Witcha Gonna Do? (Witchington #1)(59)

Usually, I’d be sucked in by the painting’s strong colors and the intensity of the composition as the man tries to survive the dangers that seem to be everywhere, but not tonight. Blood rushes in my ears as loud as the train we traveled into Salem on and adrenaline has my insides jittery even as I maintain the placid expression on my face while inside my head I am screaming, “Hurry up!” Whoever thought years of appearing calm and collected on the outside to deal with other witches’ snide comments about me being an outré would come in so handy?

It’s taking too long.

The guards are starting to blink and look around as if they’re coming back to themselves.

Those standing in line for the exhibit begin grumbling about the wait.

My heart is in my throat as I desperately try to think of something—anything—that will give Eli and Birdie another few minutes.

“Matilda Grace Sherwood?” Gil says as he goes down to one knee in front of me, a small, square, velvet box in his hand.

Everyone around us stops even pretending not to be staring right at us. A bazillion cell phones get pointed our way. Several witches must have immediately gone live on WitchyGram, because they’re talking into their phones like they’re working the red carpet at the Oscars—a sound that I don’t even have to strain to hear because the gala has otherwise gone silent. Still, no one is more surprised than I am.

Yeah, I’m bug-eyed and slack-jawed in front of the most influential witches in all of Witchingdom. My mom is going to be thrilled when we finally thaw her.

Gil opens the box, revealing the sapphire ring Vance had delivered along with a message from Gil’s mom. Am I hyperventilating at this point? You bet your ass I am. Sure, I know it’s not a real proposal. He’s just buying time. The way he’s looking at me, though, as if I’m the only person in the room—check that, in the world—has my heart fluttering in my chest.

“Tilda, will you do me the great honor of being my wife?”

I’m not faking my ear-to-ear grin or the explosion of happiness that has me about ready to take off like a rocket straight through the skylights at the top of the gallery. A cooler woman would be lying to you about all of that, playing it off like it was nothing. We’ve moved beyond that, though, and you know that this feels so damn good even though I know it’s all pretend.

Gil slowly stands and takes the ring out of the box and holds it up so he can slide it on my finger.

My chest tightens enough that I worry my ribs will crack with the intensity of it all. I can do a lot of things, but I can’t let him put that ring on my finger. My heart might be a lost cause already, but I still have to do what I can.

“Yes, I’ll marry you,” I holler loud enough for the pixies hanging over the top banister on the top level to hear me.

Then I throw my arms around him and kiss him the way I would if any of this was real.

Flashes are going off around us, but out of the corner of my eye I see two gardeners, the taller of whom has an oddly flat and rectangular chest under his coveralls, make their way from the alcove to the doors and out into the formal gardens.

The breath I’m holding escapes in a whoosh. “They made it.”

Gil must be more nervous than he lets on, because his shoulders lower a few inches. “Two minutes and then we head for the doors.”

He pockets the ring and presses his palm against the small of my back, more reassuring than pushy as we move to the next painting, closer to the hall leading to our escape out that back garden gate. Around us, people are whispering and taking photos, but no one approaches as we look at the painting by Elisabeth Louise Vigée Le Brun of a little girl looking at her reflection in the mirror and that reflection staring out from the canvas. At any other time I would look closer at the informational card by the painting, but I’m too excited to make the letters form words even as I pretend to read it as I count down the seconds until we can run out of here to go celebrate our engagement privately, as far as anyone in attendance knows.

Finally, I straighten and turn to Gil, absolutely everything in my body lighter and more bubbly than it has ever been. I swear, I could float all the way back to the train, my fingers intertwined with Gil’s, and then once we got there we could celebrate—with Vance, Eli, and Birdie at first, but eventually back in his room, alone, naked, and orgasmic.

I smile up at him, too happy to hold it in. “I love it when a plan works out perfectly.”

Of course, that’s when a guard in front of the private gallery presses a button near the door and an alarm sounds, and all hell breaks loose.





Chapter Twenty-Eight


    Gil . . .



The siren is high-pitched enough to stab a person right in the ear and yank out their soul.

There are guards rushing in from everywhere heading straight for us. Dressed all in black, they’re the size of small trolls and armed to the teeth with nasty-looking long knives. Everything about them screams paid mercenaries. I push Tilda behind me into the curtained-off alcove where Eli and Birdie changed clothes.

Looking out between the narrow slice of space between the two curtains, I brace for whatever is coming next—not that it matters. My only mission at this point is to keep Tilda safe.

Another witch would let me take the risk of seeing what the mercenaries are doing as they swarm the museum, but not Tilda. Instead, she sneaks in front of me and crouches down so she can look out without obstructing my view. A soft gasp escapes when she finally gets a peek at what is going on on the other side of the curtain. The mercenaries are stopping and frisking each witch. They’ve locked down The Liber Umbrarum gallery and are headed right for us, no doubt to secure the door leading out to the formal garden—aka our only way of escape.