I scrubbed a hand down my face, hating the way this bookwyrm was making so much sense. I wasn’t sure if I was ready to face my family yet, ready to open all those buried wounds, but maybe I was ready to try. Maybe healing wasn’t impossible, and maybe, eventually, I could forgive myself. Maybe I’d already started.
“You should go,” I said quietly.
Morton opened his mouth to speak, but I cut him off. “I have a lot to think about.”
“Very well.” His head hung as he slithered out of the room, and I almost felt bad for disappointing him.
I sank onto the bed, resting my elbows on my knees, our conversation replaying in my brain. Niamh had lost so much, and she’d survived but never blamed herself. She lived life to the fullest, especially since she’d gotten to Fairwitch Isle. She didn’t push anyone away—all she did was welcome people in, and she was happier for it. I was happier for it. Since Niamh had arrived, my world had changed for the better. It was undeniable. Morton was right—wasn’t that worth fighting for? Wasn’t that worth becoming a better man?
I groaned, thinking about what I’d done last night, how I’d hurt her, and then I stood. If I was going to be the man Niamh deserved, I had a lot of work to do.
CHAPTER 32
Niamh
Isat in a chair in the library, reading a book I’d come across about the godwitches and the current top theories about why they’d decided to give up their magic.
Others sat in the library as well, the space now feeling so cozy and complete with everyone able to access it, like this was what the library had been waiting for all along.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Morton cleared his throat from next to me where he rested on the arm of the chair.
“No.” I slid the book up higher to cover my face.
Morton had come upon me last night with my tear-streaked face and puffy eyes, and I’d broken down and told him that I’d admitted the truth to Cillian and that there was absolutely no future for Wolfe and me. I hadn’t been able to say much more because I’d been sobbing so hard I couldn’t breathe.
I turned the page of my book, reading one interesting theory about how the godwitches might’ve given up their magic because it actuallyhindered them, made them so powerful they couldn’t separate their identities from the magic.
Another theory proposed that the stripping of magic was a total accident. And another theory pondered whether it was a curse.
Morton poked his head over the page, one of his wings stretching out and blocking where I was reading. “I think you might need to talk about it.”
I sighed and gave up on reading. “I’m okay. Really, I am.”
Morton lifted one shaggy eyebrow. “Last night, you had a complete breakdown, and you’d like me to believe you’re ‘okay’?”
A woman nearby shushed us, and I glared at Morton.
“I’m telling you,” I whispered. “I’m fine.”
He slithered up my arm and plastered his cold, scaly body against my forehead. My eyes rolled upward. “What are you doing?”
“Feeling your forehead to see if you’re out of your mind with fever.”
I peeled him off and plopped him back on the book. “I got a full night’s sleep and woke up this morning with a different perspective.”
“What perspective would that be?”
“That I don’t need a man. I have this castle, this library, everything I could want.”
“Oh no. You’re in the seven stages of grief,” Morton said. “I believe this current stage is denial.”
Morton’s tail curled over the side of the chair, and he lifted it briefly. I gasped and grasped the end of it, lifting him and staring in awe at a tiny golden key inked right there on his scales.
“I was going to tell you,” he said guiltily, still upside down as I squinted at the tattoo.
“When?” I asked, feeling the sting of jealousy.
“Last night. I had a whole plan, but then you were crying and upset, and I didn’t think it was the right time.”
