Page 52 of Magical Mayhem
“Heroic,” I told him.
“Obviously,” he said.
I should have called out.
I didn’t.
My voice felt trapped with the memory of Keegan’s damp brow and the weight of Gideon’s arm across my shoulders and the way Lady Limora knew not to press for details.
But I didn’t dare look up.
Low voices. My father’s timbre threaded through me. His sound always brought great comfort. Of course, I missed the snorts and snores that always had accompanied his old form, but this version was just as needed.
Especially now, because the other voice under his was the last person I expected to hear.
Karvey sidled next to me and tucked himself like a velvet collar at my foot.
“Do you need me to caw at anyone?” he whispered, toneless in the way that meant he hoped the answer was yes.
“Not yet,” I said. “But thank you for the offer.”
He clicked his mouth, faintly pleased.
From the dining area, a chair scraped inner floorboards—polite, controlled. My father said something in that mild voice he used when he’s less calm than he wanted to be. The other voice answered with a short question, followed by the soft shut of a book being set carefully on a table.
A book.
So they’d been waiting at the dining table. Or reading to avoid waiting. Either way, it meant my cottage hadn’t been fighting with the new company.
Yet.
I caught sight of myself reflected in the round mirror with thyme drying over the arch.
My hair escaped its pins and curled where the Wilds kissed it. My cheeks were too pale, and a smear of moss at my collar where Gideon’s weight had pressed highlighted the evening’s activities. But I was doing all this to avoid who I’d heard in the cottage.
My haven.
Karvey watched my reflection watching myself.
“You look like a witch who’s already told the truth three times today,” he said. “And will have to tell it again.”
“I hate it when you’re right.”
“I know.”
Karvey nudged my ear. “If your father has come to tell you not to do a thing,” he murmured, “the thing probably needs doing.”
“Don’t tempt me to agree with you.”
“Never my intent,” he said dryly.
Karvey chuckled—a dark, pleased ripple—and stayed where he was, warm as a promise at my neck.
But my focus slid to the other figure across the room—my mother.
My witch mother. Even now, the thought felt like a pebble rattling around my skull. My mother, who had spent mycomplete childhood hiding an entire part of herself, of me, like it was nothing more than an embarrassing mole to be concealed under layers of foundation.
I drew a deep breath, bracing myself. “What brought you back to Stonewick? Did you tire of cruise ships?” My voice shook only a little, though I steadied my gaze on her, refusing to flinch.
