remember Secora, but I do, and you will not speak ill of her.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” I say. It’s an accusation. A demand. A plea. “Why the hells?—”
“It’s almost impossible to steal memories,” she says, once again cutting me off. “Did you know?”
“She’s powerful,” I spit. “Her magic…it’s not like ours. Normal witches can’t steal memories, but she’s not normal. She’s a monster. She?—”
“Secora is no monster,” Margot says softly. She steps away, touching the door but not opening it. “The fact you’re here, confused on my doorstep, is proof enough of that.”
“You should hate her,” I say. Demand. “ShekilledHarrison.”
“Yes, she did,” Margot says. “She killed him, and they imprisoned her for it. Beat her. Starved her. Planned her execution as the event of the century.”
She’s shaking as she speaks, fists so tight her hands lose color.
“Ifhisdeath is what makes you angry, perhaps you gave her too much,” she says.
“She stole them,” I say. “I didn’t give her a fucking thing.”
“Are you sure?” she asks. She finally opens the door, stepping inside, where sounds of her spare daughter’s off-key singing persists. “Because I promise you, Elliot, you loved her more than anyone, too. Even yourself.”
17
A MIDNIGHT SNACK
ELLIOT
Mama watches me with detached curiosity as I treat her the following morning. We stand in her office, surrounded by ancient texts and various documents for the upcoming, annual witch council meeting. Heads from all different covens will attend, and Mama will be at the forefront of it all.
Fielding questions.
Planning budgets.
