“Indeed.” She tried to look somber, proper, not at all panic-stricken, but hiding things from hobs was rather like lying to yourself. It might work, or appear to work, but not permanently, reliably, or even often.
The hob made a gesture that was like a flourish and a bow all at once, and Prospero found herself standing atop a table. She shot a glare at the hob. “That was unnecess—”
Clancy winked and vanished.
“I’m sorry I can’t help with your meteor problem,” Prospero said, gliding from mind to mind, making sure no one there would remember her, Ellie, Maggie, or Clancy. “The side effects appear to be headaches for the next day…” She pointed at the cook. “Except for you. You’ll be impotent for the next decade.”
Then Prospero swiped a pie. It wasn’t exactly a bribe, but anything she could offer up to sweeten Walt’s inevitable sour mood was a good idea.
Pie in hand, she returned home. That part of the magic, the hook in her belly that she could only resist by effort, was often one of the less appealing parts of being a witch. She’d ignored it often, but today she was grateful for it. She simply stopped resisting, and there she was—standing at the front step of her house.
“Bernice?” Prospero called out as she went inside.
Her hob appeared, wearing what appeared to be an entire feather duster as a hat. “You sound frazzled. Tea? Something stronger to go with your dessert?”
“I need the chief witch and headmaster to meet with me,” Prospero said, still balancing the pie. As an afterthought, she added, “It’s not my pie.”
“Bribe pie.” Bernice nodded. “I’ll have a basket readied.”
Prospero handed her the pie and slumped against the wall. There wasn’t a good solution to be had. Ellie had to be brought back to Crenshaw—and Prospero had to explain why she’d failed at doing so already.
Bernice returned with a basket. It was a cheerful thing with a bright red bow on the handle. “Linens, forks, and plates under the pie.” She held it out. “Walt says to come to Congress.”
Prospero sighed and took the basket. She wasn’t even sure what sort of pie it was. It was an impulse bribe.
“Trust your heart,” Beatrice said as she patted Prospero’s hand. “All is not lost!”
Few times in life had she felt so much like a failure. Prospero walked through Crenshaw, chin up, spine straight, eyes forward, and a basket of pie in hand.
The whereabouts of the retrieval team, the well-being of Mae, the location of Sondre. They were all a mystery to her, and though she was worried, her mind circled around the fact that she’d lost Ellie. She’d been bested by Ellie.
Her hope had been to talk to her, to avoid the solution Walt had recommended.
As she approached, she saw Sondre and Walter at the door for the Congress of Magic. Neither man looked particularly cheerful.
“Inside.” Walt gestured her forward.
“No luck?” Sondre asked.
She shook her head. A part of her wanted to scream at him. Allies don’t keep secrets, and there was no way that Sondre was oblivious to Maggie Lynch’s machinations. She’d tried, truly, truly tried to reach out an olive branch, but just because they were in accord that Crenshaw was facing impossible options didn’t mean they were friends.
Walt made a grumbling noise.
“I updated him on the capture of the Lynch boy,” Sondre continued. “He says that we need to have Ellie here. If not, we’ll keep dying.”
“Says Cassandra,” Prospero muttered.
“Now?Nowyou doubt her?” Walt raised two bushy brows in her direction.
No one spoke for a moment.
The trio walked into the main hall of the Congress building. It was the quietest, most secure location in Crenshaw. Sometimes, though, meeting here felt eerie. The desks where the heads of houses sat were all empty. No threats. No shouts. Instead, the hall was akin to a sepulcher; a deep silence seemed to weigh on them.
“Ellie… Miss Brandeau bent the tiles and metal of a restaurant around me in a cage,” Prospero blurted out. “I had to summon a hob.”
She shoved the basket of pie at Walt.
“I was expecting to be able to talk to them, reason with them, but—”
