I wish I had X-ray vision. I hate not knowing what threats I’ll have to face on the other side.
Amanda opens and closes her mouth repeatedly—a fish plucked from water and forced to flop around on dry land. She doesn’t immediately respond to my request, and I can practically see the wheels churning in her head, smoking and spitting off fire.
Then she blows out a breath, lowers her arms to her sides, and nods, the barest dip of her chin. “All right.”
She shoulders past me to grip the knocker. The repetitivetap-tap-tapsounds ominously loud in the quiet of the hallway.
For a moment, there’s silence, and then a croaky voice calls out, “Enter, child.”
Amanda grips my shoulder before I can open the door, her expression earnest. “Remember what I told you.”
“Blow smoke up the witches’ butts. Got it.” I nod sagely, and the barest hint of a smile quirks up her lips.
“I’ll make sure to get in contact with your foster dads.” She gives my shoulder a final squeeze and then releases me. “Don’t keep them waiting.”
I nod again, then I straighten my spine and step up towards the door. Before I can lift a hand to the doorknob, however, the door creaks on rusty hinges and then swings open. Shock lowers my jaw, but I quickly conceal my reaction.
Magic. Right. Duh.
I step into the room.
I don’t know what I expected—maybe a throne room or something similarly ostentatious—but instead, I enter what appears to be a dining room plucked straight out of the Victorian era.
An ornate brass chandelier dangles from the ceiling, the lavish lighting fixture illuminating the room in shades of burnished gold. The wallpaper is patterned with damask designs, all in vibrant shades of red, blue, and green.
There are two windows, one on either side of the room, and each of them is accentuated by heavy drapery tied away with golden threads. A mahogany dining table dominates the center of the room, surrounded by six intricately carved chairs. A plush area rug completes the room and adds to the elegant ambiance.
Three of the chairs are occupied.
The youngest woman sips daintily from a teacup, her lips curved in a sensual smirk as she assesses me. Her red hair, each strand straightened to perfection, frames a face almost too ethereal to be real.
Soraya, the Maiden.
Across from her sits an older woman with a severe face, prominent wrinkles, and shrewd eyes.
Ara, the Crone.
And then the final woman, positioned at the head of the table, her back towards me. All I can see is a shock of golden hair, the strands collected in an elaborate braid that cascades down her spine. I know that her face will be heart-shaped and delicate, belying the fierceness in her blue eyes.
My aunt.
Delaney, the Mother.
“Come. Take a seat.” Soraya offers me a smile and gestures towards the seat beside her.
I curl my hands into fists and step farther into the room, stopping when I reach the seat Soraya indicated. From this angle, I can finally see Delaney’s face, and my breath catches, as it did the first time I saw her.
She looks so much like me.
For a moment, I feel restless and adrift, like a pebble flung from a catapult. My heartbeat is embarrassingly loud in my ears as I gaze at one of my only living relatives.
But Delaney only regards me with cool indifference, one of her elegant eyebrows drifting upwards.
I realize I’m standing here like an idiot, gaping at her, so I quickly claim the seat.
Immediately, a silver kettle floats through the air and begins to pour into a tiny white and blue teacup.
“Do you take anything in your tea, Isabella?” Soraya asks, waving her hand in the air to lower the magical kettle.
