Chapter 9 #2
The food, luckily, was excellent. Roasted vegetables from the garden’s stores, fresh bread, a mushroom soup that steamed in ceramic bowls. The Greenbriars’ cook had always had an exceptional talent, even without magic. Conversation, however, was stilted.
“So, Zara,” Eleanor said after several minutes of silence broken only by the clink of silverware. “What do you do for work?”
“Corporate consulting,” Zara said smoothly. “I work remotely.”
“How modern.” Eleanor’s smile was thin. “And how did you and Ramona meet?”
“Through work, actually.” Zara didn’t miss a beat. “I was consulting for the shop’s parent company.”
Ramona nearly choked on her soup. Mystic Moon Books didn’t have a parent company. Marcus owned it outright, funded by his parents. But her mother was nodding, accepting the lie.
“And you’re originally from… Londoven?” Thomas asked. His voice was deep, measured.
“Do we need to interview her so intensely?” Ramona interrupted, wary that Zara would try out a Rushen accent.
“Your English is excellent,” Bradford commented, glancing to Iris as if for approval. She gave him a tight smile in return. Ramona snorted into her wineglass.
“Thank you.” Zara took a sip of wine.
“How accomplished.” Eleanor turned her attention to Ramona. “And how is your work, dear? Still at the shop?”
The question sounded innocent. It wasn’t.
“Yes,” Ramona said carefully. “Still there.”
“Busy season?”
“Always busy.”
“I’m sure.” Eleanor cut a piece of bread with precise movements. “Though I imagine it must be quite different from your previous position.”
There it was, like a knife, slipped between Ramona’s ribs with practiced ease.
Ramona’s hands tightened on her fork. “Yep,” she said, popping the P.
“Still,” Eleanor continued, her tone light, “I suppose retail has its own merits. Certainly more stable than academia these days. Less… demanding. As I’ve always told you, the academy isn’t for everyone.
I did thrive there, of course, but you never quite did.
” She sighed, swirling the wine in her glass.
Zara cast a sidelong glance toward Ramona, then looked toward her mother.
Iris was staring at her plate. Bradford was methodically eating his soup.
Thomas looked up toward Ramona, as if expecting her to say something.
As Ramona stole a look at Zara, she noticed the demon was staring directly at Eleanor, her eyes dark.
“And you don’t have to worry much about the incident, since you’re all the way away in Fernwick,” Eleanor added. “Much safer for everyone involved.”
The room went very quiet.
Ramona felt like she couldn’t breathe. Something came over her when she was with her parents, like she was a weak child again. She wanted to defend herself, wanted to explain, wanted to scream that she’d been trying, that she’d been doing her best, that retail wasn’t a failure, it was just —
A chill seemed to fall on the room, the candles in the middle of the table flickering as if in a breeze. “I’m sorry,” Zara said. Her voice cut through the silence like a blade. “I don’t understand what you could possibly mean by saying that. Could you explain it to me in detail?”
Everyone turned to look at her.
Eleanor’s eyebrows raised slightly. “I simply meant —”
“Because from where I’m sitting,” Zara continued, her tone still perfectly polite but with an edge underneath that made Ramona’s pulse quicken. “It would seem you’re implying you’re not proud of the path your daughter has chosen.”
“Zara—” Ramona whispered.
“No.” Zara didn’t look at her. Her eyes were fixed on Eleanor.
“We gather for Imbolc to celebrate the halfway point between the winter and spring, right? Tonight is a promise of renewal, of rebirth, of fertility. It’s meant to be a cleansing date, where you light candles against the darkness and cleanse your home of negativity.
And yet, I’m shocked to find that despite the crosses and the candles and the feast, the negativity clearly remains among us. ”
The silence was deafening. Ramona’s mouth fell open in surprise.
Eleanor had gone very still. Thomas set down his spoon.
Ramona couldn’t speak. Her throat had closed up completely. Hot, urgent, embarrassed, and grateful tears were building behind her eyes.
No one had ever—
In two years, no one had—
“Well,” Eleanor said eventually. Her voice was tight. “That’s certainly an interesting opinion.”
Zara smiled, her expression almost serene and pleasant. “I would hope that perhaps we can all choose to focus on the brighter days ahead instead of the darkness of the past.”
Iris was staring between them with her mouth slightly open. Bradford was pale. Thomas cleared his throat awkwardly.
“Perhaps we should look ahead and discuss Ostara,” Eleanor said, clearly desperate to change the subject. “The Spring Equinox Gala is in six weeks. The whole family will be attending, of course.”
“Of course,” Iris echoed quickly.
“Ramona.” Eleanor’s gaze fixed on her daughter. “You’ll be there this year. No excuses.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a command.
Ramona found her voice. “I’ll try—”
“You’ll be there,” Eleanor repeated. “The Greenbriar family will be hosting a table. Your absence has been noted. People are asking questions.”
“What kind of questions?” Ramona asked, though she knew the answer.
“The kind we’d rather not answer.” Thomas spoke for the first time since the meal began. “You’re a Greenbriar, Ramona. Act like it.”
Zara cleared her throat, and Thomas added, “Please.”
The hot feeling behind Ramona’s eyes intensified. Under the table, she felt Zara’s foot find hers, the toes of their shoes touching like an immediate reminder that Ramona wasn’t alone.
“We’ll be there,” Zara said calmly.
Something passed across Eleanor’s face — surprise, maybe, or assessment. She looked between Zara and Ramona, clearly calculating something. “How lovely,” she said finally. “It will be nice to have you both there.”
The rest of the dinner passed in awkward small talk.
Iris asked questions about Londoven that Zara answered with alarming specificity.
Eleanor discussed the latest Magical Council’s ineptitude in elaborate detail — she wasn’t a member, but an inner circle of well-connected and wealthy witches were always somehow involved in Council business.
Thomas described a scandal at a recent chess tournament he’d attended.
Ramona barely heard any of it. She was too focused on Zara’s foot against hers, steady and grounding.
When dinner finally ended, Eleanor suggested coffee in the drawing room before lighting the bonfire in the back paddock. Ramona excused herself for a moment, barely remembering that would mean Zara had to come with her.
Ramona headed upstairs without really thinking about where she was going, Zara following silently behind. Her feet knew the path — second floor, third door on the right, past the portrait of her grandmother that always seemed to be watching.
Her childhood bedroom.
She pushed open the door and stepped inside, and it was like stepping back in time.
The room was exactly as she’d left it when she moved out for graduate school.
Twin bed with a faded blue quilt. Desk covered in old notebooks and dried-out pens.
Bookshelf sagging under the weight of medieval grimoires, linguistic theory textbooks, and young adult novels she’d never thrown away.
The walls were covered in posters — the witch band she’d been obsessed with at sixteen, a map of constellations, a chart of runic alphabets.
And the trophies. So many trophies.
Awards from academic competitions lined the top of her bookshelf. Spelling bees, language competitions, essay contests. A plaque from her undergraduate thesis defense. Her diploma from Thornwood’s doctoral program, framed on the wall like it was something to be proud of.
It had been, once.
The bedroom felt less like a sanctuary and more like a shrine to what Ramona could have been, if only she had lived up to those expectations.
Ramona sat down on the bed, the springs creaking under her weight. The mattress was too soft, the same one she’d had since she was twelve. She stared at the diploma, at the careful calligraphy spelling out her name and achievements.
“May I sit?” Zara gestured to the bed.
Ramona nodded, not trusting her voice.
Zara sat down beside her. The twin bed wasn’t made for two people — their thighs pressed together, shoulders touching. Ramona could feel the warmth of her through the fabric of their clothes.
“You kept everything,” Zara said quietly, looking around the room.
“My mother kept everything. I haven’t been back here since—” Ramona stopped. “Since before the divorce.”
Her gaze landed on a photo on the nightstand. Ramona at her dissertation defense, ecstatic, holding up her bound thesis like a trophy. Simone was beside her, arm around her waist, smiling politely.
That version of Ramona looked so happy. So hopeful. So completely unaware that in a few years, everything would fall apart.
“You were brilliant,” Zara said. Her voice was soft, but certain. She reached and took the photo frame in her hand, glanced at it, and then set it face down.
Ramona huffed out a bitter laugh. “Past tense.”
“You still are.”
Ramona groaned. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I never say anything I don’t mean.”
Something in Zara’s tone made Ramona turn to look at her. Zara was watching her with an intensity that made her breath catch.
“I’ve read your dissertation,” Zara said. “I even found your published papers on code-switching in grimoires — it’s extraordinary work, Ramona.”
Ramona’s throat tightened. “How did you—”
“Hell has an excellent archival library. And I was curious.” Zara’s expression was serious. “Your research on how medieval witches deliberately mixed languages to control who could access their spells — it could fundamentally change how witches understand magical text preservation.”
Ramona shifted her weight on the bed, the springs creaking. “Well, it doesn’t matter that I studied dead languages now, since it’s all dead to me anyway.”
Zara’s thumb traced absent patterns on the quilt between them. “You didn’t just study dead languages. You proved they were strategic choices. Power moves.”
“Really, it doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it matters.” Zara’s hand found hers, warmer than Ramona had imagined. Her grip was firm, and Ramona felt a tightening of the tether between them, a taut bowstring of tension. “That doesn’t disappear because you can’t teach anymore.”
Ramona stared at their joined hands. “What use is a magical languages professor who can’t cast spells?” Ramona’s laugh was bitter. “What use is expertise without execution?”
“The same use as any scholar, any subject-matter expert.” Zara squeezed her hand.
“Knowledge doesn’t require performance. Understanding doesn’t require demonstration.
You taught them how to read power. How to see strategy in syntax.
That’s not less valuable because your own magic is…
” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “Difficult.”
Ramona’s eyes were burning. “You don’t understand. The theories needed practical applications. My students needed someone who could show them the spells, not just explain the grammar.”
“They needed someone who could teach them to think critically about magical texts. And you did that.” Zara turned to face her fully.
“Do you think all the archivists citing your work care that you can’t cast?
They care that you can read a thirteenth-century grimoire and explain exactly why the author switched languages mid-incantation. That’s rare, Ramona. That’s valuable.”
They sat there for a moment, hands joined, shoulders pressed together on the too-small bed. The room felt smaller than it had when Ramona was young. Or maybe she just felt bigger — older, sadder, carrying years of weight that teenage Ramona never could have imagined.
“Thank you,” Ramona said quietly. “For what you said downstairs. You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I did.” Zara shifted slightly, and suddenly they were very close.
Close enough that Ramona could see the exact shade of Zara’s eyes — she’d once thought they were black with red speckles, but now she could make out that they were a very deep brown with flecks of gold and orange and red, like trees in fall.
Her dark eyelashes were long and thick. “Your mother was being cruel. Someone needed to say something.”
Ramona’s heart was doing a tap routine in her chest. She had to remind herself that every feeling was the magical bond between them, the tether creating a false intimate knowledge of one another.
They were both vulnerable because of it, but Zara was a demon, and a damn powerful one at that.
A demon of temptation. A shiver ran down Ramona’s spine.
Zara’s gaze dropped to Ramona’s mouth, just for a second, then back up. Like she felt it, too. Of course she felt it. Ramona couldn’t feel a hunger pang without Zara immediately asking her if she wanted to eat. It wasn’t a real emotional connection. It was magical duress.
And yet it felt so real in this moment.
The air between them felt charged. Electric. Ramona was acutely aware of every point of contact — their hands, their shoulders, their knees. The way Zara’s breathing had changed, gone slightly uneven. The way her own pulse was racing.
Ramona didn’t have words for what she wanted. Couldn’t form them past the tightness in her throat, the worry and rationale racing through her mind. She just leaned forward, drawn by something magnetic, irresistible.
Zara met her halfway.
Their lips were a breath apart. Ramona could feel the warmth of Zara’s exhale against her mouth. Could see her eyes starting to close. Could feel her own heart trying to break out of her chest.
“Auntie Mona!” Daphne’s voice rang up the stairs, cheerful and oblivious. “We’re lighting the bonfire! Come on!”
They jerked apart like they’d been electrocuted.
Ramona’s face went hot immediately. Zara had gone very still beside her, her expression carefully neutral except a darkening color on her cheeks.
“We should—” Ramona started.
“Yes.” Zara stood up, putting distance between them. “The bonfire. We should go.”
They didn’t look at each other as they left the room. Didn’t speak as they descended the stairs. But Ramona could feel it — the almost kiss hanging between them like unfinished business. The want that hadn’t gone anywhere, just been postponed.
Her hand was still warm where Zara had held it, and the pull of the tether felt sharper, more insistent than ever.