Back in a Spell (The Witches of Thistle Grove, #3)(83)

Inspired by Morty’s reasoning, I’d petitioned Emmy for an exemption to the oblivion glamour for Jessa, explaining that I wanted my best friend—my platonic life partner, someone who I knew would always matter deeply to me—to know who I truly was. All of who I was. I’d even suggested that this was something she might consider on a larger scale, from her Victor’s perspective; making the glamour a personal decision rather than a sweeping autocratic mandate, by allowing witches the freedom to choose whom they felt safe sharing their secret with.

She’d told me that she would take it under advisement, but I could see immediately that the idea appealed to her. Unlike my grandmother, or any of the other Blackmoores who’d led before her, Emmy was an egalitarian sort of Victor. The kind of person who strove for justice and fairness in every aspect of her role.

I was really beginning to cultivate a new respect for her, along with a genuine liking.

In turn, Jessa had taken the news of my secret identity with her usual aplomb and passionate zeal for anything remotely interesting—and this development made me much more interesting than I’d ever previously been in our shared history.

“Are you for fucking real right now?” she’d demanded, grinning wildly as I lobbed witchlights around for her as proof, transformed her ceiling fan into glimmering sheaves of peacock feathers and back again. “I get why you couldn’t tell me before—that good magic always comes with bullshit rules for the civilians—but come on, it’s me! All those years of Supernatural and Magicians, and not even a dropped hint? Fuck, you owe me an entire decade of casting entirely at my whim.”

She’d loved Morty in person, too, just like I’d expected, and would likely never stop patting herself on the back for her pivotal role in bringing us together. All three of us now wore complementary gowns, like a matched set; I was in red and gold, a fiery satin that the old Nina would never have chosen before, but that blazed beautifully against my blond updo and eyeliner-rimmed dark eyes. Morty wore grayscale, a velvet blazer over a silver corset and gray gown, his eyes sapphire against smoky makeup much more elaborate than mine.

I couldn’t stop sneaking enamored glances at him, and from the warm admiration and spikes of desire that pulsed reliably through our bond, I knew the feeling was extremely mutual.

Even with whatever else might happen tonight, I couldn’t imagine myself happier than this, flanked by the two people who mattered most in my little world.

And for several hours, they were all that mattered; sharing mulled wine and iced petit fours with them, dancing with Morty and Jessa in turn, whirling in the candlelight with the brighter-than-bright moon and stars winking above us like a goddess’s coin. So much to be dazzled by, even in this, the year’s longest and darkest night—the night before the balance finally tipped back toward the light.

Then Emmy swept up onto a podium beneath an evergreen arch studded with holly leaves and berries, and I knew the moment of truth had come for us.

The crowd stilled at once, before she’d even said anything; she glowed blue with Thistle Grove’s distinctive light, from her eyes to her hands, where she held them clasped by her waist. She’d been wearing a dress the last time I’d seen her dancing with her partner, Natalia Avramov, but now she wore the Harlow family robes, the Victor’s Wreath gleaming on her hair.

“Blessed Yule to all,” she began, with a little smile. “And thank you to the Thorns for their gracious welcome, and the beautiful display they’ve designed for us tonight . . . with some assistance from the Avramovs.”

So I’d been right about that, I thought, my gaze skimming over to where Rowan and Isidora stood near the podium, holding hands.

He wore a beautifully tailored but fairly staid navy blue suit, his long locs drawn back, while she wore elbow-length lace gloves and billows of gauzy black tulle like ectoplasm. Her entire freckled, milky back was bared down to the twin dimples at its base, her dark red hair braided into an almost sculptural updo. They looked like the most perfect mismatch in the history of time—highlighted by the subtle, elegant way Rowan bowed his head to Emmy, while Isidora dipped much lower than necessary, her black dress pooling around her, into what was clearly the sassiest of curtsies. How the two of them functioned as a couple was a mystery for the ages.

Then again, I thought, sneaking another glance at Morty, who was I to talk?

“Before we fully embrace the light,” Emmy continued, her blue-tinged gaze sweeping over the gathered crowd, the wreath throbbing with sapphire light, “there are some things I’d like to share with all of you, knowledge that has come to light. First, a recent revelation, particularly well suited to Yule—we finally know more about Lady’s Lake, what makes it magical. There’s a statue of a goddess lying at the bottom—a deity named Belisama, to the best of our understanding. We still have no notion how and why she came to be there. But if you’d like to learn more about her, I’d direct you to Tomes & Omens, where both James and Delilah Harlow will be happy to share what we do know.”

A moment of stunned silence followed, almost immediately splintered by an excited susurrus of whispers, as clusters of people began turning toward one another and breaking into quiet but urgent conversation. In the crowd, I could see my mother’s and grandmother’s icy blond heads snap toward each other like twin hawkish cameos.

Then they both turned, frosty gazes trawling the crowd—in search of me and Gareth, presumably. Because who else could have gone to Emmy, besides the two of us?