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“You look good,” the woman says, an amused expression on her face. “Dark colors suit you.”
“I’m sorry, have we met before?”
“You’re the most powerful daughter on the Witchery, love. We all know what you look like.” She winks at me and drapes an arm around my shoulders. “I’m Jasmine. Let’s get you a drink,” she says, leading me away from Wolfe.
“Jasmine?” I ask, the name shaking something loose in my brain. “Jasmine Blake?”
She looks at me, raising an eyebrow, and then a smirk pulls at her mouth. “Yes.”
“You denounced the new coven.” I’m shocked, can’t believe I’m standing next to her. “I thought you had…” I trail off, not wanting to offend. I was too young to remember it myself, but I’ve heard the story.
“You thought I had died on the mainland?”
I nod.
“After denouncing the new order, I came here,” she says simply, offering no further explanation. And maybe she doesn’t need one; maybe making that choice isn’t as complicated as the new coven believes it to be.
She hands me a silver goblet filled with deep red wine, and it reminds me of my mother. My heart starts to race.
“I hear you’re quite gifted in the old order,” Jasmine says,
“You must be misinformed. I’m a practitioner of low magic,” I say, gripping my goblet too tightly.
“Sure you are,” she says. “I was, too, many years ago.” She clinks her glass against mine and takes a drink, and then someone calls out for her. “It was nice meeting you, Mortana.”
I’m left staring after her, her words replaying in my mind. To my knowledge, Jasmine Blake was the last witch to leave the new order, choosing the outside during her Covenant Ball. A choice must be made, and once it is, it’s final. That’s why the Covenant is so important. Besides the rush, it is the most powerful magic we do, an irrevocable oath that follows us to the grave.
I am too young to remember Jasmine’s Covenant Ball, but year after year, our witches choose the new order. It’s hard to imagine what a ceremony would look like if someone chose the outside, the kind of anger and chaos it would evoke.
The music stops, and everyone makes their way to their seats. I know Wolfe told me there were more than seventy witches here, but seeing them all in one place, dressed up and laughing and talking, overwhelms me.
Seventy-three, and we had no idea.
“Are you okay?” Wolfe says, and I jump at the sound of his voice. I didn’t see him walk over.
“Why did you bring me here?” I ask.
Before he can respond, Galen walks up to the iron arch andthe ceremony begins. I quickly take my seat next to Wolfe, spinning my glass in my hand, nervous energy humming inside me, refusing to move on.
Wolfe reaches over and places his hand on top of mine, stopping the glass in my fingers. He lowers my hand to my lap, his skin cool. My breath catches, and I don’t hear a word Galen says, too focused on the way a single touch can be felt in so many places. I’ve imagined this feeling so many times before, spent so many sleepless nights hoping my life of duty might still create this kind of madness within me, hoping Landon might ignite this kind of fire. But he hasn’t, and in this moment, I’m sure he never could.
I swallow hard, and Wolfe removes his hand from mine.
The music starts again, its deep, vibrant tones drifting on the night air. If I heard this anywhere else, I would think it was meant to evoke sadness, such a stark contrast to the fast, lively pieces at our own weddings. But here it isn’t sad. It’s beautiful and raw and bold. I blink and take a deep breath.
Two women walk down the aisle together, one in a long black gown with a full tulle skirt and fitted bodice, the other in a tight dress covered in black gemstones, her train reflecting the moonlight. Their fingers are woven together, and they stop in front of Galen.
They speak to each other of love and commitment, loyalty and patience, understanding and grace, and I’m overcome by the beauty of it, the emotions I’m experiencing for two people I’ve never met. The ceremony feels real in a way so many things in my world don’t. I raise my hand to my eye, fighting back tears, and I notice Wolfe shift in his chair, moving closer to me.
Closer.
I try to focus on what’s happening in front of me, but the music and the ceremony and the waves crashing on the shore fade away, fade to nothing. All I can hear is my blood pulsing in my ears, my shallow breaths, my too-fast heart.
By the time the women kiss, I think I might snap in half from the tension in my body, from the way every single muscle is straining. The women walk hand-in-hand to the water, saying something I can’t make out. Then, all at once, the moonflowers rise into the air and rush up the lawn, swirling all around us like autumn leaves. The music gets louder and louder, the women kiss once more, and the flowers vanish.
In unison, the witches around me say, “May your love be as constant as the tide, as powerful as the moonflower, and as patient as the winter seed. Blessings.”
Then applause and cheers break out. I stay in my seat, watching as people hug and kiss, as conversations start and laughter flows.
