Page 8 of The Witch is Back

On the heels of that thought, he dropped his hands and padded to the door. Opening it, he crossed the threshold into the wide paneled corridor that boasted portraits of Truenotes going back centuries. He felt his ancestors glare at him in disapproval—imagination? A spell? He’d never figured it out—as he crossed to a door five doors down.

He knocked with his knuckles, soft. “Mom? You awake?”

There was a beat of silence before a papery-thin voice answered. “I’m awake. Come talk to me.”

Bastian steeled himself before he twisted the knob. When the door swung open, he managed not to flinch. Unlike yesterday, when he’d first laid eyes on her after portalling in from Egypt.

Diana Truenote half reclined in a bed fit for royalty. A four-poster carved from walnut, draped in silk canopy curtains a shade of blue only found in the night sky, it drowned the frail woman, who struggled to sit up on his arrival.

He crossed the room in quick strides, forestalling her. “Don’t, Mom. You should be comfortable.”

“I’m fine. I wish you and your father would quit fussing.” Her words would have made more of an impact if she hadn’t started coughing. She lifted a handkerchief, pressed it to her mouth.

At his look, the chair in the corner skidded over to Bastian like an obedient pet and he dropped into it, smoothing out any worry lines. His mom didn’t need to see his anxiety.

When her attack had finished, he nodded at the water carafe. “Need a drink?”

“I’m fine. Don’t fuss.” She slumped against the pillows, arranging her hands neatly on the coverlet. They were thinner than they should be. Diana had always been slender, but in the past seven years, she’d gone from slender to skin and bones. She reminded him of a piece of wood that had been whittled down to a toothpick.

Her golden hair, the hair he’d inherited, was now dull, straggling down her shoulders and thin in places. Tanned skin had lightened to look like vellum he could see through to the veins below. Eyes that had always laughed were hollower, sunken, reddened.

It destroyed him.

She smiled. “How was the big reunion?”

His laugh was brittle. “It could have gone better.” He leaned forward, steepling his hands and resting his arms on his knees. “I think...she was pissed at me.”

“No.” His mom might be sick, but she still had enough about her to be gently mocking. Her familiar, a cat with black-and-white markings, stretched from its position at the base of the bed before making its way to Diana’s lap. It began to purr as she stroked. It, too, was worse for wear, fur patchy, eyes watery.

Before, it had been elegant, like most familiars. Unlike Emmaline’s mongrel. He almost laughed at the memory of that ugly face, which still somehow managed to be cute. He had no idea how she’d got that past her mother, who she’d always striven to please.

Bastian pursed his lips. Just how much had she done in her efforts to be a good daughter?

In response to his mom’s teasing, he gave her a baleful look.

Humor briefly lit her features. “Maybe she was caught by surprise,” she suggested.

“She didn’t seem surprised. She seemed pissed to see me.”

And surely if she craved power, or wanted him for a husband, she’d be ecstatic that he was back. He clung to that, the way a small boy clings to his mother’s hand.

His mom’s laugh was weak but still a laugh. “My poor boy. A woman who isn’t falling over herself for one of your smiles?”

He shook his head, impatient. “Emmaline isn’t some woman. And she always...well, you know what she was like.”

“She worshipped you.”

He frowned. His mom didn’t know the whole of it so she couldn’t share his doubts. Still... “I wouldn’t say worshipped.”

“You were her port in the storm.” Diana scratched the cat behind its ear and its purr increased. “Her fiancé. Her best friend. Of course she worshipped you. But time has a way of changing that. She’s not the same girl you knew.”

“I’m getting that.” He stared at his shoes. Unsettled. Goddess, he didn’t want to be here, forced into this again. To look at her and wonder.

A pause. “Bastian, if you’re not ready—”

“No,” he interrupted, eyes flashing up. “This is my mess.”

“Not really.” Her smile turned wistful. “But there’s no turning back the clock.” Her hand reached out, covered his. “I’m sure she’ll do as you ask. She used to adore you. I’m positive you can win her over to your side.”

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