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He plucks a sketchpad and pencils out of thin air and starts to sketch. He stares at me for a moment, glances at the paper, then looks back up and seems to let his subconscious take over the artistic process.
“When are you going back to London?” He asks the question as his hand races over the paper.
I shrug, then quickly correct my posture. “In a few days, I guess. It’ll be fantastic to relax with you all without the case hanging over us, but then I need to get back to my job, my life.”
The words make my chest heavy. Does it have to be this way? I could move my practice to one of the northern chambers. Embrace my magic and my family.
“And will you be back to forsaking your powers?” He’s still drawing, but all his attention seems to be on the conversation.
I laugh. “That’s a pretty dramatic way of putting it. I don’t need to be so all or nothing in future. I can’t see myself doing rituals or joining a coven, and I certainly don’t want to use magic in court ever again, but it’d be nice to be able to traverse myself places or wave my hand and be dressed and ready to go.”
“I need to be strong for the family.” Bren looks at the sky instead of at me or the sketchpad, and speaks almost like he’s thinking aloud. “I don’t know if anyone’s dared to tell you yet, but Gabriel-fucking-Thornber survived your attack after all. According to my spies, he’s already back on his feet and no doubt rapidly regaining his powers.”
I try to turn my unconscious sigh of relief into a horrified gasp. Goodness knows quite what I sound like or what weird expression is on my face. I long to go and see Gabriel before I leave town. But it’d be hard to justify and it’s anyone’s guess what reaction I’d get—possibly a lethal one.
“The Thornbers will try something again,” Bren continues. “I need to be able to stop them and protect Mannith properly. To do that, I have to consolidate our power.”
I merely nod. It’s not the sort of statement that needs an answer.
“I’m powerful, but not powerful enough,” he continues. “I’m stronger than almost anyone else, but much as it pains me to admit it, Thornber has the edge.” His pencil falls still.
I put a hand on his arm and remain silent.
“But with our powers combined, we’d be a force to be reckoned with.”
“Are you asking me to stay?”
“You never would. And if you did, you wouldn’t want to do the things that need to be done. So, no. I’m asking you to give me your magic.”
I flinch back, as though he’s about to start dragging my power out of me, though of course, he’d never do such a thing. Besides, what does he mean by ‘the things that need to be done’?
Please, please, please let me have done the right thing in trusting him and getting him out.
“I’d never take the magic of someone who relished it. But for you, it’s little more than an inconvenience.” He makes a few final, furious scribbles on the paper.
“I’ll think about it tomorrow.” I stand up and stroll back towards the sounds of the party. By which I mean I’ll think about how to break it to him gently that there’s no way in hell I’d do what he’s asking.
“Don’t forget this.” He hands me the sketch. It’s perfect, despite his apparent lack of concentration. Flattering, but still an accurate likeness. Showing my face and body, but also capturing something of my inner self. But it’s not enough to put my mind at ease. Would one night of calm really have been too much to ask?
TWENTY-FOUR
The Witches’ Church is spooky enough in daylight. In the darkness, with only the light of the moon to guide my path, it’s terrifying. Logically, any lingering spirits will be broadly on my side, and anything more corporeal should be more scared of me than I am of it. But the logical part of my brain isn’t really in control.
I feel my way through the graveyard, putting one foot in front of the other with careful precision. Sheer muscle memory carries me to my nan’s grave, then I kneel before her statue, drop into a core meditation, and search for any trace of her. There’s no sign.
I stay in my kneeling position long after it becomes clear no spirits are trying to commune with me, attempting to listen to my own mind.
Afterwards, I glance over at the statue of Gabriel’s tragic, powerful mother. It’s easy to pick out because of the way it glows in the moonlight. He must have charmed it recently. She’s the only spirit I’ve ever managed to reach, and I’m half-tempted to speak to her again now. But the sorts of things she’d tell me probably aren’t the ones I want to hear.
There’s still no statue of Gabriel’s father. Maybe he’s intending never to erect one. It’s still shocking to think he killed him. Did he hate his father? Or did he love him deep down but still manage to do the deed? I’m not sure which version is worse.
Connor’s family have already erected a statue of him, though the funeral’s not yet taken place. Looking at it brings tears to my eyes. I quickly lay some flowers on top of those placed there by others, and I whisper a blessing and an apology, but I’m too much of a coward to attempt to commune with his spirit.
There’s a slight chill in the air, and a few leaves are starting to fall. Summer is almost over, but it’s not the only season Mannith does properly. Within days, the temperature will have fallen to the point where you need to wear a jumper every day, and everything inside the Dome will be in shades of orange and brown, with the scent of bonfires in the air. I’ll be sorry to miss it.
I step around the perimeter of the building until I reach the entrance door, then lean against it, waiting for Bren.
We’ve agreed to meet out at the Witches’ Church for privacy from the rest of the family. Though I’ve not yet given him an answer to his request, Bren presumably thinks this is so we can carry out the magic exchange undisturbed. But there’s no way I can give him my magic.
