It was one thing to use Memorist magic on a willing mind; it was quite another to use it on unsuspecting ones. Back home, it was considered taboo to use such magic without consent. But Emory wasn’t home, and she was desperate for answers.
Feigning interest in the conversation, she called on her Memorist magic. Instantly, the pressure in her veins lessened, making her want to sigh with relief—even as the wrongness of what she was doing made bile rise to her throat.
Predictably, getting past the fortress in Mrs. Amberyl’s mind proved no easier than before. Emory had found that all witches’minds were warded in some way—their own magic, perhaps, acting as a natural barrier to hers. Mrs. Amberyl’s was the most heavily guarded she’d come across, a fortress of thorny vines that coiled tighter together at Emory’s probing.
Such a fortress had to be hiding secrets.
But they weren’t secrets Emory would ever be privy to, it seemed. No matter what she tried, she couldn’t get past the barrier. She knew Memorist magic was strongest when touching the person or staring directly into their eyes, but she couldn’t do either while remaining inconspicuous.
And now the more magic she called on, the more the shadows around her grew, her faithful ghosts taking shape. She could feel Keiran at her side, ever taunting. There were others, too. Lizaveta. Travers. Lia. Jordyn. All of them clamoring for her attention as she struggled to weasel her way into Mrs. Amberyl’s memories.
Emory turned her sights to Aspen, hoping to have better luck. Nothing—save perhaps a deep sense of love for her sister, and a bright passion at the thought of someone Emory couldn’t make out.
She gritted her teeth as she felt one of the ghosts tugging on her arm. But she couldn’t let go of the magic just yet. She slithered into Bryony’s mind, bracing for memories of being buried alive, or of her being possessed by thatthingback in the woods. Before she could glean anything, Bryony’s eyes cut to her in a way that had Emory jerking back, both physically and mentally.
Her grip on the Memorist magic slipped. Pulse beating rapidly, she wondered if Bryony had sensed her presence in her mind. She wasn’t the only one watching Emory with a puzzled expression—the other Amberyls had noticed her stumble, heard her gasp.
“Sorry,” Emory said, setting her cup down on a table. “Must have had too much to drink.”
“Is it wise to let yourguestspartake in our celebrations?”
This came from Hyacinth, the sour-faced witch from earlier. She hovered near the dais with two boys caught somewhere between their teen years and early adulthood. Her sons, no doubt, given the striking resemblance and the same contemptuous curl of their mouths.
“I see no reason why not,” Mrs. Amberyl retorted curtly.
Hyacinth’s gaze slid to Bryony, full of distrust. “And your poor daughter, after such an ordeal…”
“Bryony is perfectly fine, I assure you.”
“That remains to be seen.” Hyacinth scowled at the Amberyls. “I think we’ll take our leave now. But don’t go thinking the coven won’t keep a close eye on you until the black moon.”
As they left, one of the boys muttered something that had Bryony blanching and Aspen drawing her closer. Goose bumps rose on Emory’s arms as what he said registered.
Hellwraith.
Her ghosts stirred at the word. Without thinking, Emory pushed into the boy’s mind to find out what exactly a hellwraith was. A cold hand was suddenly at her throat. Her magic slipped as Emory jerked back from Keiran’s ghost, knocking into Romie.
“Easy,” her friend said, holding her steady.
“I think perhaps you should both retire for the evening,” Mrs. Amberyl suggested.
The hard look in her eye broached no room for argument. As Emory and Romie made their way back to the house, the music grated on Emory’s senses. Everywhere she looked, she expected to find a ghost: in the shadows between the hedges, in the revelers dancing like specters themselves, in the faces limned by flickering firefly light.
“What happened back there?” Romie asked when they got to their parlor.
“I’m not sure.” Emory sat on the divan, trying to catch her breath.
“Did you get anything from Mrs. Amberyl’s mind, at least?”
Emory shook her head. “I don’t think I’ve mastered Memorist magic enough to be able to do some proper digging.” She wasn’t sure she ever wanted to; bile still burned her throat, and all she could think of was Penelope West, who’d had her memories wiped—something Emory couldn’t help but feel responsible for.
The disappointment in Romie’s eyes made it clear she believed such power was wasted on someone like Emory. That if it were Romie who had Tidecaller magic, she would have mastered Memorist and Lightkeeper and every other alignment long ago. In fact, she would beexcellingat them. And here Emory was, barely able to glimpse a flimsy memory from these witches’ minds.
She caught sight of Lizaveta’s ghost in the mirror, as if the girl were drawn to Emory’s smallness.
Mediocre.
Emory shut her eyes tight, willing her to go away.
