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He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to me.
I accepted it with a frown. “What is it?”
“Your mother’s phone number.”
My stomach did an odd flip-flop. “How’d you get it?”
“She asked Sophie for your contact details. Sophie got hers instead. The choice should be yours as to whether you want to talk to her or not.”
I didn’t say anything. I really couldn’t. I just stared at the white bit of paper, a dozen different emotions tumbling through me. Belle and I might have discussed the possibility, but this little bit of paper meant I now had to make a decision.
My inner child still wanted nothing more than to run and hide from the possibility of hurt that the contact would bring. The adult I’d become wanted answers, even if they did hurt. I wasn’t entirely sure which half of me was stronger.
Ashworth lightly gripped my shoulder. “I’ll not advise you one way or another, lass. Just know that Eli and I are here if you need us.”
I blinked against the sting of tears and briefly gripped his hand. “I know. Thank you.”
“I haven’t got a daughter,” he said, his voice a little gruff. “But if I had, I sure as hell would have been proud if she’d grown up like you. Your parents are idiots.”
And with that, he turned and marched out the door.
“We definitely struck it lucky when he and Eli came into our lives,” Belle murmured.
“And part of me thinks I should be happy with that and not look backwards.”
Belle glanced at me. “You’ve spent all these years second-guessing your mom’s part in this. If nothing else, you deserve to have some answers. You don’t have to have any sort of relationship with any of them beyond that. As Ashworth said, the choice is yours.”
The choice might be mine, but would my father take any notice? Now that he was aware of my link to the wild magic, I very much doubted it.
I took a deep breath and released it slowly. One problem at a time was a motto I needed to follow for the next few days.
My father could wait until after I’d decided what to do about my mother.
In the end, the adult—and the need for answers—won.
But my hands shook as I slowly keyed in her phone number, and it took what seemed like forever before I could press the green call button.
The phone rang… and rang.
My stomach was twisting so badly it physically hurt. I wanted to hang up, to say I’d tried and leave it at that. And yet I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life wondering what would have happened if I’d only held on and asked my questions.
Whether I could actually trust the answers I got over the phone was another matter entirely. My mother, like my father, had played in the political arena for decades, and was well versed in the art of subtle manipulation.
Finally, the ringing stopped and a cool voice said, “Eleanor Marlowe speaking. How may I help you?”
The sound of her voice after all these years sent a wild mix of joy, anger, hurt, fury, and sorrow tumbling through me, and it momentarily robbed me of the ability to speak. This woman was my mother, but she’d always been something of a stranger.
“Hello?” she repeated. And then, with the slightest catch that spoke of uncertainty, added, “Elizabeth?”
“Yes.” The response was whispered; my throat was so damn dry I couldn’t manage anything else.
“Oh.” She paused. Gathering herself, I suspected. Controlling her emotions—or was that merely the wishful hopes of that lonely inner child? “Thank you for calling. I wasn’t sure—”
“Neither was I.” And I still wasn’t, if I was being at all honest. I took a deep breath and plunged on before courage fled. “But I needed to know why you didn’t stop the marriage. You must have known I’d have never willingly agreed to it.”
There was a longer pause. “You really must believe that I had no idea your father had used a combination of drugs and spells—”
Anger—and old hurt—stirred, making my response sharper than I’d intended. “Did that response wash with the Black Lantern people? Because it certainly doesn’t with me.”
