Page 119 of Which Witch Is Wicked?
“No,” Moira agreed. “You can’t.”But I can.
She sank into these three words like a warm bath. Her whole body melted against the bed, slack-limbed and relaxed. For the first time in her whole life, she felt…peace.
Oblivion had sought her all her days, and now she knew why. She was the one meant to die. And in her death, Tierra and her child, Aerin, Claire, and the world would be made safe again.
Healed, the way she’d always done.
And at last, at long last, she could finally heal herself. End her own pain. Bring to a close the decades-long debate in her head of why she’d been made at all.
The colors in the richly-appointed room suddenly radiated vibrant hues. The sun’s warmth from the parted curtains made its way into her very soul until she was nothing but light. Complete. Whole. Perfect in her purpose.
“It will be all right, Aunt Justine,” Moira said, surprising herself with the serene quality of her voice. “You just hush a while and rest. Everything’s gonna be just fine.”
Justine shook her head miserably. “How can you say that? How can you know?”
“Because I’m Moira Joule Malveaux de Moray,” she answered, treating Aunt Justine to the widest grin she could muster. “And I know shit.”
Her aunt’s somber pallor cracked for a split second, and for a brief moment, Moira saw a much younger woman. A woman not borne down by a lifetime of guilt and self-loathing, of crushing blame and dread. A woman Moira might have resembled had Mirelle de Moray survived.
“Now don’t think this excuses that whole attempted murder thing,” Moira chided. “Might take me a bit to get over that still. I tend to get a little sensitive about people trying to kill me.”
“I understand,” Justine agreed. “And for what it’s worth at this late hour, I’m sorry.” Her voice broke on the word. “I’m so, so sorry,
Moira.”
“You keep bawlin’ like that, you might could float us both out of here, bed and all.”
Justine stifled a burp of sudden laughter through her tears just as the door to Nick’s room swung open again.
“Drustan!” Nick roared. “What the fuck isyourward doing inmyquarters?”
The sound of boots shuffling in the hall preceded War, roughly brushing past Nick into the room. “Because any longer and that bitch was in infinite danger of defenestration,” Dru mumbled.
“You been reading Julian’s big word books again, brother?” Nick asked.
“Really? You’re going to give me shitnow?” A vicious smirk slashed across Dru’s face as he stepped back and looked Nick over head to foot.
And then Moira did the same.
Nicholas Kingswood was wearing anapron.
Nicholas Kingswood was wearing an apron and carrying atray.
Nicholas Kingswood, Conquest, bender of wills and destroyer of civilizations was wearing and apron and carrying a tray laden with plates, a steaming mug of coffee, a rose in a slim vase, and a napkin shaped like aswan.
“Shut up and get her the fuck out of here,” Nick ordered.
Drustin grudgingly crossed to Aunt Justine and pulled her up by the chain binding her arms behind her back, grabbing the chain between her feet for good measure. By the time he lifted her, she looked like someone had put her in one of those kinky sex swings…which, now she was thinking about it, Moira was almost sure Nick had hidden away somewhere in one of the many closets this room seemed to boast, if the mirror overhead was any indication.
Justine cast Moira one last meaningful glance. Worried. Guilty. Gutted.
Moira shook her head and smiled just as her Aunt was carried out the door. “That’s all over now, Aunt Justine,” she called after her. “Water under the fishing dock.”
Nick kicked the door closed after him and still managed to walk through his own room like it was lined with the backs of peasants, apron or no.
“Don’t think I’m gonna believe you’ve gone all domesticated on account of that apron. You and I both know you’re only wearing it because you’re too vain to get butter on that expensive tie you got there.” Moira nodded toward the tie in question. Gray silk, more carefully tailored than Moira’s hand-sewn prom dress, which was her only basis for comparison. Uncle Red’s wife had her standing on a beer keg for the better part of a week while she measured and cut, sewed, and cursed. And also drank a fair amount of hooch, which probably accounted for one sleeve being a good six inches longer than the other. All the better to keep Lester Beliveau’s sweaty palm from clutching her shoulder.
At least on one side.
