Page 121 of Big Little Spells

He reaches out and takes my chin in his fingers. “Forever once meant nothing to me. But I am as mortal as you are now. I could die tomorrow.”

“It’s a tragedy, I know,” I say as a tear rolls down my cheek. “You might have as little as a couple hundred years left. Witches die so fast.”

He wipes away the tear and his eyes darken. But before we can say anything else, there is another commotion.

A magical vote, ready to go.

“On the other hand,” I say with a battered sort of daisy smile, “I might not make it to midnight.”

But Nicholas winds his arm around me. “You’d be surprised, witchling, how much small acts of goodness can matter. Especially when no one’s looking.”

A magical scoreboard appears on the stage. As people begin to cast their votes, murmuring words and flicking them toward the board, the numbers change.

Life and a proper witch designation on one side.

Punishment by way of death on the other.

And a clock ticking down, because you only get three minutes to cast your vote. If you don’t vote in the time allowed, you’re forced to abstain.

If I wanted to complain about these things, I should have been paying attention.

I’m focused on nothing else now.

The numbers change. The lead goes to one side, then the other. The seven of us move off the stage together, holding on to each other and whispering reassurances.

The Joywood remain on the stage. And as good as they can be at optics, they don’t seem to think this one through. They look powerful, separate, and scary up there.

I have to think that in contrast, we look warm. And alive. And real.

And when the timer clicks off, the numbers stop moving.

We win.

We win.

By three votes.

I let out a shaky breath. I can’t celebrate exactly. It’s too close.

But we live to see another day.

In the silence that follows, Emerson steps forward and then turns to address everyone who sits and stands in the Litha ceremony seats. Everyone seems to be in various states of confusion, awe, and discomfort.

Then again, so am I.

“We want to thank you all for your support,” my sister says in her usual pleasant way. It makes people lean in to hear more. Because while she always claims she isn’t a politician, she’s awfully good at it. “And when Ascension comes this fall, I want you all to remember what you saw here. What you felt. Who helped you and who didn’t. Who sacrificed himself for what’s right. Because come Samhain, the Joywood won’t be the only coven up for Ascension.”

That goes through the crowd like electricity.

“If you do this, Emerson,” Carol hisses from behind her, “you start a war.”

Emerson turns to face Carol. Our families no longer block them from us, because it’s our turn now. I take Emerson’s hand first, then she takes Jacob’s. We form a chain from there, Jacob to Georgie to Ellowyn to Zander. I look to Nicholas on my right and hold out my hand.

His mouth firms. He doesn’t want this. But that’s what makes it special. That’s what makes us right.

We don’t want the power. We hate the idea of a war.

But we want to do what’s right. We have to do what’s right. And no matter how you look at it, the Joywood aren’t right.

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