She passed her childhood bedroom and kept walking to her mother’s study, the tether pulling tight with every foot they were apart. By the pressure in her chest, she guessed maybe there was fifty feet between them.
The door was closed but not locked. Ramona slipped inside. She could feel the Greenbriar wards so strongly in this room, accepting her as one of their own but letting her know that they knew she wasn’t Eleanor.
The studywasdistinctly Eleanor’s — elegant pale wood furniture, perfectly organized bookshelves, a crystal vase on the windowsill. And the desk. The antique writing desk always covered in neat stacks of coven paperwork.
If the access key was anywhere, it would be here.
The surface was immaculate. Files in a holder, fountain pen in its stand, a small dish of paper clips. The top drawer: stationery, stamps, nothing interesting.
The second drawer was locked.
Ramona pulled a barrette from her hair, which she’d worn deliberately, just in case. Bent it. Started working on the lock.
This was absurd. She was a witch, not a burglar. She didn’t know how to pick locks?—
The lock clicked open.
Ramona stared. Had she just burgled her first lock? A sense of pride and accomplishment washed over her, and she hoped Zara could feel the sensation through the tether. Instead, she felt a sense of dread from Zara.
No time to think about that. She tugged the drawer open.
Inside: organized files, a leather planner, and a velvet case. She opened it.
There were two keys, though both were enchanted. She could feel the magic thrumming. One was larger and more ornate and warm to her touch. She guessed it was probably for theGreenbriar wards. The other was smaller, simpler, with the Thornwood crest.
That was it.
Ramona reached for it. The moment her fingers closed around it, she felt the enchantment respond, testing her magical signature.
Then it settled. Accepted her.
Because she used to be authorized or because her mother’s blood ran in her veins, she didn’t know.
She slipped it into her pocket, closed everything, locked the drawer again with shaking hands.
Done. Not too bad.
She was halfway to the door when she heard voices downstairs. Not calm voices. Raised voices. She froze, straining to hear.
“…completely inappropriate—” That was her mother, sharp and angry.
“I’m simply making an observation—” Zara’s voice, controlled but edged.
“You call that an observation? It was distinctly an accusation,” her mother snapped.
The voices were getting louder. Were they coming up the stairs? Ramona took a step back from the door, holding her breath.
“Eleanor—”
“That’s Mrs. Greenbriar to you?—”
The study door opened.
Ramona gasped, stumbling backward. The stolen key burned in her pocket.
Eleanor stopped in the doorway, face flushed. Behind her, Zara’s expression was carefully neutral, jaw tight.
“Ramona?” Eleanor’s voice was strained. “What are you doing in here?”
