Page 40 of Big Little Spells
“Well,” my father says in his usual cultured tones while my mother stands beside him with her elegant arms crossed and her lips pursed. “You’ve both made quite a mess.”
Emerson’s jaw literally drops. “A mess?”
I can practically hear what she’d like to say, though she does not. I saved the damn world, Dad. What did you do?
“We’re engaged in important work in Europe,” my mother scolds us, as if we don’t know perfectly well that while Passau is another three-river city, the power there was drained ages ago. So how important can their “work” really be? I maintain my conviction that their actual work is avoiding their disappointing offspring. “To be summoned back to St. Cyprian by the Joywood themselves to face another example of our daughters’ flouting of witch society is...an unfortunate interruption.”
Heaven forbid, I mutter to Emerson in our old secret language. The one our parents never could understand—or make us stop using—no matter how they tried, back when we spoke it out loud.
“You came because you were summoned,” Emerson says, and it surprises me that I can hear a little thread of hurt in her voice. Like she expected them to show up for some other reason.
Elspeth stands taller, likely so she can look even farther down her nose at us. “No witches get ready for a Beltane prom without their parents. It isn’t done.”
This time it’s Emerson’s dry Heaven forbid in my head, and I almost smile. Snarky Emerson is always my favorite.
“We need to choose dresses and go over the etiquette for the evening,” Elspeth is saying, the hint of a frown daring to mar her perfect brow. “This has to go well. The consequences are even more dire than they were last time.”
“Let’s not stand around on the porch, putting on a show for all of St. Charles County,” my father says in an aggrieved undertone, and it’s hard to say if he’s scolding our mother or us. It occurs to me, in a way it wouldn’t have a decade ago, that it could be both. He waves a hand and all the luggage disappears, then does it again so that the front door creaks open before him.
I have actually never seen the man open a door with his own hand in my life.
Emerson takes the first step, because that’s who we are. She charges ahead, always. But we’re still hand in hand, so I have to move with her or jerk away, and I can’t show that kind of weakness in front of my parents.
Also, that’s who I am. Always reluctant, always a little angry, and yet always connected to Emerson despite myself. I might hesitate, but I always go with her.
I wasn’t really looking for that particular insight into myself the day before our regurgitated prom, but here we are, so I guess I need to make the best of it. I move in sync with my sister as we climb the steps and walk into the house.
Once we’re all crowded together into the foyer—which is not small, it just suddenly feels that way—Dad does the hand thing again and the door slams shut.
It’s a little ominous, frankly.
And now we all...stare at each other.
They don’t look older, is all I can think. They look exactly the same and I know that’s just the way witches are, but it seems unfair in this scenario. After everything Emerson and I have been through, surely my parents—who abandoned us, in case I’m tempted to forget that for even five seconds—should look a little crumpled.
“Well,” I say brightly into the awkward silence, still gripping Emerson’s hand and apparently still committed to my familial role despite the literal decade of endless therapy. “How about those Cardinals?”
But before Emerson jumps in or my father can fully commit to his scowl, Mom reaches out and snatches up Emerson’s wrist. She pulls her hand closer and stares at it—or, rather, at the sparkly ring on Emerson’s finger.
Clearly exactly what it is. A shiny diamond engagement ring.
“What’s this?” Elspeth asks, her voice...odd. She looks over at our father. “We weren’t told about this.”
“You weren’t here,” Emerson points out, and I can tell she’s wishing she’d kept that ring on her finger invisible just a little while longer.
“Who on earth...” My father clears his throat, cutting himself off before he says something insulting. I’d like to think it’s because he thought better of it, but I know my dad. He doesn’t care if he’s insulting. He cares if he appears insulting. A critical distinction. “I wasn’t asked permission,” he points out instead.
“Because I don’t subscribe to patriarchal institutions or the notion that I need anyone’s permission to make my own decisions, and neither does Jacob,” Emerson snaps back, then winces.
“Which Jacob is this?” our mother demands.
Emerson hesitates, and I can see the surprise on our parents’ faces that their usually obedient daughter might not want to tell them something. Then their expressions change, as if they’re sure her answer will be so embarrassing they’ll wish they never came back here, and I want to shout at them. Ten years ago, I would have.
“Jacob North,” Emerson says, as if she’s trying to speak without using her lips.
“The Healer? Oh.” My mother’s voice betrays neither delight nor censure. And she looks more puzzled than anything. She blinks, then glances at our father. “Has a Wilde ever married a Healer, dear?”
“It isn’t the done thing, no,” Desmond replies. “Healers marry their own.” He’s staring at Emerson’s hand, and it looks like he could work himself up into his trademark bluster. But he doesn’t quite get there. He looks like he doesn’t know if he should be pissed or if, given Emerson’s prospects and recent spell dimness, he should think it’s not too terrible that one of the Wildes—Praeceptors and Warriors all, back through the ages—should lower themselves to Healer magic.