46
Soleil
I’ve spent the vast, vast majority of my time since I was seven years old in the Crescent Coven hall.
It’s been where I lived and breathed and learned and reached every important milestone in my journey toward Ascension.
And I’ve never once felt this much like an outsider.
An impostor, a pretender, stealing in with the twilight like a thief who doesn’t belong.
It’s nonsense.
I know it’s nonsense.
I know it’s just me projecting all my fears and anxieties onto these hallowed halls. It’s not scorn and derision I find on the faces of my sister witches peering out from doorways and balconies as I pass; they’re just wondering where I was, why I’ve come back, if I’m okay.
Probably.
Whatever they’re actually feeling or thinking, I do my best to ignore it as I pass through the entrance chamber and to the grand staircase leading up to the second level where the High Priestess keeps her office.
I try not to think about it at all as I keep my head up and my spine straight, looking directly ahead as I walk up to the stately wooden door I’ve stood in front of a hundred times.
Only, there’s a witch waiting there.
Marjorie, of all people, and she gives me a disdainful once-over.
“You came back.”
“I did,” I tell her, just as imperiously. “I’m here to speak to Esme.”
“You’ll have to wait,” she sniffs. “She told me to let you know you could take a seat until she’s ready for you.”
Typical, petty power moves, but I try not to let my irritation show as I sink into a seat next to the door and Marjorie slinks off somewhere.
And then I wait.
And wait.
In a hard, uncomfortable wooden chair outside the High Priestess’s office, I sit and stew in all my emotions until nearly an hour must have passed.
I can’t hear anything from inside the office—there’s probably a noise-dampening enchantment taking care of that—until the handle creaks an eternity later.
The door swings open and I stand from my seat, expecting to find Esme on the other side.
Instead, a man walks out.
A tall, dark-haired man who looks to be somewhere in his forties, wearing an exquisitely tailored suit and with the most remarkable amber eyes I’ve ever seen.
A man in the coven hall is a startling enough sight—beyond a few meetings with high-powered wielders, Esme almost never has cause to welcome one in—but even more startling is his magick.
It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before.
Not wieldermagick, not witchmagick, not demon magick, but something much deeper, more ancient and powerful. Edged with the scent of smoke and char, it surprises me so much I fall back a step.
“Mr. Blair,” Esme says smoothly, appearing in the doorway beside him. “Please, let me escort you out.”
Her eyes land on me, but she doesn’t give me any reaction other than to incline her head back toward the interior of her office.
“You may wait for me inside, Soleil. I will return shortly.”
I nod silently, waiting for the pair of them to pass before stepping inside and shutting the door lightly behind me.
Their footsteps grow quieter down the hallway, and the proper thing to do would be to take the seat in front of Esme’s desk and sit demurely until she returns. Hands folded in my lap, perfect posture, ever the dutiful apprentice, waiting to be scolded by the High Priestess.
I have no intention of doing that.
Not only because my entire body is humming with way too much nervous energy to even think about sitting still, but because I’ve never been in the High Priestess’s office all by myself.
And as long as I’m already breaking rules…
I make a slow circuit of the room, studying the bookshelves filled to the brim and spilling over with hundreds of ancient tomes, the pieces of coven history framed and hung on the walls, the feel of the magick here.
Pulsing and powerful, it’s the living heart of the coven, the proverbial seat of power for generations and generations of Crescent witches.
Along with the literal seat of power.
The High Priestess’s chair, set behind her desk.
As ancient and ornate as everything else in this room, its wood has been worn smooth with time, and all the strands of power in the room seem to lead right back to it.
Back to where Esme Hawthorn does the work of running this place, to where all her predecessors have done their work.
To where her successor will work someday, too.
Almost without thought, I let the strands of magick pull me forward.
All the way behind the desk and to the chair, still pulled slightly out as if waiting in invitation.
I sit.
Just for a moment, I tell myself, just to see what it’s like.
And I’m not sure if I expected some great revelation or awakening, but it mostly just feels like… a chair.
There’s magick around it, certainly, like magick swirls around everything in this place. Maybe it’s a bit more powerful considering all the impressive witches who’ve sat here throughout the years, but it’s not all that different from any other chair.
Looking out on an office filled with Crescent history, on a desktop piled high with papers that must represent hours upon hours of work and responsibility, there’s something almost mundane about the weight of the leadership it signifies.
But I barely have any more time to contemplate it before footsteps echo down the hall.
Shooting to my feet, I scurry away from the desk and pretend to be studying the array of rare botanical specimens lining the windowsill as the door creaks softly open.
“Admiring my collection?”
I turn at the sound of Esme’s cool, polished voice, doing what I’d like to believe is an admirable job hiding how fast my pulse is racing, how my heart is lodged in my throat.
“Yes. Your orchids especially, I know how difficult these particular varieties can be to get a hold of.”
Esme doesn’t acknowledge the inane comment.
“Take a seat,” she says coolly, nodding to the chair set in front of her desk. “It may not be the most comfortable place in the room to sit, but I hope it meets your approval.”
I swallow hard as I circle back around the desk, but whether because she doesn’t suspect or just doesn’t care to push the issue, Esme says nothing further about chairs or who might be sitting in them.
“You received my note,” she begins when we’re both seated, not a question.
“I did.”
“I wasn’t sure if Marianne would be able to find you. You’ve been hard to track down these past few days.”
“A brief trip to the demon realm.”
“Right before you are to Ascend? When it’s important for you to be here, setting an example for the rest of the witches of what it means to be an exemplary member of the Crescent Coven?”
I’ve got nothing to say to that. Nothing but a lump in my throat and churning bile in my stomach and the realization she’s probably right.
Priestesses are supposed to be the best of us.
The brightest, the most committed and talented, the ones who set the example for everyone else.
And just as I was supposed to be setting that standard and stepping into that role, I ran away.
“I should revoke your Ascension consideration,” Esme says mildly, like we’re discussing the weather and not my entire future as a witch.
“Given everything that’s happened, why on earth would I trust you to have the best interests of the coven at heart?
Why would it be in our best interests to offer you entry into the ranks of our leadership? ”
I knew the question was coming, but I have to fight my instinctual flinch when it’s asked.
“I still believe I can be an asset to this coven,” I say, though it doesn’t come out with as much confidence as I want it to. “I just needed… I needed to breathe. To take some time to myself and get my head straight, make sure this is what I wanted.
“It must be nice,” she says with a brittle edge that doesn’t sound very nice at all, “to claim that type of freedom. You won’t be able to, you know, once you become a priestess of this coven.”
“Why not?” The question pushes against the boundaries of my better judgment, but I ask it anyway.
Esme levels me a stern look, but there’s something else beneath it. A sliver of surprise, maybe, though I wouldn’t have expected the High Priestess to be capable of such an emotion.
“Maybe we’d all be better off for it,” I say, pushing ahead with all my usual restraint screaming at me to stop. “If we weren’t always here, in this pressure cooker, maybe we’d all be a bit more… I don’t know. Well-adjusted? Less neurotic?”
“If a witch wants to be better adjusted and able to step out of the pressure cooker, as you call it, then she can certainly forgo ever trying for Ascension. You’ve always known what this role entails, Soleil. You know what it costs, and why we pay that price.”
A sharp pang of sorrow stabs through my chest.
Of course I know.
I’ve always known.
Witches can’t exactly trust the world we live in. We can’t practice freely; we can’t admit the truth of who we are. Even in this day and age, the risk is too great.
But does that mean we have to suffer so much for it?
“That’s what I’m saying.” I push even further. “The priestesses aren’t made of stone. Why should it be so unattainable for them to have any kind of balance? Their responsibilities here, their life outside the coven, why do those two things always have to be at odds?”
Instead of continuing to dress me down like a wayward child, Esme stands.
For one gut-wrenching moment, I’m certain this is it.
She’ll dismiss me, tell me I’ve crossed too far over the line to have any hope of making it back, that I’m unfit after all, and I can take my leave from the coven forever.
But she doesn’t say any of those things. In fact, she says nothing at all as she walks from the desk to the window, framed there by all the plants I was pretending to admire. A long minute passes before she speaks again, and my heart stays firmly lodged in my throat the entire time.
“Perhaps it won’t always be out of reach for us.”
I’m not sure what she’s saying, what I should say, so I stay quiet and wait to see if she’ll continue.