Page 82 of My Faire Lady

She smiles down at me and squeezes my hand. “When Murrell witches die, the magic in their bodies transfers to the next leader of the coven, which is me. A piece of each of my ancestors lives within me, and based on how my magic reacts when you’re around, they must like you.”

I suck in a cheek. “What makes you say that?”

The floorboards groan under our feet, and Scarlet presses a hand against the wall, closing her eyes. “When you were only coming here on the weekends, my magic could sense you the moment you stepped on the land. And when you’re close, my magic responds to you. It wakes up.”

“It sounds like your magic has good taste,” I say.

“Yeah.” She smiles, eyes pressed shut. “It does.”

She sighs and pulls her hand away from the wall. “I don’t feel anything. If there was something here as potent as the answer to the warning, I’d be able to tell.”

I let go of her hand, wandering across the space to the other wall. “What if we’re thinking about this the wrong way? What if it’s something simple that could bring back the magic? I’ve read books and seen movies, and it was always something like love that brought it back.”

“It’s not love,” she whispers.

“How do you know?”

Her eyes hold mine. “Because if it was love, Lottie, the magic would be fixed by now.”

My stomach plummets as I soak in her words—as they crest through the air and trail down the length of my spine. I open my mouth. Close it. The air thickens, and I risk a step closer, but she runs a hand through her hair and takes a step away.

“Let’s go,” she says, already heading toward the steps. She glances over her shoulder, and whatever shadow had crossed her face moments ago has been wiped clean. “You’re going to love the maypole.”

29

Ipace the length of my living room, muscles too wired to sit. “How much longer until they post the winner?”

Lottie taps a button on her computer, refreshing the page. “They said it would be up at seven in the morning, so with the time change—” she squints at the time on her screen “—in less than a minute.”

My heart scrambles into my throat, and my pacing only speeds, wearing tracks into the floor. It’s been three weeks since she shipped her contest entry, and every day I’ve debated whether or not I traced the rune correctly. It’s kept me tethered, a small distraction, as we searched the land for an answer to the waning magic, coming up empty every time.

Because if I can’t believe in myself, at least I can believe in Lottie.

I’ve ruminated over the second half of my mother’s note—about everything being a lie—while on the couch every night, staring at the ceiling. I haven’t dared spoken it aloud, but part of me wonders if there was always a time limit on the magic. Maybe Lottie’s presence isn’t stopping it from leaving, but just slowing it down.

Even if she stayed, it’s only a matter of time before the magic is gone completely.

She refreshes the page again. I pad to her side and brace my hands on the back of her chair, watching over her shoulder.

The page reloads, and she sighs, checking the time. “It’s past the time they said it would be up. Maybe there’s some sort of delay.” She peers at me over her shoulder. “If you’re tired, you can go to bed.”

“I’m not tired,” I lie.

My muscles ache, eyelids heavy, and while it’s edging past two in the morning, I have to be here. If my rune worked, and she sees her name on the screen, I can’t miss the look on her face. But if my rune failed—the magic too weak to span time and distance, I have to hold her while she cries.

She leans her head against the back of the chair, and I comb my fingers through her hair.

“I’m worried about the magic,” she whispers, closing her eyes as she leans into my touch. “We’ve searched every inch of this land and read through every book possible, and there’s still nothing.”

I swallow past the lump in my throat. Worry has become a constant companion of mine, but it’s not her burden to bear. “It will be okay.”

She lifts her eyes to mine, and the computer screen times out, giving way to her background. A photo of her and Kelsey when they were younger.

“I know you don’t believe that for one minute,” she says.

I huff a laugh. “Okay, I’m worried, but I don’t want to focus on that. I want to focus on you winning this contest.”

Letting out a groan, she straightens and rolls out her neck. She spent all day bent over the sewing machine, making bespoke pieces to fill orders from the week before. Tapping a finger against the keyboard, she reawakens the screen to the contest website.