Page 18 of Truly Madly Magically

“The next order of business is almost as pressing. We’re running out of time to find our sponsors,” Emerson says, and everyone groans a little and shifts in their seats.

Because everything in the witching world can’t be fun magic and flying. There are always rules and steps and hoops to jump through. That’s what spells are. That’s what has to happen if we want to continue to keep our existence hidden from humans, who have a tendency to revert to torches in the night and unpleasant witch hunts.

The steps in this case are murky, but the first step to having an actual ascension—instead of the sort we usually have, which involves the Joywood having a party on Samhain and no one remembering when we last chose them—is clear. It was us announcing our decision to go against them in the first place. We did that at Litha.

Despite all the crap the Joywood threw at us to stop us.

Authentic ascension proceedings are shrouded in mystery, given that Frost isn’t the only one who can’t seem to remember how they’re supposed to go. He told the entire town that’s because the Joywood seized power and have no intention of relinquishing it. That they’re making a bid for the kind of immortality he once had, that even the youngest witch learns early on only happens when you’re more bad witch than good.

But they still have control, and they’re ridiculously good at convincing people we’re liars.

Regardless, we have started the ascension proceedings. According to Georgie and Frost’s research, the next step is to produce sponsors. The sponsors must be a magical witch couple—both descended from a founding family—who are prepared to vouch for the new coven. The Joywood, as the sitting ruling coven, are presumed to have already produced sponsors at some point in the past that no Summoner I know can pull up.

Calling it dodgy is an understatement.

The sponsoring couple is required to stand up at the Mabon town hall meeting and give a sort of vocal letter of recommendation. This recommendation needs to act as proof to the wider community that said coven is worthy of taking part in any ascension proceedings.

“Our father continues to flat-out refuse,” Emerson mutters, clearly irritated she can’t solve the problem that is Desmond Wilde. “He and Mom are deliberately not engaging with the discussion every time they come home from one of their diplomatic trips.”

“Which you’ll notice they’ve done exactly once since Litha,” Rebekah says. “When Mom memorably told Dad to shut up.”

She and Emerson share a smile at that happy recollection, but then Emerson moves on. “Georgie?”

Georgie shakes her head. “Every time I try to broach the subject, I get a lecture about danger and shame and the usual Historian thing. Pendells don’t stick their necks out. A Pendell is for history, the present is for others. Blah blah blah.”

“I don’t see why these sponsors have to be a married couple,” I say, mostly thinking out loud. It’s a strange, antiquated, irritating rule. Because if we only needed one person, Emerson and Rebekah’s mother would do it, but it doesn’t count without Desmond agreeing to sponsor us as well. Zander’s father would do it, regardless of how he’s doing, but can’t without Zelda. My mother would obviously be first in line, but she and Mina have never married, Tanith being a little wedding-shy after my dad. Healers not directly involved have to remain exempt from any hint of politics, which leaves Jacob’s parents out. It leaves us searching farther afield and failing. “The whole thing is archaic.”

“The Joywood are that,” Frost agrees, sounding very nearly merry. For him. “They quite enjoy being so. It certainly makes it harder for you, doesn’t it?”

“Us,” Rebekah reminds him gently.

“You got any bright ideas?” Zander asks. Demands.

Frost has saved us. He’s fought with us. He is one of us, but there is still some...distrust from some quarters of the coven. The male quarters, mostly.

Because you have to engage in some shady shit to be immortal in the first place.

He studies me, and when he inclines his head, I go a little cold. “There are no rules about the sponsors being living.”

Since the dead are my territory, I have a bad idea where this is heading.

“Ghost sponsors?” Emerson cries as though we have solved all the world’s problems here and now. I’m surprised she doesn’t fist pump with glee, given her historic love of a good fist pump. “Why didn’t you suggest that before?”

“It’s not a foolproof plan,” Frost replies. “For a great many reasons. But if we—” and I catch his sideways glance at Rebekah, who looks proud “—can pull it off with the right spirits who can fulfill the duties required of them, the Joywood can’t legitimately mount an argument. Not in front of people they need on their side come ascension time.”

Georgie looks the way she always looks when the prospect of piles of books and long days lost in libraries is dangled before her. Delighted. “All we need to do is look through history, find some targets, and then summon them.”

Summon two ghosts to act as sponsors for us. “Who are we going to bring in to do that?” I ask, knowing full well this question will be met with disappointment. In me.

Better now than when I fail to summon a damn thing. Or when I summon everything all at once. Or, like last spring, when I’m rendered nearly catatonic by the pain of it all. I have power, Hecate knows. I passed my pubertatum. I’ve done my share of a lot of magic.

Control is the issue.

In all things.

Obviously.

“Why do you think you can’t?” Rebekah asks, her eyes narrow as she studies me. “Because of the pregnancy?”

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