Page 19 of Big Little Spells

A corner of his mouth kicks up. I do not join things.

But he’s looking at Emerson. “Before I can even consider helping you, there are some basic requirements you have already failed.”

“Name them,” Emerson says at once, already frowning because he said her least favorite word. Failed.

But he doesn’t look at her. His gaze rakes up and down my entire body, as if he can see everything I’ve ever done or ever been. I don’t shudder, though I want to. I can see by the way his gaze lingers at the silver hoop in my nose, then in my navel, that he’s as traditional and boring as all the rest.

You are an endless disappointment, Nicholas.

I am endless, he agrees. But what are you? A sad little teenage rebellion of one—again?

Ouch.

“Requirements and failure,” I say out loud, but I’m smiling. I’m going full-on daisy, immune to judgmental looks and private, rude comments. Even the ones that leave marks. “Do tell.”

He suddenly looks something like...lazy. “Any witch—powerful or otherwise—should know it isn’t wise to mar one’s body with metal and ink.”

I don’t move. Or react, out loud or privately. Even though I would have happily sold my own teenage soul if he would ever pay that kind of close attention to my body. “How sad for you, Nicholas, to be in thrall to what’s wise over what’s best for you.” I smile serenely. “I’m sure you have fond, personal memories of feudal systems, but in my world, a woman has agency over her own body and choices.”

“You aren’t in your world. You’re in St. Cyprian. You’ve been sentenced to take the most difficult test known to witchkind.” He matches my condescending smile with his, except his feels like knives. “I should know. I created it.”

“Exactly my point,” Emerson says, clearly trying to shift Nicholas’s attention from me. I’m sure she’s trying to protect me. Why does it bother me that she feels the need? “You know it. You made it. All roads lead to you. So help us.”

His dark gaze gleams. “And how would I help you?”

She looks impatient. “Teach us what we need to know. You helped us before. Why is this different?”

“I’m not going to sit here and tutor you like Gil Redd, droning on in one of his cramped high school classrooms,” he says instead of answering the question. It makes me think there must be something...important about the answer he won’t give.

But then I’m considering Gil Redd, the Joywood’s Praeceptor. Nicholas isn’t wrong. The man could bore drying paint.

“How did you do it back in the Crusades?” I ask, not deferentially. I don’t actually know if he was cavorting around then, but why not? The way he looks at me makes me feel entirely too many things I shouldn’t, and I only wish I’d asked about Byzantium.

Careful. His voice is like smoke, curling inside me. Be certain you actually want the answers you seek.

“I was thinking more a study guide,” Emerson says. “But sure. Epic battles could work.”

Nicholas seems to look at me a long time. I pretend I don’t notice. I think about Smudge grooming herself. The time she takes. The attention she gives every last spot on each of her paws.

We shield any way we can.

He flicks a hand. One very large, heavy-looking book appears in midair, then plummets. It lands with a thud on the porch. Neither Emerson nor I flinch at that, though it’s a close call on my part. I glare at the book and the cloud of dust that puffs up all around it. It looks like the sort of thing Georgie would fall in love with at first sight.

Me, on the other hand? Hard pass.

“There’s your study guide,” Nicholas tells us, as if he’s being helpful, which is a good sign that he is not being anything of the kind.

Emerson’s mouth firms, but I can tell she considers this a win. I’m more stuck on how it looks a lot like homework.

“I suggest you study.” Nicholas shakes his head sadly, as if we’ve already proven ourselves failures all over again. “If it comes to it, I suppose I could offer a few practice round tests. You’ll probably fail.”

“Unlikely,” Emerson replies, and even I have to appreciate her tenacity—particularly when it’s not aimed at me.

“This all feels a lot like Joywood propaganda,” I say, because I am never more recklessly confident than when I’m charging straight into my own peril. “For all we know, he’s in it with them. We already know we have all the magic they claimed we didn’t. Why should we prove it to them or anyone else?”

Nicholas’s gaze slides to mine.

And the ground beneath me seems to shift. Maybe even buckle, like this is California when I know very well it’s not. We make our own fault lines here in the Midwest.

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