Chapter 27
27
THE JOYWOOD, NATURALLY, look resplendent.
Again, like they knew. Certainly not like they’ve been engaging in trying to kill me by fire. Though Happy Ambrose Ford, their crusty Historian, seems to be missing. I wonder if he was the one wielding Skip, the dark blood magic demon weasel, to attempt to kill me.
And I have no doubt it was the Skipweasel whose dark, ugly magic was all over me before the fire took hold. At least I can remember him—for the moment.
Rebekah tries to glamour us up a bit, but the ritual took a lot out of her too, so really, what we have going for us is that our clothes are now clean and Zander doesn’t look quite like he’s been recently burnt to a crisp. Only a little singed around the edges.
I can tell he’s still hurting, and yet I have to put that away and focus on this trial. Meanwhile I hurt too, and miss Elizabeth and Zachariah like phantom limbs.
They are back on the other side where they belong , I remind myself. Fiercely.
Because this last trial, only an hour before the clock turns over to Samhain, is ours and ours alone.
It has to be.
We can handle it. We’ve come this far already. No number of assassination attempts from the Joywood has taken us out yet. I chant this to myself again and again as the local crowd takes their seats on the grass in the dark.
The Joywood don’t look surprised to see me, whole and here, but I hope that faint twitch in Carol’s right eye has something to do with the fact that I just won’t go away.
Ever , I think, staring right at her.
The Undine’s eyes shine brighter than ever as she stands before us, but before she begins to the lay out the trial the way she has in the past, Carol strides forward.
“Before we can engage in the trial, we must address a horrible tragedy that has occurred at the hands of the Riverwood.” She really says that. With her whole chest and her mouth set in that brave way she uses when she’s being the most evil.
We all stare at each other, because... what ? We just fought them off. There was fire and oily black magic and they’re accusing us of something?
Emerson looks as if she wants to argue, but even she can’t seem to find the words.
The Undine’s eyes glow more fiercely.
Carol clearly takes that as encouragement. She sucks in a breath and faces the crowd, her chin trembling, her eyes wet, and her Medusa frizz more disheveled than usual.
Something cold and foreboding slithers down the length of my spine.
“As we prepared for the Undine’s call, taking what comfort we could in the notion that soon this display of overconfidence and youthful arrogance would soon be over, we could not get ahold of...”
Carol trails off, makes a snuffling sound as if the pain is too great , then dabs at her eyes.
“Happy Ambrose has been murdered!” Maeve shrieks out, as if she can’t contain herself a moment more.
Murdered. The word echoes through the night, a symphony of confusion in all of us and the crowd alike.
“Perhaps he has finally seen the error of his ways and has taken himself off—” Frost begins, seeming the least upset at the very notion of murder .
Before he can finish the sentence, a body thumps down on the dais between the Joywood and us. It’s clearly good old Happy Ambrose—or, I correct myself, because I don’t trust the Joywood on any level, some approximation of him.
The crowd is less skeptical. Some of the gathered witches in the crowd scream and jump back. The muttering is practically a shout.
The Undine says nothing.
“This is...shocking,” Emerson says, peering down at Happy. “And terribly sad.” The if it’s true rings through all of us. Emerson takes a deep breath. “You can’t honestly blame us for this, Carol. For a wide variety of reasons, but the bottom line is that the ascension rules should prevent us from hurting each other.”
She says this pointedly, since obviously the Joywood managed to hurt us just fine tonight. I have to restrain myself from holding up Zander’s burned hand and forearm as proof. Meanwhile, I’m trying to work out what their game is here. Did they fake the death of one of their own to cover up what they did to us? Or worse...
Could they have actually done it? Just so they could blame us?
“We’re not accusing you ,” Carol returns with a sniff and another dab at her eyes. “We caught the perpetrator in the act. It wasn’t a witch, but then, you know that, don’t you? It was a human under your control, clearly, because this is what happens when bloodlines are polluted.”
Everything in me goes cold. I’m the one “polluted,” and—
That’s when my sister appears.
Poor little Sadie, thunked down on this raised dais, much too close to what’s left of Happy Ambrose. They’ve tied her hands behind her back and her feet together, and while there’s nothing covering her mouth, I can tell she’s been hexed mute.
I want to kill them all. Every last standing member of the Joywood, all of them smirking at us now, when not pretending to be deeply disturbed for the crowd. I want to call down the gods and rain fire all over them—
But I don’t.
Only partially because I’m sure they’d love that.
Another part has everything to do with the way Zander laces his fingers with mine. Not to hold me back, but a simple, nonverbal, I’m here for whatever we do next .
If I had time to sink into that, I think it would make me break.
Instead, all I can focus on is my sister. “Sadie.”
She’s clearly been crying. Her eyes meet mine in terror and confusion.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I demand of the Joywood—our audience and the Undine be damned. I try to reach out for Sadie and pull her to me magically, but they’ve put some kind of shield around her. “She’s a child . She’s a human child who has no idea she’s related to a witch. She shouldn’t be here.”
I bang at the shield a little with bursts of my magic, though I know it’s no use. Panic will only make things worse. I remember Elizabeth urging me to be calm earlier, but haven’t I used all the calm in my arsenal at this point?
“She is a murderer,” Carol says flatly.
I can see the gleam of triumph in her eyes.
“This is beyond ridiculous,” I say, and reminding myself to be calm has also let me remember to broadcast my voice. The voice that wouldn’t work if I was a liar like Carol. “Sadie couldn’t kill a witch if she tried. We all know this. Failing to take me out tonight during our ritual must have messed with your heads. No one out there is going to believe a thirteen-year-old human killed one of the Joywood.”
“You supplied her with the tools! You!” Maeve shouts, and I’ll give her one thing. She sure seems panicked. I just can’t believe it’s because of Happy Ambrose’s decidedly unhappy fate. “You were parading her around Emerson’s bookstore a few weeks ago. We know you all gave her the tools!”
Her sickly pigeon coos in agreement.
“We did not,” I say, and I make it ring out a little. Then I look at the crowd. “If I’m saying it, it must be the truth.”
Maybe I should have expected them to be ready for that by now.
Carol scoffs. “A tired old excuse, when we all know that curse was lifted during that little ritual you all went off and did this evening.” She looks at us, her hair getting bigger, her mouth even curving enough that the spectators can see it. So obviously satisfied with herself that she can’t be bothered to hide it any longer under her fake grief. “That’s why there were so many of you running around, isn’t it? Trying to hide your dirty deeds across the river?”
That isn’t what we were doing at all, which is when I realize that they don’t know.
They don’t know what ritual we did , I tell everyone else.
Good , Jacob says, sounding as darkly furious as I’ve ever heard him.
They know we did a ritual. They know I was at the center of it, but they can’t figure out what it was for.
Jacob is already there. They must not know that we’ve found a way to circumvent their poison.
I’d like to force-feed it to them and see how they like it , Zander chimes in, sounding almost conversational. Meaning he’s lit up with fury and loss.
I’m pretty sure the rest of my coven jumps in then too, but all I can see is Sadie. Staring back at me, horror and anguish all over that face of hers that ought to be stuck in a book.
They even broke her glasses. For some reason, that’s the thing that feels like the straw snapping the spine of any camel who cares to look at her. She’s a clueless human kid , and they terrorized her and broke her glasses ? Who cares that she doesn’t need them to see. It’s the principle .
For some reason, this moment is when the Undine decides to wade in. “Joywood, you accuse the Riverwood of inciting a human to murder your Historian?”
“Yes,” they echo emphatically, so the word seems to bounce off the river and roll back over us all.
“Riverwood,” the Undine continues, “you deny this accusation?”
“Yes,” we all say, and we do it too, that long, loud, confident roll of our voices, our authority, our innocence. It seems to fill up the night.
“Very well.” The Undine looks almost pleased, I think, if an animated stone can look like anything. “Joywood. Riverwood. Debate your positions on this matter before your community, making clear the depth and breadth of your beliefs. You have until the clock turns over to Samhain, and then the final casting of choices will begin. Whoever the people choose to ascend to position of ruling coven will make the final decision on the human’s culpability in the murder of the Historian, and any repercussions thereof.”
The worst must be true if the Undine is acknowledging it. Someone did kill Happy.
“Joywood, as accusers and defending ruling coven, please make your case first.”
Carol’s face takes on that beatific look that makes me think this was somehow her plan all along. Like she’s been in cahoots with the Undine this whole time, or maybe she knew that she could use the statue’s neutrality to wield a sword against us.
What I know is, after everything that’s happened since they attacked Emerson after our Litha ceremony senior year, and especially since they unleashed adlets on her this past spring, we can’t put anything past them.
They are rotten straight through.
That doesn’t mean the rest of St. Cyprian will see that. Evil so often hides in plain sight, under endless speeches and bureaucratic red tape most people don’t have the energy to wade through. Especially in small towns like ours.
Thank the universes for Emerson Wilde and her tireless dedication to just that. Or we’d all be lost under this tide of evil, and never really know it.
Carol steps forward, and the moon chooses that moment to appear, bathing her in light. I suspect a little stagecraft, but that’s not against the rules. It’s annoying, that’s all.
She sounds quiet when she speaks, but it’s an authoritative quiet that seems to hum in my bones. More theatrics. She’s good at it.
“Citizens of the witching world, we have found one of our own murdered in cold blood,” she says, and she sounds as if she’s both deeply saddened by this as well as determined to do what’s right and address it like this. “All because of the desperate thirst for power these young upstarts can’t seem to hide. They couldn’t win these trials, they knew this, and so they had to strike out in some other way.”
She stops as if overcome. I watch—we all watch—as Felicia bustles forth to stand beside her, as if Carol needs the support.
Carol gives her a brave smile. Then she addresses the crowd once more. “Humans have been used as tools against us for eternity, and the Riverwood have a half human among them who knew exactly how to wield this human child to hurt us. What a sickening, despicable act.”
She waits for the muttering that comes from the crowd, then seems to grow taller as she stands there. Bolstered by the people. By her own determination to do what’s right .
It’s scary how good she is at this. “We will not be cowed. We will not be intimidated into stepping away from our great duty. Which is, as it has always been, to keep witches all across the world safe .”
We can’t speak. We can’t argue. I know, because I try. Just as I keep trying everything in my power to get through that shield around Sadie.
My little sister, who’s crying again, looking at me with wide, wild eyes that scream save me .
I look out at the crowd. Surely other people have to find this horrible. Tying up a child. Parading her in front of a crowd of witches, all more powerful than she is, weak and human and helpless.
I see mouths moving out there on the grass. Bernie the cheese guy looks redder in the face that he usually does. Baker and coffee shop owner Holly Bishop, in particular, has her hands cupped around her mouth like she’s trying to project her voice, but no sound comes out.
It takes me a moment to understand.
There’s a murmur in the crowd, so there are clearly some people who can speak, but as I scan who’s silently moving their mouths and who’s able to talk, I realize that the Joywood have muted anyone who supports us. The dread inside of me curls tighter.
I look back toward Emerson. Her mouth is firm, and her eyes are on Holly too.
“This human,” Carol continues, pointing at Sadie, “was caught red-handed. Enacting her half sister’s evil plan. We cannot let such a heinous crime go unpunished.”
“Carol, she’s a child.”
This statement, shockingly, comes from Susan Martingale, who’s always been a staunch Joywood supporter. Presumably that’s why she wasn’t muted.
Carol’s expression goes pinched. “I wasn’t suggesting we take this out on her.”
Though it was obvious she was doing exactly that.
Carol flicks a hand. Now even her supporters have been muted. No dissent. No questions.
“She didn’t do it on her own, of course,” Carol says as if there’s been no interruption. “She did it at Ellowyn Good’s behest. She will remain a danger to witchkind as long as her half-witch sister walks the earth. Because Ellowyn has always been an enemy of witchdom and a threat. We must punish them both accordingly.”
“The death penalty for Ellowyn Good!” someone shouts from the crowd.
Except we’re all muted. It’s the Joywood projecting a voice to make it sound like it’s from the crowd.
Parlor games , Frost says derisively in our heads. The province of the desperate.
As long as they don’t work , Georgie retorts.
Death penalty, my ass , I say instead.
Are you even a member of this coven if the Joywood haven’t tried to kill you? Rebekah asks dryly.
I look out at the crowd and notice that even some of the Joywood faithful seem uncertain about the turn this has taken. It occurs to me to put my hands on my bump and really emphasize it, in case that’s the source of the discomfort for some of them. Because it should be.
They’re all about taking me out, but this life I’m growing inside of me is innocent, and I’m not above playing that up. I meet the gaze of anyone who looks at me. I challenge them to really think about what the Joywood are trying to accomplish here.
The Undine perks up again then. “Joywood, you have outlined your accusations. Riverwood, how do you respond?”
Before Emerson can say anything, I step forward. “Let Sadie go. You can tie me up in her place while we argue this out, but let her go.”
“Ellowyn.” My entire coven mutters my name, clearly not thrilled with my choice, but I can’t let Sadie suffer through this a moment longer—even if this is exactly what the Joywood want, me making a spectacle of myself over a human.
Baby, this is that martyrdom I was talking about.
No. At first the denial is knee-jerk, but it settles within me. Just another truth. Sometimes you have to let people make sacrifices for you , I tell him pointedly, because why else is his arm all charred up? And sometimes you have to be the one making the sacrifices.
I can see he doesn’t like that, but he doesn’t argue with me. He is holding on to Emerson and Rebekah like he’s preventing them from moving forward to physically stop me.
“Do you hear me?” I demand, ignoring my coven. I feel bad about it, but I can’t think beyond getting Sadie out of here. Nothing else matters. “Switch us out. Mute me. I don’t care. I won’t let you hurt my sister.”
“Such dedication to a human ,” Maeve murmurs slyly.
Making sure that said sly murmur echoes in all of our heads.
“My sister, you monster.” I look out at the crowd. “Just remember, they’re all monsters. I can call them that without a problem.”
That sends a kind of electricity through the audience.
Carol rolls her eyes and sighs deeply. “Honestly, Ellowyn, it’s painful that you’re so determined to continue with that self-serving fiction of yours.”
They’re trying to take away your ability to tell the truth , Emerson says.
I know. But it doesn’t matter. They’re already undermining it, and likely have convinced some of the audience we were off lifting a curse I’ve suffered under the weight of since I was fourteen—like it’d be that easy.
As long as it gets Sadie out of here, I don’t care what they say about me. What truths they take away. Besides, if I’m muted—what does it matter if I can tell the truth or not?
I look at Zander. His eyes glow silver, and pain radiates off him, easy to see for anyone who knows how and where to look. He doesn’t tell me not to do what I’m doing. He doesn’t shake his head.
He’s with me, whatever I choose.
“If you insist,” Carol continues merrily, because this is what she wanted. Me in the proverbial stocks. I feel their terrible magic slither over me, and just like that, Sadie is gone— gone and I don’t know where—and I’m in her place.
My ankles and wrists are bound, and I can feel the muting hex, deep and tight within me, constricting even the thought of words. Sadie is gone, and I can’t have that. I look out at the crowd until I find my mother, who looks predictably furious. I know she would storm the stage for me. I know she would run straight at Carol without a second thought.
But that’s not what I need.
I can’t speak to her, not even in our heads with the hex in place.
Yet Tanith nods at me. She knows. She disappears, off to make sure Sadie’s okay, home and safe.
Because Sadie means something to me, and I mean everything to Tanith.
I collect all these things, trussed up and rendered silent on this stage. These lessons.
My mother’s love for me, even though dealing with my father’s other family is the last thing she wants to do, ever. The way Ruth flies after my mother, an added protection to my family. The way Zachariah saved Zander, at great cost to himself, likely not knowing that we could send him back to recover. Elizabeth protecting my baby, tucked up around her inside of me.
Zelda’s necklace, Zack’s quiet presence.
Friendship and love, sacrifice and hope.
The Joywood have none of these things.
They have only their intimidation and hexes and black blood magic. There’s no love—Carol herself used her son as some sort of minion, and was happy enough to make us all forget him when she thought he was dead. They are selfish and self-absorbed, cruel and demeaning to all, no matter how they wrap it up and pretend otherwise. They have always been power-hungry, though tonight I think they seem desperate too.
I look out at the crowd. Some eyes are hot with anger and blame. Some people hate me, clearly. As they always have, but some other people’s expressions are full of concern. Of worry. I see my coven’s familiars, eyes glowing out beyond the crowd, waiting to help. To give what they can.
I have to take comfort in the fact that it’s Emerson’s turn now. I don’t let myself doubt. As I told Maeve not all that long ago, underestimating Emerson Wilde never ends well for anyone.
“The Joywood have taken away one of our voices. It’s what they do best, isn’t it?” Emerson is vibrant with rage, and does not hide it well, but maybe that’s a good thing. We’re not calcified into our cruelty, like they are. We care. For better or worse, we still care . “They’ve taken away most of your voices too. I have to ask myself, what are they so afraid of that they don’t want to let us speak?”
Almost immediately, a murmur goes through the crowd. Like Carol lifted the muting—but again, just for some. Because mouths move and no sounds come out, which makes people more agitated.
Until Gus Howe, an antiques dealer, obnoxious Praeceptor, and biggest Joywood supporter, gets a sentence out. “She’s right, Carol. This isn’t a good look. Let the girl talk. She might be half human, but she’s just a girl.”
If I could talk, I’d tell Gus to fuck right off, but Carol’s withering look his way does it for me. Because that’s the thing about Carol. She’s a powerful woman herself. The leader of the entire witching world—but she’ll say and do whatever she has to if it keeps a certain kind of man on her side.
The men who think any and all women are just girls .
Before she can respond to him, Felicia whispers something. Carol seethes, visibly, her gaze cutting to mine.
I feel the mute spell let go of me.
“You’re right, of course, Gus,” she says through clenched teeth. Always ready to play it up for the menfolk.
I know that’s not what changed her mind. She’s good at redirecting too. That means it has to be whatever Felicia said to her that got me my voice back.
Felicia is a shitty Diviner, but she’s still a Diviner , Rebekah says with great satisfaction to the rest of us. She must have told Carol that none of the potential outcomes of this were good for them if they kept everyone muted.
That doesn’t fill me with great confidence for the things I might say with my newly returned voice, but I’m not who they think I am. They think I’m that weak, scared Summoner I was for years.
I’m not.
I’m a Revelare. I can also see the future. I can reach into the possibilities. I know what can happen.
I can see it all clearly, down one path and another.
The Joywood can win, sure. There are a lot of possibilities that they might, unfurling out in front of me.
I know what scares them are all the other possibilities.
So many more possibilities, crowding up my vision and likely Felicia’s too, and all of them point to the same thing:
That we’re the ones who win instead.