‘Someone in Lachlan’s team managed to get hold of this.’
I tap the small cardboard box on the desktop, scooting it down the polished surface toward him. Okoye lifts the flap and looks inside, gaze instantly snapping back to mine.
My heart races, as if it’s already time for the press conference I’m imagining. As if I’m delivering my words before rows of cameras and upheld, recording phones. The media has hounded our family and written a torrent of lies. Now I’ll feed it the wordsIwant heard.
‘Is that what I think it is?’ he asks.
‘It’s from Delacourt’s ruined lab.’
Okoye wipes his brow. Pushes the box away as if it contains a dead rat or severed hand.
‘Tell me exactly what you’re planning, Sarah Fenn.’
77
HARPER
Dad’s the showman of the family. Mom looks sick with nerves at what she’s about to do.
‘Is this the right thing, Harper?’ she asks, her face pale in the shadowy backstage. On the other side of the curtains, beyond the dazzling spotlights, waits a crowd of journalists, reporters and influencers, and rows of cameras. ‘Do you think this’ll do what we need it to?’
We’ve come to New York, to the ballroom of one of the grand park-side hotels, whose owner is a witch-sympathiser and gave the Moot use of this huge space at short notice for free. In fact, half the city is on our side. As we drove in yesterday I glimpsed fresh graffiti –No More Salems!A few fluttering Pride flags with a witch’s hat superimposed onto the rainbow; a sign in one window that read ‘NYC IS MAGIC’; bill-stickers advertising a Witches’ Solidarity Rally this weekend. Yeah, New York has our backs.
Naomi says the big Californian cities do, too. And Portland, Seattle, Chicago.Wokies for witches, she said, with a wry smile, because we all know these places aren’t the whole of America.We can’t be just some liberal cause, Naomi explained.Our right to exist freely isn’t about politics. We’ve got to touch the hearts of every American. That’s why your mom is doing this.
‘You’re going to touch the heart of every American,’ I tell Mom now, hugging her. ‘You’ll show the world how brave witches can be.’
She gives me a wan smile. Tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. ‘I hope you’re right.’
‘Elora couldn’t do it, and neither could Susanna, but you will, Mom. You’re the Fenn who’ll finally show people the truth – that we’re only human, and deserve safety and dignity like everyone else.’
‘Do you think it’ll get us your dad back?’
My chest stutters with doubt. I exhale and let it go.
‘Of course.’
‘You’ve got Starcross?’
I nod. I’ll guard it with my life.
‘It’s all yours, now,’ she says. ‘Yours alone.’
Her voice fails on that last word and tears spill down her cheeks. I put my hands out to wipe them away, but also to cover her face from my sight. I can’t stop remembering Susanna, drained of magic. Unremembering. Diminished. Gently, I drop my hands to Mom’s shoulders and give her a tiny push away.
‘All that’s happened has brought us here,’ I tell her. ‘Go break everyone’s hearts.’
‘Love you so much, wild girl.’
‘Love you more, Mom.’
She sniffs. Nods. Goes to join Charles Okoye who waits in the wings, checking his watch.
At three o’clock, he walks onstage.
He briefly tells his own story. His ousting from the Moot; his discovery of Ortiz’s ties with pharma and dismay at the abuse of Registration to feed its research. How he removed Luka’s magic in the belief he had consented, and his remorse now he’s learned Luka did not.
His words cause a stir. The journalists have been promised revelations, and Okoye’s testimony would probably satisfy them. Keep witchcraft on the front page for another day. But it won’t work for our purposes. He’s too compromised, morally all shades of grey. People will be interested, perhaps shocked by his revelations. But they won’t be rooting for him and so they won’t, by transference, be rooting for witches.
