Page 13 of Truly Madly Magically

“Oh.” She waves that away. “I want to hurt anyone who hurts my baby. I always will. But if I step back...”

She takes my face in her hands now. Her eyes are violet—one of those things I always wished she’d passed on to me but didn’t. Because those are witch eyes.

My eyes are a deeply unremarkable blue.

“Zander is a Guardian,” Mom is saying, intently. “It’s in his blood to...guard, protect, and so forth. I’m not saying he’s perfect,” she hurries to say when I glare at her. “No one is. I’m not saying he’s all good or all Guardians are, because we know Festus Proctor is a useless, pompous fool.”

Festus Proctor is the Joywood’s Guardian, and he is all that and more.

“Mom,” I begin.

She’s not done. “I know you two have hurt each other over the years, Ellowyn, but he isn’t a total dick, and this isn’t a midlife crisis. There are worse fathers out there.”

She doesn’t say like yours. She doesn’t need to. Bill Wallace is always our personal touchstone for useless men.

But I’m not ready to think of Zander as a father.

“I’m more concerned about the fact some shadow creature took a chunk out of you,” my mother is saying now, that daggery glint back in her eyes.

“It took a bigger chunk out of Zander.”

“Yeah, but you’re my chunk. He could stand a few less chunks.” She wrinkles her nose at that. “I shouldn’t say that. Zelda was a good friend.”

It’s Zelda, and my mother, and this whole shitty evening that has me pulling away and pushing off the bed. To stand up even though I’m exhausted. Because it’s all too much. “I should quit the coven.”

I don’t even get into the ascension situation. Because, spoiler alert: I think we’re going to lose.

“Why?” my mother asks from her seat on the bed, but like she’s merely curious. Not like she’s taking me seriously. A lot like when I made proclamations in junior high, now that I think about it.

“I’ve got other stuff to worry about now.” I try not to relive that angry claw mark across my stomach. I don’t say the other part. The part my mother will argue with.

Which is this, and it’s inescapable now that we’re the Riverwood: I don’t belong. I never did. I can’t let my friends down, but if I back out because of pregnancy—which is part of my concern or I wouldn’t have been able to say it to my mother—they can’t argue with that, can they?

Pathetic, Ruth whispers in my head from where she flies or perches somewhere outside.

I’m thinking of making an owl stew, I tell her, because I can. And because I won’t.

“I can’t go around fighting off dark shadows,” I tell my mother. “I’ve got more to lose now.”

“And more to protect.” My mother stands and takes me by the shoulders. She looks at me, in that way I think is looking into me.

“A pregnant witch isn’t fragile, Ellowyn,” she tells me. Fiercely. “The life inside of her might be, but she isn’t. She is powerful. Fearsome. Not fearful.”

I don’t tell my mother what I’m thinking. She never responds well to it.

I’m not a witch. I’m only half. Bits and pieces but never the whole.

“Even powerful witches need sleep. I’ll stay with you tonight and—”

I would love nothing more than to let my mother baby me, but how can I? I had four months to wallow. Now the secret is out. It’s time to suck it up.

“Go on home to Mina,” I tell her. “I’ve got to deal with ascension meetings and all that tomorrow. I don’t need a babysitter. I’ve got Emerson.”

She laughs and squeezes me tight. “Let them take care of you. Or I will force my way into this house, turn them all into summer sausages, and do it myself.”

“Not summer sausages,” I say, making myself smile. “They’re so greasy.”

She hugs me again. “I hated being pregnant,” she whispers, but like hating it is a fond memory. “But I loved, and love, every minute of being your mother. Even the hard parts. You will too.” She strokes my hair and holds me against her like I’m two instead of twenty-eight, and I wish I was. “Underneath all those walls, you have everything you need to be a good one.”

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