Page 64 of The Royal Street Witch
He orders a practically raw filet mignon and sips on his bourbon as I rub the tiny stem of a martini glass through my fingers. Echoing his thoughts from earlier, Bastian brings up our future, a future that he visions as limitless.
“Let’s go to Paris. Let’s just go. You’ve never been, and my French is impeccable. The Louvre, the Eiffel Tower are beauties to behold, but I can show you the real Paris. The gritty, magical, dark Paris. I wouldn’t even need the potion there. We can be our true selves, the creatures that we really, truly are. Let me show you.”
I rest my palms on the table, taking a deep breath in. I’ve always wanted to go to Paris—it’s the one place I would choose if I could pick any place in the world to visit. The Louvre and Eiffel Tower have been sights I’ve longed to see, but Bastian knows me so well. What I really crave are the dark, forbidden corners, the rich history on cobblestone streets. Much like New Orleans, Paris is a place where the supernatural are drawn to, so naturally it has been a dream to go. But I can’t run off to Paris because I’m supposed to be having a child, and now my aunts are coming to New Orleans in two days to see me and most definitely deliver some kind of ultimatum, and I’m in California. What am I going to do?
As the thoughts spin inside my head, Bastian’s eyes bore into mine, and that’s when my martini glass shatters right in front of us. My hands grip the tablecloth and I suck in a deep breath.
“What? What is it?” he whispers, eyebrows furrowed, a lock of hair fallen over his brow. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t…want this to end,” I whisper it, a confession that constricts my vocal chords.
That thumb that always soothes me rubs along the top of my hand as his words attempt to console me. “It’s not ending, baby. It’s not. I’m so sorry about today. I’m so sorry.”
“That’s not it. It’s that this will have to end. One day. You can’t even make me a vampire to be with you forever because of my cursed blood.”
“Stop, don’t say that.” He pulls my fingers to his lips and kisses them, over and over, sugaring me with sweet kisses. “I’ll love you until your dying day.”
“Bastian,” I say, shaking my head, this whole thing suddenly feeling so impossible. I must have a baby and he can’t give me a baby and I don’t want anyone else’s baby. And this was only supposed to be just a taste, not love, not devotion.
“Oh, uh…” the waitress says as she approaches, looking at the broken glass on the table that we haven’t even attempted to clean.
“Sorry about that,” Bastian apologizes and piles the broken shards onto a plate and I just sit there, watching the two of them clean up my mess because I am actually happy for once in my life and it can’t last and I have to tell Bastian. But I don’t want to ruin this, us, these beautiful days and moments that just keep compiling.
“Let’s not talk about it anymore,” I beg and grab his bourbon, downing it and holy shit, it burns.
As the waitress approaches with a fresh martini in her hand, Bastian says, “I think we need to talk more instead of letting things bubble up until we are throwing mattresses. Do you agree?”
I fight a smile and take a bite of my pasta. Checkmate.
“Okay, Bastian. The truth is, you think we can just run off, hide, keep this a secret, but that’s not possible for me. I have a legacy to fulfill.”
“Legacy?” He squints, trying to understand.
“Every witch has a duty, a responsibility to her coven. A legacy. A child.”
“You’re talking about how your mom was forced to have you?” And he remembers. The dance in his kitchen, he remembers I told him that.
“Yes. My mother was forced to have me, and I will be forced to have a baby very soon. I’ve gotten a lot more time than most witches. But I’m a true Wildes. My bloodline is pure. A child of mine is crucial.”
“Why are they forcing women to have babies?” His face is disgusted and rightly so, but my defenses prick.
“Most witches want to, it’s not an issue. Maiden, Mother, Crone. The cycle of our lives. I guess my mother and I are just the rebels of the coven. But without babies, there will be no more witches. And my time has come. My aunt texted me on the way here. Violetta, the elder of our coven, says she’s coming to visit in three days. And that means I will be put on a formal deadline.”
“A formal deadline? What the fuck does that mean?”
“I don’t exactly know what they’ll do. Right now I’m most concerned with the fact that I’m across the country.”
He places his napkin on the table, frustrated. “Do you care about this legacy? Do you even want to have a baby?”
It hits me that I’ve never been asked that question before because it was never a decision I could make. It was expected of me, no—demanded of me. But the answer surprises me, as I gather my thoughts.
“You would think, because I resist it, because I haven’t had a child yet, that the answer would be no. But it’s surprisingly not. Yes, I care about my legacy. The years of hard work my grandmother and her ancestors have put in creating and implementing magic. When you think about that, it’s quite remarkable, what we can do. Part of what makes us, us is that we only have daughters and we carry on our traditions, our powers, the best parts of ourselves, our good deeds. I’ve resisted having a child because I don’t like the circumstances that are being forced on me. But do I want a daughter one day? Yes, I absolutely do. It’s not what all women are born to do, but it’s what witches are born to do.”
He looks at me as if I’ve struck him, as if the fact that I want a child one day means I can’t want him too. But that’s not true at all.
“I didn’t want to tell you any of this because I don’t want this to end. I don’t want to have a baby now. I don’t want to have a sperm donor, a one- night stand. I don’t want to face my reality, and that’s why I haven’t said anything.”
The waitress places the check on the table, and Bastian thanks her in his polite way. Always so kind and it’s like a razor.
