Page 28 of Truly Madly Magically

“It should be in the records,” Georgie is saying, a note of acidity in her tone. “We know how that goes with the Joywood and all their oh-so-helpful edits of the records. Everywhere.” She makes a frustrated noise, because that’s been another thing we’ve learned this summer. We suspected the Joywood were altering things as they went, in complete and total violation of all witch laws. Now we know they have. Partly because of what Frost can remember, partly because of how good Georgie is at finding things they don’t want found. “I’ll do some more deep-diving in Frost’s library.”

It contains ancient texts, banned books, and many other things the Joywood have tried to hide or destroy, but you have to know what you’re looking for and then actually find it for any of that to matter.

The library has its own mind, Frost told us after Litha, when Georgie and Emerson had demanded a tour. Best of luck bending it to yours.

“Once we can get everyone together, we’ll do a full Summoning for our sponsors,” Emerson tells me in her officious way that, all things considered, feels like pure comfort today. Like everything is as it should be, with Emerson telling us what to do and arranging things so the actual doing involves pizza from Redbrick and her cute little planners that she hands out like candy and updates for everyone when they accidentally leave them behind. It feels like home, and that feels good. “We’ve got less than two weeks to get this sorted out.”

Though I’d rather keep what happened with Maeve to myself, I’ve learned enough since March that I tell everyone about running into her earlier today and what Zander and I figured out thanks to that.

“The Joywood know I’m pregnant. They care that I’m pregnant,” I say baldly. For some inconceivable reason, I add privately.

I don’t mention Maeve taking a swipe at me, because it isn’t relevant.

So maybe I haven’t learned jack shit.

Everyone takes this in. Maeve Mather and her panda bag pigeon, taking time to drip condescension at me when we haven’t heard anything from the Joywood in months—but were attacked by something malignant only last night.

“Pregnant witches are powerful,” Georgie says thoughtfully while Emerson frowns. Very deeply.

I think back to what my mother said. A pregnant witch is fearsome. Not fearful.

I look uneasily at the past laid out on old parchment and leather-bound books that Emerson and Georgie are sure will give us what we need. What if it doesn’t? What if I can’t reach these two people? Even if I do, nothing is guaranteed. No one can predict how ghosts or spirits will respond.

Then I’ll have to do it again for the town hall meeting. In front of not just the Joywood, but all St. Cyprian witch citizens who want a say in the ascension—and as we haven’t had one of these meetings in my lifetime, I imagine that will be all of them.

Rebekah puts her arm around me. “We’ve got this,” she says quietly.

Like she’s certain. Like she’s seen the outcome, the way Diviners do, and she knows.

What I focus on is the we.

Because I’m pretty sure that I, personally, don’t got this at all.

The next few days are all about planning for the Summoning. We’re running out of time, but the timing also has to be perfect. That’s Spellwork 101.

For me. For all our various schedules. For the ghosts and spirits we hope to bring into the fold.

The last time I summoned, it worked, sort of, but it also caused me a lot of pain. Hurting is part of the price, but I’m hoping to avoid that. I’d like to do this without hurting myself, or the baby, or anyone else. Something I don’t voice, because I don’t want any of the rousing you can do it speeches that would cause.

Finally, the night in question comes, the moon and the planets in the ideal positions for communication with the other side.

We gather as a coven out back, where Georgie’s crystals clink in the cottonwood trees, the river sings its songs as it rolls past, and I notice the evening is cool enough that I can almost feel fall and Samhain coming in. That’s how it goes in Missouri. Summer lies on us, hard, until suddenly one night you shiver and remember that the world really is turning after all.

Georgie and Frost are the ones arranging things according to her research and his memories and experiences. They first create a kind of barrier, so that anyone happening by will think there’s no one out here. Just a pretty night in this space between summer and true fall, Lillian Wilde’s overgrown gardens, and the little hill that one of the Wilde ancestors once walked down to drown himself one fine morning. No one knows why.

That’s the story witches will think of when they pass. Humans will see the lengthening shadows and wonder what lurks there. They’ll all keep walking.

Georgie tells the rest of us how to arrange ourselves in the circle she and Frost have prepared. They’ve already told us what we’ll say tonight, so we could spend a day or two learning the specific chants and incantations.

“We’ve built in a lot of protections,” Rebekah says, standing next to me and rubbing my back. It doesn’t ease the tension in my shoulders, but it helps to hear.

They should have found someone else, but I can’t say that. You can’t bring an unknown into your possibly treasonous bid for ascension. I get why I have to be the Summoner in this coven—they trust me.

But I wish they’d chosen someone else for this tonight.

Because though they trust me, no one here trusts my magic, and they shouldn’t.

“We’re not going to form our usual circle,” Georgie says when the moon rises high above us and casts a silvery light down on the rivers. We all know it’s time. “Ellowyn will stand in the center. We need the future at her front and the protector at her back.”

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