Page 83 of The Witch is Back

Added to that, Sloane hadn’t taken the broken plans well. The hurt in her sister’s voice echoed in Emma’s ear as she shifted her weight. She’d tried to explain, but all Sloane had heard was that she wasn’t important enough and that the witch world held more allure—despite Emma’s fervent reassurances to the contrary. Sloane had again protested that she could meet Bastian as Emma’s volunteering program “little sister,” not her little sister, and insisted they could pull it off.

Emma had no interest in pulling it off. Running a con on a man like Bastian was asking for trouble. Despite promises of milkshakes the next day, Sloane had barely uttered a yes before making excuses and hanging up.

Looked like she needed a new potion to show the teenager. Even if Sloane couldn’t do magic yet, she liked to mess around with potion ingredients. It usually won her over.

Bribery. She was such a good sister.

“Bastian Truenote,” intoned the snobbish butler who’d been with their family for dozens of years.

Emma’s head was tight with nervous tension as Bastian strode in, beautifully outfitted in a navy three-piece suit. He wore polished brogues and even a pocket square in his jacket pocket. Confident, charismatic, gorgeous as any movie star. She’d never felt so inadequate, standing in a line with her much more successful siblings in her mother’s manor. He may say how hard it was to try for perfection, but he made it look like he’d been born to it.

She braced herself as he swept a look over the line of them. He nodded at her brothers, pausing on Kole, who’d angled his chin in a cocky challenge, before he finally settled on her. A private smile curled his lips, and her shoulders eased somewhat. And that pocket square turned a matching green.

CHAPTER 16

Bastian had never warmed to Emma’s brothers. Three were older than him, the gap spanning a few decades to a handful of years. The three eldest ones had always been pompous, stuffed with the lessons Clarissa had drilled into all her kids. Even though the Bluewaters weren’t a Higher family in truth, they’d clung to the fringes, unbearably close to being one of them. Emma’s father had worked backbreaking hours to send Emma’s brothers to the boarding schools Higher families attended, even though Emma had told him once her mother had a bone-deep hatred that any of the family had to “work.” Emma’s dad had been the last son of a Higher family, bought with Clarissa’s family’s money.

No changes in the next generation there, he thought as they all sat around the antique dining table in the grand dining room, everybody dressed up in formal clothes. Nobody joked or teased, all very proper and stiff-backed. He thought of the night before, remembered Emma looking up at him, saying how she wasn’t used to family. His heart twisted.

Except for Kole and Emma, he amended, taking a bite of sinfully good lamb (at least the Bluewaters had an excellent chef going for them). The two siblings were their own family. They sat next to each other down the table, as far from the proper places of honor as Clarissa could stick them without resorting to a kiddy table. Her attempt at reminding Bastian she had the control here, he supposed, with a handy stab of humiliation for Emma. Not that she seemed to notice.

The brother and sister had that secret language of family—a joke told in the way Kole quirked his lips at something one of the painfully boring brothers said, the dab of a napkin from Emma implying a mock scolding.

Something eased inside him at the knowledge she’d had reinforcements here.

But Kole didn’t pull punches when it came to threatening Bastian. Amusement, rich and warm, tickled him when Kole sent him another challenging look, having caught Bastian’s gaze lingering on Emma.

In Bastian’s defense, she looked so pretty under the floating candles suspended high above them. Her skin glowed, even if she did seem pale. The hairstyle opened up her face, and while he preferred it loose, he couldn’t deny it brought attention to her eyes and her strong cheekbones. It was hard to remember a time when he’d thought she was ordinary-looking.

“Are you looking forward to the Exhibition, Bastian?” Clarissa held her wineglass loosely, the rich red wine swirling as if an invisible spoon stirred it.

He transferred his gaze from daughter to mother and not for the first time marveled that they were related. “Sure.” He was looking forward to having it over with and her out of his life again.

“You were quite the talent before you...took off on your little adventures,” she drawled.

Oh, she liked to play. Bastian slid on the ice shield all witch nobility learned in the cradle. “Everyone follows their passions. Some for travel, others for ambition. You’d know about the latter, Clarissa.” His implication of her status-climbing was veiled thinly enough to be arrested for indecent exposure.

“Goddess knows my daughter doesn’t,” she said with some disdain. “She could’ve done something useful with her life, but no. She had to go mingle with the humans.” Her nose wrinkled and he saw Emma cringe from the corner of his eye. “And open a bar, of all things.”

Bastian was beginning to understand why Emma had chosen a bar, a place full of laughter and emotion, as the setting for her new life. And he approved. “It’s impressive she owns it,” he countered with a light smile, spearing an asparagus with his fork. “Working hard shows good character.” He paused before slipping the vegetable into his mouth. “What is it you do with your time again, Clarissa?”

If possible, her mouth thinned further. It was delightful, Bastian had to admit, though he mainly wanted to hold her down and make her confess what she’d done to him and his. Still, his parents had raised him better—nothing so gauche as torture at the dinner table unless it was done with a few skillful words.

“Getting back to the Exhibition...” Clarissa’s study sent a chill through him, likely done with a spell. “Have your powers grown much in the years and years that have passed?”

Subtle she was not, but she got her point across. “I guess you’ll have to wait and see.”

“How mysterious.”

“Or maybe you don’t want to admit you’re weak,” Christopher joked, slinging back his third glass of wine.

Bastian pitied him and let it show. “Maybe.”

“What is it that you specialize in?” Kole asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“Mind magic.”

“Hmm.” Kole leaned in. “Can you read my mind?”

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