Page 33 of Big Little Spells
“But you do not.”
He’s serious. There’s no sardonic lift of his mouth. No hint of dark amusement in his eyes.
I want to make a crack about his immortal sense of time, and how I’m sure I have a good century or two left to go—but instead I find I have to swallow at my suddenly dry throat.
I don’t think he’s talking about a witch’s usual lifespan. I think he’s talking about the two short months I have before Litha. And my new test.
And whatever comes after that.
If there even is an after that.
But...why is he concerning himself about the time I have? Why is he here? For all to see? Yanking me out of bars so we can speak alone?
I spent a lot of years hating myself for the fictions I made up about him when I was a teenager. For the shameful things I did that he witnessed, that I would blame on him if I could. I’ve tried to forgive myself, because healing begins with mercy for past mistakes. For being young and foolish.
I won’t go down that path again, no matter how different this feels. Because we may not be equals exactly these days, but we’re on more equal footing than we were back then.
That doesn’t mean his behavior actually means all the things I fantasized it might when I was sixteen.
“What happened this morning is not typical,” he says somewhat stiffly. I want to imagine he’s not liking what he’s picturing as the probable result of my upcoming test, the way I am also not liking it, but telling myself stories about what Nicholas Frost thinks and feels is what got me into trouble the first time around.
I keep right on glaring at him. “No shit.”
His gaze drops to my nose piercings in disdain. “Perhaps the ritual was too much to start with.”
“Perhaps your ritual sucked.”
“Sucked,” he echoes, like in his ancient vocabulary my word choices are some kind of affront. But I don’t quite believe that, because if he was that much of a walking heirloom, surely he wouldn’t be wearing jeans that I don’t need to inspect for labels to know are pretty much the rage right now. And are also worn in places machine-distressed jeans normally aren’t, suggesting he actually wears them a lot—when not appearing in puffs of smoke to frighten the populace.
Or this is all a glamour and he’s messing with my head. Obviously that’s the most likely scenario.
“As you said, in your colorful way, there is something imbalanced.”
“I said something was wonky. We fixed the whole river imbalance thing.” I wave a hand at the river beside us as if that was easy. Because I have a beer and a kamikaze shot in me, and last night—was it really only last night?—feels almost fun in retrospect.
“You took an important step, yes. But water is only one element, as you well know. There are others.”
Other elements. As much as I knew facing down the Joywood would be a challenge, I figured the whole saving the town thing was done. That’s kind of Emerson’s whole milieu. Surely she already did it.
“What, like hurricanes and earthquakes and wildfires?” I shudder to think what might be required if we have to face all that too. For all of us, not just Emerson. Again and again and—
“Must you be so literal?” he asks. “It’s distressingly human.” All with that practiced condescension that I used to almost yearn for.
Because it meant he was paying attention. Expecting something from me. Even if I didn’t meet his standards—then or now—it was still him seeing me.
It’s amazing how powerful that is.
“Your visions should not be fractured,” he tells me. “Scrying should not cause pain.”
“Did you rip me out of my sister’s engagement party to tell me what I already know?”
His cold gaze...flashes. That’s not the only thing that’s different about him—fire where there’s normally only ice. It’s like he honestly seems to care about what happened to me earlier. Enough to come here to tell us what he thinks happened.
Except he isn’t telling us. He’s telling me.
This feels too much like my childhood all over again. Our little secret.
There’s still that fire in his gaze, but it’s darker now. “You have special powers, Rebekah.”