Back in a Spell (The Witches of Thistle Grove, #3)(58)
“Why not?”
“Oblivion glamour, remember?” I reminded him. “First she’d be terrified out of her wits, and then she’d forget it all. I love Jessa. Why would I want to do that to her?”
“And you couldn’t just tweak it?” he asked, looking over at me with those ridiculous, bluer-than-sky eyes, still rimmed in dark liner. I wondered when they’d stop feeling like such a sucker punch; part of me hoped they never would. “It’s set in stone, somehow? You can’t carve out exceptions? Or cast, like, a counterspell on her, something that would allow her to experience magic and not forget it?”
I thought about this, taken aback. The oblivion glamour wasn’t completely black-and-white; for instance, when we used magic to enhance our musicals, the audience didn’t forget what they’d seen, because they had no reason to think that what they had witnessed was anything but mundane theatrical artistry. I wasn’t actually sure whether the glamour had been designed that way originally, or whether some artistic Blackmoore had fiddled with it at some point, to facilitate our use of magic in the Camelot shows.
But if such a loophole already existed, why couldn’t others be made to exist?
“Well, I suppose there might be,” I said slowly. “We just . . . it’s forbidden by the Grimoire to let normies see magic, unless they’re partners. Likely-to-be-witchbound partners, who are on the path to becoming witches themselves. That’s how it’s always been.”
“Seems like a silly distinction to me. Arbitrary. I get you all fear that burning mob, which is entirely legit, all things considered. But chosen family is still family, romantic interest or no.” He tilted his head from side to side, pensive. “Shit, I’d argue some friendships are more solid and enduring than romances. Many, even.”
“Case in point, my ex-fiancée,” I said, jaw clenching. “She knew about magic, and it was absolutely wasted on her. For someone as deliberately whimsical as she was, you’d be surprised how little she cared about that piece of things. I’ve never even seen the oblivion glamour work that quickly on someone so previously immersed. She forgot every witch thing she’d ever seen like two days after breaking off our engagement.”
“Probably a lesson in there somewhere,” Morty said, with a slantwise little glance. “Maybe something about not trying to marry people lacking in a sense of childlike wonder. Or respect for you.”
“One lesson of many, when it came to her,” I said with a sigh. “That I should have learned much earlier.”
“We all have our blind spots,” Morty said, drawing me against him until my head rested on his shoulder. “Believe me, I’ve gone astray many a time in my own dating life. Mistook a bunch of red flags for a carnival, as they say—and by ‘they,’ I obviously mean the relevant memes. My philosophy tends to be, as long as you learn something from it, there’s not much point to regretting anything. Or anyone.”
“You and my best friend are really going to hit it off,” I noted again. As if to underscore my point, my stomach grumbled so loudly it was audible even above the wind whipping at the ramparts. Morty chuckled, not even bothering to pretend he hadn’t heard it.
“Maybe we should feed you, before you cause a cosmic rift or something with your hunger pangs,” he said. “And I mean that very fondly. I’m actually starving, too.”
“Well, if you’re willing to suffer being fed on Blackmoore grounds,” I pulled away to glance over at him, just a little challenging, “I could give you a tour-de-force sampler of Camelot’s culinary offerings?”
“I accept, milady,” he said, soft mouth curling. “But only because it’s you offering.”
* * *
Once Morty came around to the fact that Castle Camelot was, in fact, ridiculously fun when you leaned into its intentional camp, we did much more than just eat.
As I drew Morty from the tavern where they peddled ale and actually delicious turkey legs, to the snack bar with the fried dough smothered in powdered sugar and drizzled with chocolate syrup, to the little bar hidden in one of the towers where you could get “medieval” sliders and other themed apps and cocktails, we somehow wound up getting our faces painted, too; Morty’s idea, but one I wasn’t even a little averse to. I went with a phoenix, its blazing wings curling around my left eye like a mask, while its glitter-strewn tail swept down my cheek all the way to my jawline. Morty chose an abstract, cosmic purple-and-silver medley that somehow managed to evoke both Prince and David Bowie, and set off his eyes to an almost unnerving degree.
“That is literally exactly what I was going for,” he said gleefully, when I informed him as much. “So, maybe you’re a little bit right about Camelot. This place . . . not terrible.”
“Since you’re feeling more open to things,” I said, looping my arm through his, “could I interest you in a joust?”
“Turns out I can’t say no to you.” He waggled his eyebrows. “And lance-slinging gentlemen knights don’t sound like the worst, either.”
“Wow, medieval dick jokes!” I marveled. “We’re really reaching new heights here.”
“Gotta aim for those stars, babe.”
In the summertime, the jousts were held in the courtyard, but in the winter, we moved them to the indoor amphitheater, where you could also enjoy a prix fixe dinner while you cheered on your knights of choice. So we ate yet again, because I was somehow still intrigued by the notion of roast Cornish hen, crispy new potatoes, and mini bread puddings even after everything we’d already sampled.