“Let me inside,” I try desperately. “Let me at least explain what I need. You are indebted to the Mother. It is yourdutyto provide aid to witches in need.”
The door opens with a violent thrust. I stumble backward again, narrowly avoiding a collision.
“My faith does not apply to the likes of you,” Virginia says. She’s taller than I expect, and I have to crane my neck to look up at her. She holds a palm toward me, and I can sense the magic, the invisible tension zapping between us. “You are no child of the Mother, Secora Reed. You lost that right the day they clothed you in black. Now, get out of my sight before I do to you what you did to?—”
I’m too distracted to hear them coming.
One moment, I’m cowering before Virginia, feeling pathetically small and foolish. The next, I’m gasping for breath, the world spinning out of focus. I squeeze my eyes shut and flail for stability. My hands find the stiff fabric of Beatrice’s dress.
“You were supposed to alert us,” she snarls. “Not beg to go inside.”
She doesn’t slow her pace, even when I notice we’ve left the Day Realm. The neutral territory is covered in street lights and festive music and drunken chatter. I dig my fingers against her dress and will myself not to puke.
We’re moving faster than usual.
I should tell her Virginia won’t follow us, but it’d be a guess at best. My memories, it seems, can be deceiving.
3
NASTY LITTLE THING
ELLIOT
“Here to see Madam Lyrie?” Vera asks.
The council’s attendant is the dreariest person I’ve ever met. She’s the same age as I am, but she acts older than my mama. Her hair splays over her shoulders in perfect blonde ringlets, and she peers up at me through large, round glasses. Why she wouldn’t fix her eyesight with magic is beyond me. She certainly has the skill to do so.
Perhaps the glasses are another way to age herself. To pretend she’s mature and worldly, rather than a stale overachiever.
Most people in the council building call Mama by her given name, especially when talking to me. Not Vera though. It’salwaysMadam Lyrie to her. And similarly…
“Mister Elliot?” she presses. “Are you here to see Madam Lyrie or?—”
“Yes,” I say. I can’t keep the exasperation out of my voice. “As has been the caseeverytime I come, I am here to see my mama.”
If my sarcasm hurts Vera’s feelings, she doesn’t show it. She only offers a prim nod before rising from her desk.
“Let me see if she’s available,” she says before disappearing around the corner.
I don’t point out that I could see if Mama’s available myself. Over the past few years, I’ve learned it’s easier to appease Vera’s quirks than to argue.
Minutes later, I am led to Mama’s office. Upon entering, I’m hit with the overwhelming scent of black tea and an undertone of lemon. It’s rare for Mama to bewithouther black tea, and though I don’t like the taste, the smell eases something in my chest. This place smells like comfort, likehome, and for most of my life, Mama has spent more time here than anywhere else.
“Elliot,” she says warmly. She places a well-read copy of our family’s grimoire on her desk. The spine is so worn the cover splays over her pale wood desk like melting ice.
Mama’s office is both overstuffed and organized. It’s exactly how I imagine the inside of her head to be. Bookshelves line the walls, overflowing with ancient texts and an assortment of herbs and ingredients. Beneath each item, a dot of paint categorizes its purpose. Mama explained the system to me once—in agonizing detail—but I’ve long forgotten how it works.
Some things, like Mama’s brain, are easier to admire than to understand.
“Hi, Mama,” I say. I cross the room, dodging the small ritual set up on her rug. It’s a location spell, and from the charred edges of the three herbs, it’s already been completed. “Looking for someone?”
“Yes,” she says. Her expression plummets as she glares at the location spell. She pushes from her desk and squeezes between two lopsided stacks of books, pulling me into a tight hug. “How was the surgery?”
“Fine,” I say. It’s the truth, but it’d still be my answer, even if it wasn’t. The last thing I want is Mama worrying over it—overme. Despite being twenty-eight and a reputable healer, she still looks at me like I’m a gangly teenager.
Mama pulls back, hands on my shoulders. Her eyes narrow as she looks over me. She won’t find anything. These are fresh clothes, free of wayward blood or potion spills.
“I changed,” I assure her, rolling my eyes. “You really think I’d risk bringing a deadly infection to the council building?”
