Page 114 of Truly Madly Magically

“You supplied her with the tools! You!” Maeve shouts, and I’ll give her one thing. She sure seems panicked. I just can’t believe it’s because of Happy Ambrose’s decidedly unhappy fate. “You were parading her around Emerson’s bookstore a few weeks ago. We know you all gave her the tools!”

Her sickly pigeon coos in agreement.

“We did not,” I say, and I make it ring out a little. Then I look at the crowd. “If I’m saying it, it must be the truth.”

Maybe I should have expected them to be ready for that by now.

Carol scoffs. “A tired old excuse, when we all know that curse was lifted during that little ritual you all went off and did this evening.” She looks at us, her hair getting bigger, her mouth even curving enough that the spectators can see it. So obviously satisfied with herself that she can’t be bothered to hide it any longer under her fake grief. “That’s why there were so many of you running around, isn’t it? Trying to hide your dirty deeds across the river?”

That isn’t what we were doing at all, which is when I realize that they don’t know.

They don’t know what ritual we did, I tell everyone else.

Good, Jacob says, sounding as darkly furious as I’ve ever heard him.

They know we did a ritual. They know I was at the center of it, but they can’t figure out what it was for.

Jacob is already there. They must not know that we’ve found a way to circumvent their poison.

I’d like to force-feed it to them and see how they like it, Zander chimes in, sounding almost conversational. Meaning he’s lit up with fury and loss.

I’m pretty sure the rest of my coven jumps in then too, but all I can see is Sadie. Staring back at me, horror and anguish all over that face of hers that ought to be stuck in a book.

They even broke her glasses. For some reason, that’s the thing that feels like the straw snapping the spine of any camel who cares to look at her. She’s a clueless human kid, and they terrorized her and broke her glasses? Who cares that she doesn’t need them to see. It’s the principle.

For some reason, this moment is when the Undine decides to wade in. “Joywood, you accuse the Riverwood of inciting a human to murder your Historian?”

“Yes,” they echo emphatically, so the word seems to bounce off the river and roll back over us all.

“Riverwood,” the Undine continues, “you deny this accusation?”

“Yes,” we all say, and we do it too, that long, loud, confident roll of our voices, our authority, our innocence. It seems to fill up the night.

“Very well.” The Undine looks almost pleased, I think, if an animated stone can look like anything. “Joywood. Riverwood. Debate your positions on this matter before your community, making clear the depth and breadth of your beliefs. You have until the clock turns over to Samhain, and then the final casting of choices will begin. Whoever the people choose to ascend to position of ruling coven will make the final decision on the human’s culpability in the murder of the Historian, and any repercussions thereof.”

The worst must be true if the Undine is acknowledging it. Someone did kill Happy.

“Joywood, as accusers and defending ruling coven, please make your case first.”

Carol’s face takes on that beatific look that makes me think this was somehow her plan all along. Like she’s been in cahoots with the Undine this whole time, or maybe she knew that she could use the statue’s neutrality to wield a sword against us.

What I know is, after everything that’s happened since they attacked Emerson after our Litha ceremony senior year, and especially since they unleashed adlets on her this past spring, we can’t put anything past them.

They are rotten straight through.

That doesn’t mean the rest of St. Cyprian will see that. Evil so often hides in plain sight, under endless speeches and bureaucratic red tape most people don’t have the energy to wade through. Especially in small towns like ours.

Thank the universes for Emerson Wilde and her tireless dedication to just that. Or we’d all be lost under this tide of evil, and never really know it.

Carol steps forward, and the moon chooses that moment to appear, bathing her in light. I suspect a little stagecraft, but that’s not against the rules. It’s annoying, that’s all.

She sounds quiet when she speaks, but it’s an authoritative quiet that seems to hum in my bones. More theatrics. She’s good at it.

“Citizens of the witching world, we have found one of our own murdered in cold blood,” she says, and she sounds as if she’s both deeply saddened by this as well as determined to do what’s right and address it like this. “All because of the desperate thirst for power these young upstarts can’t seem to hide. They couldn’t win these trials, they knew this, and so they had to strike out in some other way.”

She stops as if overcome. I watch—we all watch—as Felicia bustles forth to stand beside her, as if Carol needs the support.

Carol gives her a brave smile. Then she addresses the crowd once more. “Humans have been used as tools against us for eternity, and the Riverwood have a half human among them who knew exactly how to wield this human child to hurt us. What a sickening, despicable act.”

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