Chapter 29
BEA
Sandra’s as at ease here in Bridget’s living room as she is at a fundraising dinner in Manhattan or a congressional caucus meeting in DC.
She’s gesturing animatedly with her wine glass telling Bridget about some adorable romcom book she read – you know, not heartrending but heartmending – and Bridge is looking at her like Sandra’s the answer to problems she never even knew she had.
She’s smiling again, laughing like she hasn’t since Pierre died.
It’s not simply Sandra’s presence that’s brightening Bridget.
It’s Sarah Fenn’s absence. I knew Bridget would flourish with the witch gone from her life.
Fenn did to her what she did to my mom. Dazzled her and made her feel special, only to use her.
This is Bridget’s red pill moment. She’s seeing the truth about witchcraft now – or she’s ready to.
If only Michael Whitman wasn’t here. He’s a reminder of Dan and all those complex feelings, and I worry he makes our campaign appear backward-looking.
This isn’t about Sanctuary anymore. This is about America, and the kind of society we want and need to be.
And of course, where America leads, Europe follows.
We make the weather, Sandra likes to say, and London, Paris and Berlin get rained on.
But Professor Whitman and I together are a good look for Sandra’s campaign, with our ‘lived experience’ of exactly what witches are capable of.
My hand goes to my forehead again. You can barely feel the scar where Luka nicked a vein, so I’d bleed out slowly into his ritual bowl while he hung me from a tree like a hog on a hook.
You certainly can’t see it once I’ve applied foundation carefully.
But as my therapist points out, I touch it at moments of stress.
What do you think you might be trying to tell yourself? she asks in her patronising, fake-empath voice.
That I’m alive, I shoot back. That I survived. That a witch tried to kill me and failed.
The sudden blurt of the doorbell makes me jump.
‘Bridget, it’s so bad of me not to have mentioned earlier,’ Sandra’s purring in that voice which locks in six-figure sums from donors. ‘I’ve invited one more person to join us for dinner. He couldn’t possibly come to my house, but this darling cottage of yours is a little more secluded.’
Michael Whitman cuts me a glance, hackles up at that mention of a He who must be met clandestinely. I look coolly back, as if I’m not as clueless as he is.
But I nearly drop my glass when Bridget opens the door, Sandra at her shoulder, and waiting on the step is Charles Okoye, President of the Moot.
‘I’ll add an extra table setting,’ I call, and duck into the kitchen to fuss with the cutlery drawer while I pull myself together. What is Sandra playing at? Surely she doesn’t imagine that even she can charm the Moot?
But an hour later, as we’re pushing empty plates aside and Michael is complimenting Bridget’s crab cakes with insincerity so blatant even Izzy is side-eyeing him, it’s clear Sandra doesn’t need to lay on the charm at all. She and Okoye are, if not on the same page, at least on the same bookshelf.
Okoye’s been nodding gravely as Sandra talks, and now he wipes his mouth fastidiously before saying, ‘Ostentatious displays of magic are destabilising. They only lead to greater hostility toward witches.’
‘Exactly!’ Sandra interjects.
‘It’s why we at the Moot have always self-policed our community,’ Okoye continues.
‘All we magicals want is to use our skill to help improve the world. If people are afraid of us, that defeats our purpose. So, I can see the argument you’re making for a preventative approach.
The possibility you outline, of … adjusting …
the abilities of the overpowered to bring them in line with the magical norm, could have some benefit, though it’d certainly be controversial. ’
‘Overpowered is one definition,’ Michael Whitman says, grimacing like he’s struggling to keep the hatred from his voice. ‘Though others would simply say dangerous. Would you include Sarah Fenn in either definition?’
Bridget twitches in her seat. Typical Michael. Jerking on the line when this entire evening Sandra has been patiently reeling her in toward us.
‘Or Lachlan Frey,’ Sandra suggests, smoothly. ‘Though of course he’s already supposed to be bound.’
‘Binding merely locks away magical ability. It doesn’t diminish it. Indeed, I believe Frey to have found a way around his binding. If so, he would be an excellent example of a witch who is both overpowered and dangerous.’
When Sandra all-but-snaps, ‘How?’ the suave Moot President looks suddenly as though he regrets the confidence.
She switches mode instantly, letting a little thrill of fear into her voice.
Widening her eyes. Touching Okoye’s arm.
‘I’m so sorry to ask, Charles. Only if there is some sort of key or anything, we ought to try and recover it. ’
It’s a magical binding. Of course there isn’t a key, and Sandra knows it. But her na?ve question and fearful demeanour bring out the need to explain and reassure that’s never far from any man conversing with a woman. Okoye chuckles indulgently, at ease again.
‘There’s no key, Sandra. These aren’t handcuffs – although those might look better on Frey.
My predecessor as president was a capable woman but, some say, too easily persuaded – especially by a handsome and clever young witch like Frey.
She gave him full access to the archives on the condition he accepted a permanent binding.
Apparently she cried as she performed it and begged him to reconsider.
My theory is that Frey suspected the archives would hold a means to break the binding that was the price of his admission.
Gutsy of him to take that risk, but extremely dishonest.’
‘Did it not cross her mind he might uncover a way to undo the binding?’ I scoff.
That came out sharper than intended. But Okoye told us with a straight face the Moot polices the malef community. Some policing!
‘It was made clear he wasn’t permitted to access any materials related to binding techniques.’ Okoye says. ‘But by now we’ve all seen what Lachlan Frey thinks of rules.’
‘You’re saying this man, Frey, was given access to dangerous magical lore on the condition he couldn’t use it?
’ Michael Whitman is in full professor mode now, parsing the Moot’s actions like he’s shredding a freshman’s term paper.
‘That access helped him find a way around the terms of the condition. And he is therefore now – what, in full possession of said dangerous magical lore and very much able to use it?’
Okoye is as tense as a non-magical cat sky-high on a broomstick.
‘Rest assured, we can deal with him.’
Sandra leans into the taut silence.
‘What if’ – she’s smiling – ‘we told you there’s a way we can help?’