Page 70 of Reckless Witch

The Watchman angles his head in acknowledgement to her, then steps aside as I say, “Good morning, Grand Witch.” I give a slight bow, first to her, then to her over-attentive assistant.

He smiles.

“How are your studies, my dear?” she asks.

“Fine.”

“Are you being treated well, child?”

“Sure,” I hedge.

Her expression turns serious. “I have learned of the attempt on your life.”

It hadn’t occurred to me that might be why she’s here.

“Are you well?”

I’m startled by the embarrassment that washes over me. I had a couple of friends in Chicago, where I’d lived for the last five years, but they seldom asked if I was all right—and never had someone of the Grand Witch’s status noticed me.

“I’m fine,” I say.

Two girls approach and she motions me to walk with her. Her assistant and the Watchman follow at a respectful distance.

We stroll to the large oak twenty feet from the door and she faces me. “Can you tell me what happened?”

I give her the basic rundown, which isn’t much, and by the time I finish describing how even Ethan’s dragon fire hadn’t stopped the spear, her expression is grim.

“Only very powerful magic is unaffected by dragon fire,” she says. “I don’t like this, at all.” She studies me for a long moment. “Have you any idea who might want to kill you?”

I want to tell her to talk to Thomas and Ariel. They’re spoiled and troublesome, but murderers? If I’m honest, I’m far angrier at the possibility that they’re bullying the thirteen-year-old kid.

I shrug. “Not everyone loves me, but I don’t know anyone who might dislike me enough to kill me.” Uncertainty niggles, and I say, “Maybe someone has tried and convicted me of practicing black magic because the Illumina convicted my grandmother of the crime. Rumors are floating around about how I practice black magic.”

She gives a slow nod. “Yes, you believe our judgement against your grandmother is unjust.”

It’s not a question.

“You’re damn right, I do. My grandmother was a very powerful white witch. She didn’t practice black magic and she sure as hell didn’t play with Shadows.”

Her expression softens. “People often change. Miriam…well, she wasn’t the same woman you knew all those years ago.”

“You talk as if I’ve been gone eons. Seven years isn’t that long.”

“It can be an eternity, child.”

The kindness in her voice makes me wish I could drop the issue. I hesitate, then ask, “Exactly how did my grandmother change so much?”

A soft light enters her eyes. “Miriam was once amongst the most law-abiding citizens in Margidda. Yet, she kept Shadows, used Shadow magic. She became secretive, reclusive.”

I can’t argue with that last.

“The evidence is irrefutable,” she goes on. “Sadly, I saw her little these last few years. Had I made an effort to spend more time with her, perhaps I would have noticed how far she’d strayed from the light.”

Strayed from the light? Oh God, don’t tell me the Grand Witch of the North is a religious zealot? Whatever happened to separation of church and state? Oh, yeah, that’s the American government, not the Illumina. Is this why everyone in Margidda has to be vetted through the Illumina before they can practice magic? Our leaders are getting religious?

“Are you certain you don’t know the people who were named on the Stone with you?” she asks.

“No,” I blurt. She’s caught me off guard.