Back in a Spell (The Witches of Thistle Grove, #3)(46)
“That sounds nice,” I said, pulling back a little and tilting my head toward one of the nearby benches that sat along the paths. “And I’ll be fine. Unexpected upside of whatever’s happening to me, apparently winter doesn’t get under my skin anymore.”
When we reached the bench, I set a hand on one of the slats, sending the gentlest possible pulse of elemental heat through it. Even with as much restraint as I could manage, the wood momentarily glowed red, its sparkling crust of snow not just melting into a dribble but sizzling like water splattered onto coals before it steamed off into the air. It was so smoldering hot we had to wait a few moments for the wood and iron to cool to a reasonable temperature, and even then residual heat seeped through all our layers when we sat down.
“Dang, this is actually quite pleasant,” Morty remarked. “A luxury seat-warmer bench experience. Like a spa for your ass.”
I gave a little mock bow, complete with a courtier’s flourish of the hand. “Uncontainable surplus of magic, at your service. Though I am planning on teaching you a few of the more normal spells like this today.”
“Before we do that . . .” He reached out and took one of my hands, folded it between both of his own, and rested it on his lap, like he couldn’t bear not touching me any more than I could. “Want to share what some of all that was? What you’ve been grappling with? I mean, that first soul-crushing rush alone . . .” He whistled under his breath, eyes darkening. “That is not an acceptable way to walk through life.”
“Welcome to being a Blackmoore,” I said, with a bitter half shrug. “That was you feeling how my mother has made me feel, pretty much since I can remember. And my brothers, too. Like we’re never quite meeting her exacting standards. Like even at our best, we’re some level of defective or mediocre, or vaguely disappointing for reasons indeterminate. Sometimes, we get frozen out; other times, things get very loud. You can never really tell what you’re going to get, when it comes to Lyonesse. Worst ever box of chocolates.”
“That’s fucking terrible,” he said, jaw setting. “Why even have children, if you’re going to emotionally abuse them like that?”
I swallowed hard at that word, though I knew that this was what my brothers and I had endured, even while we’d been showered like royalty with every possible creature comfort, shown every material indulgence. Sassy Sue had never minced words when it came to naming it, either. But I still had a hard time hearing any mention of abuse spoken aloud, a part of my brain instinctively rejecting it as a silly overreaction.
The same part of my brain that had been drilled since childhood that this was simply how things were, and who was I to rail against it?
“Part of it is generational, I think. She was raised that way, too; our grandmother is actually worse. Stricter, less tolerant, even more demanding. And the worst part is . . .” I heaved a shuddering sigh, leaning back against the bench. “Sometimes, when you least expect it, my mother can be wonderful. Hilarious, warm, supportive. Willing to stay up all night drinking wine and listening to your ruminations on life, or sharing behind-the-scenes gossip about the Blackmoore dynasty, the wild magic she saw growing up. My brothers and I . . . we all have these amazing memories of her, of shining moments like that. But you never know how long you’ll get. When that inevitable gate is going to come slamming back down, and you’re stranded back outside in the cold.”
“You’re right,” Morty said, an even harsher undertone to his voice, his hands tightening on mine. “That is worse. That’s how they make rats lose their minds in conditioning experiments, did you know that? Give them unpredictable positive reinforcement, so they never know what’s coming. Deconstruct their egos. Break down their little souls.”
“That’s what my therapist says, too.” I took another breath, struggling to explain the next bit. “She . . . she thinks Lyonesse might be a narcissist. A clinical one, I mean.”
“Sounds like it. And sorry if this comes off harsh, but I’m not one to accept any diagnosis as a blanket excuse for damaging other people. Whatever her own shit, that doesn’t entitle her to dump toxic waste on you and your siblings your whole life.” He tilted his head, peering at me with narrowed eyes, though nothing about this close scrutiny felt unkind. “And you and your brothers, none of you ever thought to just cut ties? Leave all that trash behind?”
“Where would we go?” I said, with a helpless shrug. “Who would we be? Even if we were okay with being cut off from the family fortune—which, believe me, all of us have seriously considered at one point or another—that’s only half the point. If we move away from here permanently, we lose our magic; that’s how it works in Thistle Grove. And none of us would ever do that willingly.”
“Fuck me,” Morty muttered. “So that’s the dilemma. It’s bend the knee, or lose pretty much everything.”
“That about sums it up,” I agreed, despondent. “So then I . . . I think when I was picking partners, I chose one who seemed completely different on the surface. Charming, spontaneous, open. All the things Lyonesse isn’t. All the things I’m not.”
“You think you aren’t charming?” Morty said, genuinely baffled. “Admittedly, I haven’t known you very long at all, but, Nina—I already know you’re adorable. Weird as hell, in the most endearing and surprising way. You must know that.”