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“Asshole,” she mutters as I walk to the door.
I open it and stop to look back in. “Wear something appropriate.”
“Appropriate,” Willow says, all innocent smiles that show off those pretty white teeth. “Yes, sir.” She mock salutes.
“Appropriate,” I emphasize, and step into the hallway. I close the door just as Emmanuel steps out of his room. He looks like he just got home, never mind if he slept.
“Morning, brother. Long night?” I ask, patting his back.
“I fucking hate Sunday mornings,” he grumbles, pushing his hand through his unruly wet hair. He glances at my closed bedroom door. “Where is your bride? Can she walk this morning?”
“She’ll rally.”
The bell chimes, announcing five minutes before we need to leave. Grandmother likes us to be prompt. Emmanuel and I head down to find Grandmother and Rébecca coming out of the kitchen.
“Hi!” Bec says, brightening when she sees us. My mind wanders to what Willow said about her being terrified of Grandmother. Is that true?
“Not so loud, Bec,” Emmanuel says to her.
Grandmother clucks her tongue. “You look like you’ve been out all night.”
“Hey, I showered, so at least I don’t smell like it,” Emmanuel says. “I need to grab toast.”
“There’s no time!” Salomé yells to his back as I bend to kiss my sister’s cheek.
I notice the necklace Bec is wearing. It’s new, or at least, I haven’t seen it before. I almost comment but she notices me looking at it and tucks it into the collar of her dress with a quick glance up at Grandmother. I’m reminded again that she’s almost sixteen but looks like a much younger child. I wink to tell her I’ll keep her secret because she’s clearly hiding it.
“Where is your witch?” Salomé asks as I straighten.
“My wife, you mean?”
She makes a dismissive motion.
Before I have to answer, we hear a bedroom door open and close and heels clicking down the hall. Emmanuel comes around the corner just as we all turn to see my wife stop at the top of the stairs. She’s practically beaming, and I see why when she slowly, ever so slowly, descends the stairs, giving us all time to take her in.
“What in the name… Azrael! You cannot allow this… this…” Grandmother is practically spitting.
Emmanuel chuckles. “This morning just got more interesting.”
“Oh, Willow!” Bec says when Willow stands on the bottom step. “You look so beautiful!”
“What she looks like is a harlot. We will be a laughingstock!”
She does look fucking amazing in a black dress, red cloak, and over-the-knee boots that I may have her leave on when I punish her for this transgression. The flame red lipstick is the cherry on top.
“Change! Now!” Salomé orders.
Another chime sounds. We have to leave.
“No time,” Willow says sweetly, shrugging her shoulders. “We don’t want to be late for my first ever Mass!”
“I will not allow you to shame us this way!”
“She’s fine, Grandmother. We’ll be late. Let’s go.” I wrap my hand around the back of my wife’s neck and lead her out, not missing her victorious grin—which I am sure Salomé will make her pay for later. “What happened to appropriate?” I ask as I open the passenger side door to the Series 1 Jaguar E Type. It was my father’s, and I’d had it modified to fit my taller frame. This car put a smile on his face like nothing else could. Willow looks at it, raises her eyebrows, and gives me an approving nod before climbing in. I close the door and get into the driver’s side. The rest of the family will follow in the Rolls Royce.
“Whatever do you mean?” she asks innocently.
“I’m going to enjoy punishing you, wife.”
She sets her hand on my thigh. “Oh, I’m sure you will, husband, but it is already worth it. Nice car, by the way. Wouldn’t expect it of you.”
“It was my father’s,” I tell her, then shut my mouth because I have no idea why I’m telling her this.
“Really?” she asks, and I see her studying me in my periphery. “The jacket too?” She touches the ornate gold threading on the lapel.
I nod once, surprised she has noticed.
“You must miss him,” she says softly.
My jaw tightens, as do my hands on the steering wheel. She rubs my arm and drops it. I’m sure she noticed my white knuckles.
Mass at St. Trinity Cathedral is a long, drawn-out affair. Emmanuel nods off. Bec kneels and stands and kneels again on the hard wooden kneeler from which Grandmother has removed the cushions for both herself and my sister. My wife is, as expected, gawked at by the men and women alike, with the former wearing a very different expression than the latter.
The men at least wither at my glance, and I keep my hand around the back of my wife’s neck for the entire Mass, not liking anyone’s eyes on her.
