“What about the Thornwood Academy library? Would you be able to get us in there?” Zara asked, tapping the cover of the book in her lap. “Surely there are some books that are more specific than what I could find at the Fernwick library and the online databases.”
“No,” Ramona said firmly. “There’s no way in… any realm that I’d set foot back on that campus. My ex-wife and her girlfriend both work there, and I can’t risk it.”
“Is it not one of the largest witching academies in the world?” Zara asked. “Surely the odds of running into one another are…” She paused as if doing the mental calculation.
“I’m not going back there,” Ramona said, finding her jaw uncomfortably clenched as she bit out the words.
“But you’re an academic. You love libraries and research.”
“And I value my sanity more than something I once loved years ago,” Ramona said. “End of discussion. We’re not going.”
Zara raised her brows. “We can talk more about it later.”
“No.”
Zara had a distinctlywe’ll seelook on her irritatingly attractive face. She flipped open Ramona’s dissertation once again and pulled a pair of reading glasses out of her suit pocket, settling them on her nose.
“You wear glasses?” Ramona tried to hide her amusement at the sight of Zara sitting in her expensive suit on the hardwood floor, wearing oversized glasses and peering down at Dr. Greenbriar’s dissertation.
“Only when I’m reading at night,” Zara said.
“Those three hundred years are catching up with you, I guess,” Ramona teased, crawling under the covers of her bed.
“You bite your tongue, Mortal. In demon years, I’m still in my prime,” Zara hissed.
“At least one of us is. I think I’m well past my sell-by date,” Ramona half joked.
Zara raised one single, sharp brow. “Well, that’s just factually inaccurate.”
Ramona felt her cheeks heat, her phone’s ringtone disturbing the moment. She fumbled for her phone, hitting the call button with the kind of desperate haste typically reserved for a jailbreak.
“Ramona, I know you don’t want to drive that terrible car all the way home, so Bradford has agreed that we will simply pick you up and drive you ourselves,” Iris said, not pausing for a moment of polite nicety before her demand. Classic Iris.
Ramona rubbed at her eyes. “Iris, I really can’t make it.”
“Nonsense. We’re thinking four p.m. should be plenty of time, but perhaps should we do three p.m. just to be on the safe side?” Iris, Ramona knew, was only talking to herself.
“My girlfriend is visiting from out of town,” Ramona said quickly and firmly, committing herself to the lie yet again, her eyes flicking up to where Zara was blatantly watching, listening. “Mom would panic?—”
“Girlfriend?” Iris’s voice lifted at least four octaves in interest.
“All right, let’s take a deep breath,” Ramona said, her own voice lowering in reply.
“You should bring her.” Was Irisclappingon the other end of the line?
“She’s not…” Ramona fumbled for the right word. “Social.”
Zara held a hand to her chest in mock offense.
“We can fit her in the van, too,” Iris said, her voice still rivaling a mouse’s squeak in pitch.
Ramona sighed. She imagined cramming into the minivan with Iris, her husband Bradford, and squeezing in next to the booster seats of her nieces, who historically did not love road trips. It was a two-hour drive, but nothing could make it feel longer than a toddler screaming in her ear the entire time. “My car can make it.” She hoped.
“Fantastic. Then, bring the rolls. What’s your girlfriend’s name? Mom will want to make the seating chart reflect?—”
“Zara,” Ramona interrupted. Seating chart. There were only six of them — why did they need place cards? The kids would be at a small table surrounded by enough plastic to impress a serial killer. “Her name is Zara.”
Iris’s tone was now verging on glass-breaking in its high register. “Fantastic. We’ll see you there, then. I’ll let Mom know.”
