Page 50 of Dragon Fires Everywhere
Except maybe the Joywood. But I ignore that thought too.
Because sometimes doing what needs to be done means knowing all the potential pitfalls and worrying about what might go dreadfullywrong, then doing it anyway.
“The first key, made of amber, came from my stop in Sydney.” I pull it out of my box. Each member of my coven will wield akey during the spell. This one has been assigned to Emerson.
I hand her the key, and she goes to stand at what will be the metaphorical head of our table, a slight adjustment from theceremonial instructions we originally found—no doubt left for us by the Joywood—but it’s right.
I know it.
Then I hand out the rest of the keys—black agate from Colombo to Jacob, peridot from Tokyo to Rebekah, opal from Juneau toZander, citrine from Buenos Aires to Ellowyn, sugilite from Accra to Frost—and, one by one, they each take their places inthe arrangement of a true coven.
I can see the Joywood exchanging looks of concern, and that brings me some joy.
Okay. A lot of joy.
“The seventh key is for me, an amethyst from London,” I tell the crowd, holding it up.
And I have to give credit to my neighbors and friends, and some vocal critics, in the crowd tonight. Maybe no oneremembers this ceremony from before the Joywood—assuming there everwasabefore the Joywood—but here in St. Cyprian, we take our ceremonies seriously.
They all applaud wildly, like they’ve been waiting for this moment none of us knew about for all their lives.
I don’t go to my spot at the metaphorical table with my amethyst key, not just yet.
“The thing is, there were eight keys,” I tell the crowd. And I want, more than anything, to look for that comforting gleamof gold—but I don’t. It’s too risky now. “I spent some time trying to discern what this meant. What we should do with an eighthkey when there are, as we’ve all been taught, only seven members in a coven.” There are murmurs in the crowd, but they soundmore puzzled than anything else. I keep going. “And in my studies, my research, and my own personal fondness for tales ofthe old magical creatures that used to roam this earth with us, I discovered something called... atruecoven.”
The Joywood go dangerously still.
Along our private channel, there’s a kind of mental intake of breath. Like we’re all bracing for impact. Or schadenfreude.
I want to grin, but I don’t. I keep my ditzy, fairy-tale Georgie smile in place. “It’s possible it’s an old wives’ tale,”I allow. “Or maybe something we’ve evolved away from simply because our magical creatures are all gone now. But I had eightkeys, and I knew that while there are no longer any magical creatures roaming our world—”
Is that so?Azrael shouldn’t be there in my head, sounding dark and lazy and too tempting. It’s asking for trouble, but it makes me wantto laugh all the same.
I don’t. I keep going.
“—there were whispers I’d heard in my travels. Of artifacts, freely given by those magical creatures before they died, still imbued with their magic.” That comes out sounding a little too assured, I think, so I make myself look dreamy. I tilt my head somy red curls go everywhere, because I know they’re distracting. That this is a trick I learned from Carol Simon and her trademark frizz is something I have kept to myself since I was in middle school. I try to look as guileless as possible. “So I just figured, what can more magic hurt?”
I lift the unicorn horn in the glass so that everyone can see.
A wave of reaction and awe goes through the crowd. Mostly positive, I think—
But Maeve Mather is stomping her feet like a troll beneath a bridge. There’s a strange, rodent-sounding squeal coming fromover there.
“You shouldn’t be able to wield that!” Maeve shrieks.
I look at her, wide-eyed and confused, an act I amexcellentat. “What do you mean, Maeve?” I look at the horn, then back at her. “I seem to be wielding it just fine.”
“It’s common knowledge that magic artifacts can only be wielded by witches who were given permission to do such a thing,”Gil Redd, the Joywood’s tedious Praeceptor, blusters.
“Common knowledge?” I survey the crowd. “Has anyone ever heard of such a thing?”
There are murmurs. Shaking of heads. But not one person agrees with Gil.
Because if it was ever common knowledge, they took it from us.
It does my soul good to use that against them.
“Funny,” Frost says in that cut-glass voice of his that seems to etch itself into the bones of anyone who hears it. “I’veread that worthy witches can always wield these artifacts.”
