Page 13 of The Witch is Back

His eyes flashed, frustrated, as he opened his mouth. Whatever he’d been about to say was lost as Alistair—the gift that kept on giving—gestured to them. “And now our leading couple will open the dancing. Bastian?” He motioned to his son, seeming truly happy. Or truly drunk.

Emma wished she’d thrown back a bottle or two herself as she stared with dread at the hand Bastian held out.

“Please.” Bastian gritted it through a courteous smile, dipping his head and looking up through his lashes.

Please what? Please don’t cause a scene? Please don’t say no? Please don’t run out of here screaming?

Well, she wouldn’t have run. Like any respectable witch, she’d have created a portal and hauled ass through it.

The moment stretched out long enough for whispers to start hushing through the crowd. Bastian’s right eye twitched.

Damn it.

Emma didn’t try to disguise her reluctance as she accepted Bastian’s hand. Hers slid into his like it belonged and she shook off a chill as he turned and led her into the center of the ballroom.

Her stomach twisted as she faced him, his other hand coming around to rest on the small of her back to ease her closer. Her left hand drifted to rest ever so lightly on his shoulder, touching as little as possible.

She tried not to absorb how broad he felt or how memories washed over her, being this close to him. He smelled like days spent talking in the bayous. Like crisp autumn nights hanging out in the Garden District. Like childhood and what came after.

She swallowed against the rising tide of emotion as the first strains of music started. “I hope I remember how to do this.”

She didn’t even realize she’d said it aloud until he gave her a faint smile. “Just follow my lead.”

Easy enough for him to say when that was all she used to do. But now she had no choice but to obey as he swept them into a dance.

Very aware of the eyes on them, Emma concentrated on not stumbling for the first few bars, looking everywhere but at his face—much too close to her own. He danced with confidence, not losing a beat even with all his years away, the hand on her back guiding her with ease.

She waited until the next few couples joined them before she pounced.

“Explain.” It was soft, but a demand, nevertheless. She was done being passive.

He darted a glance at her, eyes very dark, before focusing on the swirl of the dancers. His terse words shocked her when they came. “My mom is sick.”

Instant sympathy beat away the dark emotion, at least for a moment. “I’m sorry.” And she was. Diana had always been nice to Emma, despite the obvious social-climbing machinations of her mother.

“Yeah.” He contemplated the musicians as they twirled their way. “I need you to marry me.”

Need. Not want.

The phrasing sliced through her and she wrestled with the urge to be sick. “What does one have to do with—with the other?”

A moment stretched between them, the wail of a violin akin to the scream Emma locked inside.

“It was just a cough at first,” he said, low enough that anyone dancing nearby wouldn’t hear. “A tickle. Then it spread to her lungs. Now she can’t keep food down and her hair is starting to fall out.”

Emma frowned, uncomprehending.

“She’s dying, Emmaline.” His jaw hardened into cement. Navy eyes flamed brighter with suppressed magic. Something like accusation glittered before he closed them.

The words floated, sharp darts that pricked at Emma’s composure as she lost a step. She almost stopped dancing, but his hand tightened on hers and forced her to continue. Right. Can’t let on that anything is wrong. That isn’t society’s way. “She can’t be.”

“She is.”

She stared as her feet moved in the old patterns, trying to understand. Witches didn’t get sick. Not really. They maybe caught a side effect from a spell, and there was the odd malady that had evolved to create havoc in witch kind. They weren’t immortal; just long-lived. But Diana was still young, only one hundred and fifty-odd years old.

Emma twisted her neck. Diana was slumped in her chair onstage, Alistair next to her as if neither desired to dance. His arm was around her. She’d have thought it was affection—it was widely known that the Truenotes had an unusual love match rather than the more typical soulless pairings—but now saw it was for support. Shock, sympathy, sadness swirled together as she shook her head to try and still the tornado. Her attention swung back to their son. “What is it?”

His whole body was tense enough, she thought she could flick him and a hairline crack would thread through his body until he finally collapsed from the pressure.

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