Payback's a Witch (The Witches of Thistle Grove #1)(71)

Now that I was here, I’d expected to feel some twinge of Gareth-related pain, from any remnants of teen Emmy that might still have been haunting my subconscious. But Gareth and I had spent more time together roaming the grounds of his family’s Tintagel estate, several miles down the road, than here—and it turned out all I felt was pissed. The castle had clearly been added to extensively since my day, as the Blackmoores churned the profits from their mini empire right back into expanding it.

It made me even more furious with them, this irrefutable proof of how they were flourishing as they turned the screws on the other families.

And I was more than a little preoccupied with Talia, whom I hadn’t seen since that night at The Bitters, two days ago. Now she stood in front of me, flinty-eyed and meticulously composed, with Gareth and Rowan flanking her, waiting for the challenge to begin. I’d thought about texting her dozens of times—okay, it was more like in the hundreds—in the past few days. But what was I going to say to her to bridge the rift? What was I supposed to offer to get us back to where we’d been, when I still wasn’t sure what I even wanted for myself, much less for us?

Tonight, I thought grimly even through the mantle’s euphoric glow, was really going to blow.

In front of me, blazing words materialized on the Grimoire’s open page. With an effort, I shuttled my emotions as far to the side as they would go, letting the Arbiter rise to the fore.


As you draw closer to the wreath, consider ye its weight and fit;

To become its rightful bearer, you must now demonstrate your wit.

Have you bent to the wisdom of your elders, to each sly cantrip and tricky spell?

Consider them query and answer both, and they shall serve you well.



I puzzled over the words even as I pronounced them with the Arbiter’s booming authority, the customary light flaring from the Grimoire and knitting itself into a token at the final, dying echo of my voice. We all waited with held breath to see which way it would flit; the Blackmoores’ holdings were huge, swathes of acreage extending in three cardinal directions from where we stood. Castle Camelot and all its attractions were only the beginning to their vast private estate.

But the token zoomed off toward the drawbridge without hesitation, the keep’s towering double doors creaking open of their own accord to let it flit through.

Which meant Castle Camelot itself would be tonight’s playing ground.

The combatants wasted no time; they raced off toward the drawbridge at a sprint, Rowan taking the lead. As I recalled, he’d run track in high school all four years just like Lin, and he still had a solid stride. Behind me, the crowd of spectators shifted impatiently, clearly wanting to follow, even as the doors slammed closed once Talia disappeared across the threshold. I flung my arms out in a barricade, following the mantle magic’s prompt.

“No one else shall pass,” I boomed, “until a victory is called.”

After a moment of disgruntled protest that they’d be denied admittance to the final, and arguably most exciting, challenge, I heard the rustling of robes and low chant of incantations, as those who knew how—and happened to have the proper equipment at hand—summoned up scrying charms to let them spy beyond the walls.

One had apparently been built into the mantle magic’s spell; as I instinctively closed my eyes, I found I could extend my sight beyond my body, my awareness whizzing out in front of me like some kind of incorporeal drone.

For a precariously queasy minute, this disembodied vision made me feel like I might hurl, and I hunched over a little, taking a few deep breaths that sounded like the rushing of a gale.

Keep it together, Harlow. No one wants to see a giant puke.

Then the disorientation passed—and I plunged through the closed doors just in time to see the combatants enter a gigantic admitting room that was probably called a Great Hall, or Ye Kingly Foyer; the place where tourists were first funneled to take pictures with the members of the “court” before continuing on their way to the shopping, food, and shows.

There, they came to a skidding halt, as a massive, clanking suit of armor stepped out to block their way. The Gauntlet token paused right behind it, glimmering above one of its shoulders like a taunt.

“Shoots from stone,” the suit of armor demanded in a metallic wheeze, spreading its arms expectantly.

The combatants exchanged looks with one another, clearly baffled by what it wanted from them. Gareth decided to play it tricky and feinted to one side, presumably to see if maybe that’s what the Grimoire had meant by wit. Juking sideways in a flash, the empty knight hauled off and whacked Gareth upside the head—hard enough for the clank of impact to ricochet all around the hall, apparently more for effect than to inflict any actual damage. Gareth took a stumbling step back, rubbing petulantly at his head, looking more annoyed than hurt.

“Shoots . . . from . . . stone,” the suit said again, more belabored this time, as if it was coaching not particularly bright children.

“Shoots from stone,” Rowan repeated to himself, face clearing, and I could see the glinting moment the penny dropped. “Shoots from stone, wait . . . The Verdant Awakening Charm! That’s it, right? That’s what you want?”

The suit tipped its head to the side encouragingly, then whistled the lilting notes of a melody, naggingly familiar. For some reason, it reminded me of the last line of the challenge. Consider them query and answer both . . .