Chapter 4 Emory #2
The clattering of bones from the witches’ necklaces made a shiver run up Emory’s spine.
Everyone who looked her way felt like someone out to get her.
But no one said a word to her and Romie.
They pretended the two of them didn’t exist, as if they weren’t complicit in Mrs. Amberyl’s plan to purge them on the black moon—whatever that might entail.
At least for tonight, they were safe. Though judging by the thinness of the waning moon, they would have no more than two days before that changed.
Romie actually looked thrilled by it all, which should have come as no surprise given her nature, but still felt unwarranted under the circumstances.
She picked up two intricately carved goblets that contained a deep purple drink from a table laden with fruits and meats, sipping on hers as she handed the other to Emory.
“What are you doing?” Emory asked in a horrified whisper, trying to stop Romie from drinking. “We don’t know what’s in these.”
“Oh, relax, will you?”
“Relax? They want us gone, Ro.”
“And we’re not going to get answers from them if they know we know that.” Romie swayed to the music, smiling at the witches around her. “So start acting like you’re having fun.”
Emory sniffed at her drink—it smelled divine, like mulled wine—but resisted the urge to try it.
She did attempt to loosen up as Romie grabbed her hand and pulled her through the crowd, but all she wanted to do was run off into the woods away from these people and never look back.
Romie had other plans. She coaxed Emory onto the dance floor, laughing as she twirled her around.
Something loosened in Emory’s chest at the sound of Romie’s laugh, at the sight of her dancing.
She was suddenly reminded of a younger Romie, running barefoot in the sand with her arms spread out as she pretended to be one of the gulls. So free and full of life.
Life—Romie was alive, something Emory had yet to fully wrap her mind around.
For so long she’d thought Romie was dead, then lost to the magic of Dovermere.
But she was alive, and here with her. And for a tiny moment as they laughed and danced, it felt like nothing had ever changed, like they were still the same two girls they were before Aldryn College, before the Selenic Order, before Dovermere and the epilogue and the doors.
They weren’t. She knew that. They were different girls in a different world, playacting at who they’d once been, at least on her part. But Emory clung to the feeling nonetheless.
Romie suddenly pulled Emory through the crowd to where the High Matriarch and her two daughters stood beneath a flowery arch on a dais that overlooked the festivities.
Mrs. Amberyl was all polite smiles, but Emory could tell it was a mask.
There was worry hidden in those sharp eyes, a protective grip to the hand resting on her younger daughter’s shoulder.
And with good reason, given the anxious looks and whispers the witches kept throwing Bryony.
A mother shielded her small children as they passed by the dais, as if afraid Bryony might grow fangs and eat them.
Emory had to give Bryony credit. The young witch’s smile never slipped, even as her eyes gleamed with unshed tears.
Aspen, on the other hand, didn’t bother with feigned niceties; she looked fiercely territorial standing on the other side of her sister, fingers laced through hers as if ready to whisk her away at the first sign of trouble.
“Mrs. Amberyl, thank you so much for inviting us,” Romie said with a winning smile. “What a fabulous event!”
As if they hadn’t just overheard the witches talking about the evil they’d brought upon their land.
Romie did a double take of Bryony. “Sorry, I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure yet.”
Emory bit on the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling; Romie was a natural at this.
“This is Bryony,” Mrs. Amberyl said in a tight voice, her fingers digging deeper into her daughter’s shoulder. “My youngest.”
“Hello,” Bryony said in a sweet voice so unlike the guttural one that had overtaken her in the woods. She had apparently bathed and changed since being dug up from her grave, a vision in a rich cream-and-emerald dress. Her dark hair had been styled up and adorned with pale green jewels.
Bryony leaned into Aspen. “Are those the ones you were telling me about? From the other world?”
Aspen’s gaze cut to her mother, whose lips were pressed tight in displeasure. “Yes,” Aspen answered. “But—”
“How does it work, your magic?” Bryony asked Emory and Romie with a tilt of her head, full of innocent curiosity.
“Well, it’s influenced by the moon and tides, you see,” Romie started, gaining Bryony’s rapt attention.
With a quick, pointed look at Emory, Romie launched herself into a lengthy explanation of the particulars of lunar magic. Emory immediately understood what she was asking of her.
It wasn’t only Lightkeeper magic she’d been practicing these past few days but Memorist magic too. Romie had begrudgingly let Emory try it out on her, though Emory could tell it had made her uncomfortable. She couldn’t blame her: the concept of Memorist magic had always felt intrusive to her too.
It was one thing to use Memorist magic on a willing mind; it was quite another to use it on unsuspecting ones. Back home, it was considered taboo to use such magic without consent. But Emory wasn’t home, and she was desperate for answers.
Feigning interest in the conversation, she called on her Memorist magic. Instantly, the pressure in her veins lessened, making her want to sigh with relief—even as the wrongness of what she was doing made bile rise to her throat.
Predictably, getting past the fortress in Mrs. Amberyl’s mind proved no easier than before.
Emory had found that all witches’ minds were warded in some way—their own magic, perhaps, acting as a natural barrier to hers.
Mrs. Amberyl’s was the most heavily guarded she’d come across, a fortress of thorny vines that coiled tighter together at Emory’s probing.
Such a fortress had to be hiding secrets.
But they weren’t secrets Emory would ever be privy to, it seemed. No matter what she tried, she couldn’t get past the barrier. She knew Memorist magic was strongest when touching the person or staring directly into their eyes, but she couldn’t do either while remaining inconspicuous.
And now the more magic she called on, the more the shadows around her grew, her faithful ghosts taking shape.
She could feel Keiran at her side, ever taunting.
There were others, too. Lizaveta. Travers.
Lia. Jordyn. All of them clamoring for her attention as she struggled to weasel her way into Mrs. Amberyl’s memories.
Emory turned her sights to Aspen, hoping to have better luck. Nothing—save perhaps a deep sense of love for her sister, and a bright passion at the thought of someone Emory couldn’t make out.
She gritted her teeth as she felt one of the ghosts tugging on her arm.
But she couldn’t let go of the magic just yet.
She slithered into Bryony’s mind, bracing for memories of being buried alive, or of her being possessed by that thing back in the woods.
Before she could glean anything, Bryony’s eyes cut to her in a way that had Emory jerking back, both physically and mentally.
Her grip on the Memorist magic slipped. Pulse beating rapidly, she wondered if Bryony had sensed her presence in her mind. She wasn’t the only one watching Emory with a puzzled expression—the other Amberyls had noticed her stumble, heard her gasp.
“Sorry,” Emory said, setting her cup down on a table. “Must have had too much to drink.”
“Is it wise to let your guests partake in our celebrations?”
This came from Hyacinth, the sour-faced witch from earlier. She hovered near the dais with two boys caught somewhere between their teen years and early adulthood. Her sons, no doubt, given the striking resemblance and the same contemptuous curl of their mouths.
“I see no reason why not,” Mrs. Amberyl retorted curtly.
Hyacinth’s gaze slid to Bryony, full of distrust. “And your poor daughter, after such an ordeal…”
“Bryony is perfectly fine, I assure you.”
“That remains to be seen.” Hyacinth scowled at the Amberyls. “I think we’ll take our leave now. But don’t go thinking the coven won’t keep a close eye on you until the black moon.”
As they left, one of the boys muttered something that had Bryony blanching and Aspen drawing her closer. Goose bumps rose on Emory’s arms as what he said registered.
Hellwraith.
Her ghosts stirred at the word. Without thinking, Emory pushed into the boy’s mind to find out what exactly a hellwraith was. A cold hand was suddenly at her throat. Her magic slipped as Emory jerked back from Keiran’s ghost, knocking into Romie.
“Easy,” her friend said, holding her steady.
“I think perhaps you should both retire for the evening,” Mrs. Amberyl suggested.
The hard look in her eye broached no room for argument.
As Emory and Romie made their way back to the house, the music grated on Emory’s senses.
Everywhere she looked, she expected to find a ghost: in the shadows between the hedges, in the revelers dancing like specters themselves, in the faces limned by flickering firefly light.
“What happened back there?” Romie asked when they got to their parlor.
“I’m not sure.” Emory sat on the divan, trying to catch her breath.
“Did you get anything from Mrs. Amberyl’s mind, at least?”
Emory shook her head. “I don’t think I’ve mastered Memorist magic enough to be able to do some proper digging.
” She wasn’t sure she ever wanted to; bile still burned her throat, and all she could think of was Penelope West, who’d had her memories wiped—something Emory couldn’t help but feel responsible for.
The disappointment in Romie’s eyes made it clear she believed such power was wasted on someone like Emory.
That if it were Romie who had Tidecaller magic, she would have mastered Memorist and Lightkeeper and every other alignment long ago.
In fact, she would be excelling at them.
And here Emory was, barely able to glimpse a flimsy memory from these witches’ minds.
She caught sight of Lizaveta’s ghost in the mirror, as if the girl were drawn to Emory’s smallness.
Mediocre.
Emory shut her eyes tight, willing her to go away.
“Em, are you all right?”
Emory opened her eyes to see Romie frowning at her. The worry in her voice had her plastering on a smile. “Yeah. That magic just took a toll on me, I guess.”
The promise they’d made earlier left a bitter taste in her mouth. No secrets. But this wasn’t entirely a lie.
Surely that made it okay.