Page 80 of Truly Madly Magically

What I should be focusing on is that everyone can see the affectionate way he holds me next to him. I shouldn’t allow it.

Just like I shouldn’t let him in my head. It’s too intimate. It feels like much more than it is. I need to block that up again, no matter what he said about life and the rest of it earlier. I promise myself I will. Soon.

Right now I have to dance attendance on a living statue in the middle of the day. I look around and see some humans taking a walk along the river, though St. Cyprian is too enchanted for them to see anything of import. They’ll think it’s just community theater. Eccentrics putting on a show.

Some of them might even come over to watch, never realizing the “play” they think they’re watching is real life, with real consequences.

We haven’t had any time to prepare, Emerson complains in all our heads, where no one, not even a stray human passerby, might hear that the youngest chamber of commerce president in the town’s history isn’t 100 percent ready for whatever might be happening.

That means they haven’t had any time either, Jacob points out.

Trust that regardless of the Undine or any attendant protections, the Joywood are prepared. Frost this time, in his role as the voice of doom.

Rebekah aims a tight smile and a rolled eye at me as if to say, that’s my man.

Then, proving Frost’s point, the Joywood appear out of nowhere—risky in full daylight when humans are about—and process toward the Undine. Like they’ve practiced this very thing all their lives. They don’t climb up on the dais so much as smooth themselves there, and then arrange themselves in a pattern that gives the impression of a rune without actually being anything but a bunch of people standing about. They look out, regally, to our witchy spectators and incline their heads here, there.

All that’s missing are the scepters, I say on our coven channel.

And the odd guillotine, Georgie adds darkly.

“The first trial shall begin,” the Undine says in her booming voice, her moonlit eyes making it feel like the sullen woods and dark night Rebekah and I were just bemoaning.

You’d think a town full of witches would turn away from the word trial, given the chance, I offer to the group.

Zander laughs, his arm still casually around my waist. Which is the trial I should be concerned with as we stand in front of a group of judgy St. Cyprian onlookers.

My mother chief among them.

Chairs begin to appear, and we are magically nudged to sit in them, so I don’t have the chance to push him off. He’s pushed off for me. I pretend I’m grateful.

“The first trial demands that each coven demonstrate honesty and transparency to the people it wishes to lead,” the Undine intones in her voice of stone and centuries. “Therefore, each coven will be compelled to tell the truth to those who challenge you. The rules are thus. The opposing coven will ask three questions. One representative from the receiving coven will answer. These answers must be the truth. Lies will be broadcast across the world and called what they are.”

How? Georgie wonders in our coven channel.

Magic, Georgie, Rebekah replies dryly.

The statue is still intoning into the early October sunshine. “Whatever representative answers will ask the next question of the opposing coven. Be warned that there will be limited time to react and talk amongst yourselves. As the ruling coven, the Joywood may ask the first question. The trial has thus begun.” The Undine’s eyes dim as if that’s a sign she’s handed over the metaphorical microphone.

“You must be careful, Ellowyn,” Elizabeth warns me. “The truth is important, but the Joywood and their ilk will twist it. You must all be clever.”

Carol stands up immediately, clearly already prepared for this.

She knew what was coming, Emerson says, outraged, to the rest of us.

What I think is that Elizabeth is correct. And that means I really do need to be careful here. We all do.

Before I can pass that on, Carol speaks, her voice carrying out over the small crowd without her seeming to try. This is one of her party tricks. What astonishes me is how good she is at all of them.

“Your so-called Warrior,” and Carol imbues this word with enough inflection, and a knowing eye roll with her coven to make it clear that she does not approve of Emerson’s designation, “and self-proclaimed leader draws a lot of...” She trails off, pretending to search for a word, with that tittering laugh of hers I have always hated. “Mixed reactions from the public she claims to want to serve. She can be abrasive. I think that’s a kind word for it.” She turns that stone-cold glare, chilly enough to rival the Undine herself, on Emerson. “Emerson Wilde, self-styled Confluence Warrior, how do you justify wanting to lead people who clearly don’t even like you?”

Because everyone is such a fan of Carol’s? Rebekah’s voice is dark and irritated.

The difference is, no one is afraid of Emerson, Georgie retorts hotly.

I’m not afraid to get up there and list all the reasons we should lead, Emerson says at once.

Elizabeth floats in front of her as if to stop her, though Emerson can’t see the ghost, but Zander can. He grabs his cousin’s wrist. Wait, Em.

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