Back in a Spell (The Witches of Thistle Grove, #3)(84)
My stomach dropped instinctively, and Morty twined his fingers through mine in response. “You have nothing to be afraid of,” he murmured to me, grazing a kiss over my cheek. “They can’t hurt you, Nina, because you won’t let them. And I won’t, either. You know I won’t.”
“Of course I know,” I whispered, squeezing back. “And I’m not afraid. Not of them, anyway. Not anymore.”
Emmy lifted her hands to still the chatter, and all heads swiveled back to her.
“Unfortunately,” she said, a cool, dignified determination settling over her face, that strobing blue light intensifying until it seemed to emanate from her entire person, “it has also come to my attention that Elder Blackmoore purposely withheld this vital information from me for weeks, with clearly malicious intent. Her actions contributed to the ongoing magical fluctuations most of you have experienced, the weakening of our communal power. And thus, I invoke the Rule of Victor’s Justice, as is my prerogative as described by the Grimoire.”
This time, a stuttering gasp raced through the crowd as everyone caught their breath, hands flying to mouths, astonished glances exchanged, along with a growing angry murmur. We all knew the rule existed, but it hadn’t been invoked in generations; there had always been a tribunal instead, for every level of infraction.
Emmy was sending an unmistakable message here, and it was that a breach of trust had been perpetrated of such a shattering magnitude that she wouldn’t even stand for a trial.
This time the punishment would be delivered by her edict, with no room for appeal.
“Elder Blackmoore,” she intoned, her voice gaining a new, menacing knell that I knew must stem from her dual magical authority, “by the Rule of Victor’s Justice, I hereby strip you of your status. Anyone willing to plot against the Victor and Voice of Thistle Grove—and willing to act to the community’s detriment—is unfit to lead one of the four families. You will not be banished, but you will be severed, cut off from your magic for this act of treachery committed against both town and lake.”
I could see my mother stagger in place, fury and shock blasting across her face.
“Mercy, Victor!” she cried out as she sagged, leaning against my grandmother for support. I didn’t know how the blockage of magic worked, but presumably it was already in effect, stripping my mother of all the power she’d ever known. The worst sort of loss any of us could imagine. “We—I—plead for mercy! According to the rule, I am willing to atone, to suffer any other punishment—”
“No,” Emmy tolled, simple and stony. “In accordance with my will as Victor, it is already done, the decision made. The role of Elder will transfer forthwith to Scion Gareth Aurelius Blackmoore, for a trial period of a year, at which time I reserve the right to reconsider. Elder Blackmoore, may you bear the burden and privilege of leadership with more grace than those who’ve come before you.”
I glanced around frantically until I spotted Gareth in the crowd—slack-jawed and blushing, a strange mix of utter shock and pride commingled on his face. At any other time, I would have considered this a terrible call, an absurd mistake on Emmy’s part, but not now; not given how hard Gareth had been working to build a better version of himself. She was giving him a proper chance to grow, to make good on all that potential he’d been wasting for so many years. Maybe he was capable of forging a new and better path for our family.
A road to being Blackmoores who contributed instead of inflicting damage, who molded themselves to the needs of this town rather than the other way around.
And then, as I knew she would, Emmy turned to me. Icy panic swirled inside me like a blizzard, a needling rush from my skull down to my toes as I steeled myself for her pronouncement.
“Nineve Cliodhna Blackmoore,” she intoned, and then, more gently, “Nina. For your role in these events—for both the great good and the ill you’ve done—I sentence you to a year of limited magic. You will not cast any working at all, unless someone around you finds themselves in grave peril. And alongside Delilah Harlow and at her instruction, you will help restore the lost wardings at Tomes & Omens.”
I inclined my head to her in acknowledgment, my heart pounding like a mallet as an intense wash of relief surged through me—because this wasn’t terrible at all, nowhere near as severe a punishment as it could have been. This was only what I deserved. And even if I didn’t have access to my own magic for an entire year—a prospect that, despite everything, filled me with an agonizing sense of preemptive loss—I would still have Morty to teach. I’d even be able to feel his own burgeoning grasp on magic through our bond.
“This is okay, right, babe?” Morty said, his thumb skimming the inside of my wrist, pressing down gently so he could feel my pulse flicker against the pad of his thumb. “You can handle this?”
“Yes,” I whispered back. “She could have . . . it could have been much, much worse.”
Not only that, Emmy had chosen to divulge nothing about what had really happened, granting me privacy. This way I could control the narrative, tell my story only if I wanted to, to whomever I deemed fit to hear it. It was both gracious and kind of her, the ultimate courtesy—and more than anything, it made me believe she didn’t bear any real grudge against me.
And if I was going to be working with Delilah, that likely meant even she didn’t completely hate me for what I’d done to her—and that meant almost more than anything.