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To consecrate the founding of the town below, Caelia Blackmoore conjured a spectacular lightning storm, Margarita Avramov summoned spirits from beyond the veil to serve as witnesses, Alastair Thorn called down the birds from the sky as his congregation, and Elias Harlow drew forth his mighty quill and . . . Took a bunch of notes.
Dearest Scoot, I know you’ve chosen to make your life a different one—a separate one from us. But, please, consider coming back to the covenstead just this once, for tradition’s sake. Consider discharging this final obligation
to your history and kin, to your mother and myself, and I promise this is the last we’ll ever speak of duty.
At best, we’d been fellow celestial bodies whose orbits coincided at regular intervals.
And I had always been the kind of ambitious that demanded the culmination of becoming Someone. I craved the validation of high achievement, the sense of wielding control over your own life. The fulfillment you could find only through setting up lofty goals for yourself, then knocking them down one by one.
“You know what, fuck it.” I slammed my hands flat on the table, my fingers flexing. “I’m in, witches. Let’s run amok.”
There was something uniquely magical about sleeping cozied up with a best friend, a primal sense
of safety and contentment that couldn’t really be explained.
“You know what Yoda said about trying,” she said, muffled. “It’s for fucking losers.”
“Because that’s what it means to be a Harlow, my Emmy. Thistle Grove is where we become who we are. Which means that no matter where you turn, where you visit or escape to, this will always be the place that calls you back.”
“You, Emmeline Harlow,” she said, eyes locked on mine, “are so extremely fucking beautiful it hurts my soul.”
“So are you, Natalia Avramov,” I said, half sighing, tipping my head forward to close my lips around her thumb and draw it into my mouth.
“Is anything else even on the menu, besides the Emmy Harlow special?” “And what the hell is that supposed to mean?” I snapped, already on my way to the door. “What do you think it means?” Even in the dark, I could see the pain scrolled over her face. “That running the fuck away is what you do best.”
“Because you were also right about us,” I soldiered on, though I was beginning to feel like I was maybe going to wither under this unyielding onslaught of silence. “You and me, I mean. I could very easily more-than-like you, too. And I . . . Talia, honestly, I think I already do.”
“Why are you doing this, Emmy?” she said, low and a little hoarse, nothing at all like that controlled tone she’d been using until now. “I need to know. Because it can’t be just about me—I’m not making that mistake again, especially not with you. There has to be something else here for you. Something besides us.”
