Page 109 of Big Little Spells

I clear my throat, like that might help the bleakness that seems to permeate the room. “Grandma said so.”

“You can’t stand trial today,” Emerson says into Zander’s shoulder, her voice thick. “That’s cruel and unusual. This must be put off.”

“They said no,” Zander says, his voice little more than a scrape.

“Surely your father—”

“My grandmother came this morning. She argued with Festus herself. Dad wasn’t in any shape to and neither was I.”

“Good to know that the Joywood Guardian is as shitty to family as anyone else, I guess,” I say. I think about my father, who seems to have Festus Proctor’s ear whenever he wants it and also didn’t seem to care what was happening to his sister-in-law.

I tell myself this is no time to rage against the Desmond of it all.

Zander rubs his hands over his face, but I’m pretty sure it’s less about needing to gather himself and more about stepping away from Emerson and me. “Festus said Carol wouldn’t hear of putting this off. Not for any reason. She’s quite adamant.”

“Fuck the Joywood and fuck Festus, especially,” Ellowyn says very distinctly, but the heat in her voice sounds tired. It’s like she’s trying for anger because it’s better than grief.

But Aunt Zelda is gone. And there is only grief in me now. Anger sounds like a luxury.

“If Zelda is dead, we aren’t participating in this nonsense tonight,” Ellowyn says, and though her words are harsh, they echo with the same pain I feel. She jabs a finger at Zander. “I’ll damn well refuse for you.”

There’s a noise and we all turn to face it. Like it’s a threat, but it’s only my mother.

“What did you say?” she asks, her voice so very careful. She holds herself like she might break.

Zander turns to face her, and the color surges back into his face. Though when he speaks, his voice is frigid. “Don’t pretend you care now, Aunt Elspeth.”

She absorbs those words. For a moment, I think she’s going to say something, maybe even reach out to Zander. But then she blinks and drops her hand. For a moment, I actually feel sorry for her. Then she pulls herself together, and I wonder how deep the need to be perfect goes.

And just like earlier, I find I can’t hate her. That would be easier. Instead, I just feel sorry for her. And us. And Aunt Zelda.

How sick are you really? I asked her in one of our last text exchanges. I’m getting worried that you’re not telling me how bad it is. On purpose.

You don’t have to worry about me, Rebekah, she’d texted back. My full name and everything. I promise you, I’m good. Whatever happens, sweet girl, I’m good.

Maybe she’d told me then. Maybe I hadn’t wanted to hear it.

I decide then and there that I can either collapse into the grief, or shove it off until later. And if I collapse, that only helps the Joywood, so I know what I have to do.

Zelda would have wanted it that way. She would have cheered us on.

Zander walks out the side door, into the backyard, letting it crash shut behind him. We all move to follow him, but Elspeth’s voice stops me in my tracks. A glance tells me it has the same effect on Emerson.

“Girls.” And I wonder what it costs her to sound so... politely empty. “I need to speak with you a moment, please.”

Emerson and I eye each other, but everyone else is outside with Zander.

I turn back to my mother and follow her into the great room. Even in all the ways I have butted heads and more with my mother, I feel something change in me. A certain weird mix of sympathy and blame.

She’s lost a sister. Even if she made mistakes for twenty years, even if they never had a relationship, that must hurt. I try not to think about how I might have felt if I’d come back to find Emerson dead.

My mother says something low to my father, who sits in the corner. He says nothing. I’m not sure he even acknowledges our existence.

How familiar.

Elspeth picks up two large jewelry boxes from the coffee table and holds them out to us. One box is white, one is black, and I think we all know whose is whose. “Every fledgling witch needs an amulet on Litha. The Joywood destroyed your originals,” Mom is saying, and I imagine I hear something in her voice just now. Something perilously close to...not agreeing with a decision handed down from on high? “But it’s tradition.”

Emerson takes her box first, though her hand shakes a little. I assume we’re both remembering last time. How proud we were to finally wear our amulets. And how they crumbled to ash at our necks when we were pronounced failures. “You had...duplicates made?”

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