Page 70 of Bring Me Your Midnight

“I don’t,” I say, forcing the words from my mouth. My throat is dry, my voice barely audible.

“Look again,” he says, turning my face to the mirror.

I look for a single breath, then close my eyes and turn away. I don’t want to fit here, either.

We’re about to leave when a large painting above the fireplace catches my eye. I must have missed it on my way in, so distracted by the grimoires, but it’s breathtaking. It’s a portrait of a woman with long, dark hair cascading down her sides and a crown of moonflowers on her head. She wears a fitted silver gown with a large black pendant resting against her chest. There is a soft, contented smile on her face, and her hands are folded lightly in her lap.

“Did you paint this?” I ask, amazed.

Wolfe stands next to me, looking up at the portrait. “Yes. My mother,” he says.

“She’s beautiful. Will I meet her tonight?”

“She died a long time ago.” He tenses beside me, and a sharpness enters his voice.

“What happened?” I’m not sure if it’s an appropriate question, if it helps or hurts to talk about, but I want to know him. And this is part of him.

“She died in childbirth. She was on the mainland getting supplies that weren’t available on the island when she went into labor. There were complications, and my dad couldn’t get to her in time. If she had been on the island, she would have lived. My dad could have saved her.”

“That’s awful,” I say, staring up at the painting. “I’m so sorry.”

“Is it awful? Your coven would say that her death was the only acceptable outcome, that using magic to save a life is wicked.” I turn to face him, and he looks angry. Hurt. “Which is it, Mortana?”

I’m not sure what makes me do it, how I even work up the courage, but I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him close. “It’s awful.”

He hesitates, remaining still as I hold him. Then slowly, he wraps his arms around my waist.

The music beyond the door gets louder, and Wolfe steps back.

“We need to go,” he says.

He walks to the door and opens it without another word.

The foyer has been transformed in the time we’ve been in Galen’s study, the large staircase littered with white moonflower petals, the iron railings wrapped in vines of ivy. Black pillarcandles line the stairs, and deep, rich music drifts inside from the open doors.

Wolfe takes my arm, the tension he was holding left behind in his father’s study. We walk outside to the long sloping lawn that leads to the water’s edge. Black wooden chairs face the shore, each one looking hand-carved, and hundreds of white moonflowers float in the water and reflect the moonlight. A large iron arch sits on the beach, wrapped in more ivy and illuminated by candlelight.

I’m stunned at the beauty of it, how alluring and rich it is. I’ve been to dozens of weddings on the Witchery, but none of them were like this.

A large garden sits to the north of the manor, much larger than the one I saw earlier, but it’s too dark for me to make out what’s in it.

“That garden is huge,” I say.

“We grow most of our own food.”

“It’s almost like your own little town,” I say. The garden stretches so far I can’t make out the edge of it in the darkness.

“Our own little town where we can practice our own kind of magic.”

At first I think he’s mocking me, but he sounds happy when he says it. Content.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t a low-T in our midst.” A woman walks over to me, long dark hair hanging to her thighs and streaks of rouge smeared across her cheeks and lips, standing out against her pale skin. She carries a silver glass, her nails painted the same color red as her makeup. I’ve only ever been allowed to wear sheer polishes intones of pink and ivory, and I instinctively move my hands behind my back.

“Low-T? Is that what you call us?” I ask, looking at Wolfe.

“A rather unimaginative nickname derived from low tide magic,” he says.

“I see.”