“Thank you for having me,” Zara said.
“Ramona, why don’t you show Zara around?” Eleanor turned back to the stove. “Dinner will be ready in an hour. Your father should be awake by then.”
Dismissed.
Ramona led Zara through the house, pointing out rooms without much enthusiasm. The library. The drawing room. The conservatory, where her mother grew her magical herbs. Each room was immaculate, perfectly maintained, utterly cold.
“Your mother seems nice,” Zara said carefully.
“She can be, sometimes. In her way.” Ramona paused at the back door. “Do you want to see the garden?”
“Of course.”
The garden was dormant for winter, but even now it was beautiful — structured beds, stone pathways, a fountain at the center that had frozen over. And at the far end, standing alone in what should have been a rose garden, was a tree.
Zara stopped walking, staring at it from a distance. “What’s that?”
The tree was ancient — gnarled, twisted, its bark blackened in places like it had been struck by lightning. Its branches reached up and out at unnatural angles, creating shadows even in the pale winter sun. No leaves. No life. Just dead wood that somehow still stood.
“Oh, just some nuisance tree. Iris accidentally killed it with a spell when she was eleven, and nothing can cut it down. It grows back the next morning, no matter what. It’s such an eyesore and such a pain in my mom’s ass that I secretly kind of love it,” Ramona said with a grin.
Two lines appeared between Zara’s eyebrows as she stared at the tree for a long moment, then pulled out her phone and took a picture. She turned back to Ramona, gave one last glance at the tree, and turned back toward the house. “Interesting,” she was mumbling as Ramona walked past her back inside.
Dinner was exactlyas awkward as Ramona had feared.
The dining room was formal — long table, high ceilings, another chandelier that cast everything in dim candlelight. The table was decorated in dozens of flickering white pillar candles and woven crosses that she was sure her mom had been making for days.
Ramona’s father, Thomas, had finally emerged from his study, looking distinguished and distant in his gray suit jacket. He shook Zara’s hand with the same assessing coolness as Eleanor, then took his seat next to Eleanor, who was positioned at the head of the table.
Ramona sat across from Iris and Bradford, with Zara beside her. Zara watched the raven sitting on a perch beside her mother’s owl. Ramona had mentally prepared a dozen excuses for the close distance to Zara all night, but no one seemedto notice that Zara never strayed more than a few feet from Ramona’s side.
The food, luckily, was excellent. Roasted vegetables from the garden’s stores, fresh bread, a mushroom soup that steamed in ceramic bowls. The Greenbriars’ cook had always had an exceptional talent, even without magic. Conversation, however, was stilted.
“So, Zara,” Eleanor said after several minutes of silence broken only by the clink of silverware. “What do you do for work?”
“Corporate consulting,” Zara said smoothly. “I work remotely.”
“How modern.” Eleanor’s smile was thin. “And how did you and Ramona meet?”
“Through work, actually.” Zara didn’t miss a beat. “I was consulting for the shop’s parent company.”
Ramona nearly choked on her soup. Mystic Moon Books didn’t have a parent company. Marcus owned it outright, funded by his parents. But her mother was nodding, accepting the lie.
“And you’re originally from… Londoven?” Thomas asked. His voice was deep, measured.
“Do we need to interview her so intensely?” Ramona interrupted, wary that Zara would try out a Rushen accent.
“Your English is excellent,” Bradford commented, glancing to Iris as if for approval. She gave him a tight smile in return. Ramona snorted into her wineglass.
“Thank you.” Zara took a sip of wine.
“How accomplished.” Eleanor turned her attention to Ramona. “And how is your work, dear? Still at the shop?”
The question sounded innocent. It wasn’t.
“Yes,” Ramona said carefully. “Still there.”
“Busy season?”
