Page 43 of Dragon Fires Everywhere (Witchlore #4)

He doesn’t answer right away. He seems to really consider this, and I feel a helpless surge of love at how him that is.

Never an easy answer. Always the weight of that consideration .

“Your mother takes care of things. She’s particular and certain about all sorts of details I don’t care about. Staying with

her meant staying with you, but it also meant I could lose myself in books and not have to worry about much else.” He shrugs,

like it was an easy enough choice.

Maybe for him it was. I’ll never understand it, but then, maybe I don’t need to. No one says you have to understand your parents’ lives. If you’re lucky, you’ll understand them a little and the choices they made for you, assuming they made any of those.

I know he did.

And what I really do need to understand—here and now—is fabulae and crows and undoing curses. I need to understand how to

wipe out black magic and all the ways it threatens not just me, but everyone. All of St. Cyprian and the witching world beyond.

Because they were hidden from us for a reason , and I will get to the bottom of that reason.

I turn back to the fairy-tale book. The princess is dressed in eight different outfits over the course of the book, and while

I am no historical fashion expert, I know enough to agree that it showcases each of the historical periods—and I realize this

is what’s new.

Instead of the cover changing, the illustrations inside have changed.

I used to have all her costumes memorized. Some are the same as I remember—particularly those representing the older historical

periods. Beautiful dresses, flowing cloaks, intricate scepters.

But in the later pages, her dress gets more modern.

On the last page, when all is won, the princess is wearing a dress that has me just... staring .

It looks exactly like the dress Emerson has been looking at for bridesmaid dresses. She hasn’t made any final decisions, but still. This is the dress she liked the best.

A little chill skitters down my back. This has to be a sign... but for what?

I’ve always been a firm believer in the idea that knowing our history will help our present, but the book is supposed to be

a story . Even with all its changes, I prefer to think of it as suggestions... Or do I?

It has led me everywhere I need to go, or at least I think it has.

Either way, I need more.

I frown at my father. “These books Desmond found that you guys used. Are they still in his library?”

Dad looks away from me, rocking back on his heels. “Not exactly.”

“What do you mean, not exactly?”

I’m thinking they’ve been destroyed, that they’re locked away or lost to us forever. That he ripped them to shreds when he

found out what Desmond had done—even though I can’t picture my father having that kind of emotional response to anything.

Particularly if it involves destroying his beloved books.

He clears his throat. “The last time I set foot in Wilde House, I—uh— borrowed a few of the books without Desmond’s knowledge,” he says, as if making a confession. And he’s not done. His gaze slides away

from mine. “And perhaps I also magicked fake versions of the books into place, so it appeared they were still in the library. I was afraid he would

do something drastic and destroy them, so I had to save them. History is meant to be known, not hidden.” He intones that the way he always has, my whole life, but then he

coughs. “And he never said anything, so I assume the fakes worked.”

I can only blink at my father. “You stole his books?”

Dad shrugs at that. “Just because Desmond decided he didn’t believe anymore didn’t mean I was going to let him destroy the

possibility that someday we might have answers. I knew the books would be safer with me. They’re in our library at home. I’ve

been through them backward and forward, but not in a long while.” He nods at me. “Things have changed now. Maybe something

will jump out at you if you go through them.”

“You have to magic them here.”

He shakes his head. “I have always been incredibly careful with these books. I’m not sure why Desmond turned so hard against this idea, or why it’s all been concealed from us.

But I think it’s best if we don’t arouse any suspicions.

Moving them next door from Wilde House was one thing.

Moving them to the archives—a place you rightly want to give the public access to—well.

I think we should proceed more carefully. ”

Maybe he’s right. The archives don’t have these books or haven’t given them to me. So maybe there’s a reason they aren’t here.

“Let’s go.” I don’t wait for him to agree or disagree. I just reach out for his hand, and I take us over to my childhood home.

Directly into the Pendell family library, which has always been my safe space.

Except today, my mother is here when we arrive. Which feels ominous.

Because she is the perpetrator of that necklace I was wearing that was infused with black magic. She is against me in more devious ways than I ever believed, including her vote to imprison Azrael.

I want to be furious, but it hurts. And keeps on hurting to stand here, looking at her and seeing the slight physical similarities

while she studies me with pursed-lip consternation.

“What are you two up to?” she asks.

“Research,” we reply in unison, like we always have.

This causes her to scowl deeper.

“Stanford, I’d like to speak to Georgina in private,” my mother says stiffly.

My father looks up at me, smiles a little sheepishly, then shuffles away. He has always been there for me, a soft place to land, but he never fought for me. It doesn’t fill me with the same kind of anger I feel toward my

mother, though. I’m not even sure anger is the right word. He loved me when no one else would. Or did. And maybe I didn’t have parents who would fight for me, but

I had a best friend who would. A best friend who, it turns out, is my half sister.

So there’s that.

“Georgina, I do not know what that display was the other day,” my mother says sternly. “Or what you think you’re doing, cavorting

with dragons , but this is unacceptable. Maybe your new, power-mad coven won’t tell you this, but the job of a Historian is to proceed

with caution. To advise with facts . To carry oneself with a quiet dignity.”

I’ve heard these same age-old lectures since I was small, and the offense given was the state of my appallingly red hair.

I can recite them in my sleep. What I can’t believe is that she’s seriously standing here, doling it out again like nothing

has changed.

She has to know that I know everything. Desmond. The necklace.

“Speaking of unacceptable displays,” I say coolly. “What were you thinking, giving me wearable black magic?”

She looks at me like I’ve spoken one of the few foreign languages she doesn’t speak. “I beg your pardon?”

And she actually sounds shocked, but how can I believe someone who was involved with black magic crystals?

“That necklace you gave me for my pubertatum. It had black magic inside it.” I shake my head. “And go figure, it’s been working against me ever since.”

At the word pubertatum , my mother stills. She stares at me, looking more... upended than guilty, but not unmoved. Not confused any longer.

After a moment, she shakes her head. “I didn’t.”

“I remember it distinctly,” I say in a harder voice, because I can’t believe she’s trying to lie about this too. “You gave

it to me yourself.”

“It was... not from me.” Her hand is at her throat, and I have never in my life seen her so rattled. I didn’t know it was

possible for her to get rattled. “Someone else gave it to me to give to you.”

“You can’t honestly think I’ll buy that? When you’ve lied to me my entire life about who I am? About... everything .” I look at her, try to rationalize this new story. “Surely you have more brains than to take a gift from the Joywood, even

back then.”

“It was Desmond.”

She clears her throat as if it hurts, then slowly lowers herself into a chair like she can’t bear her own weight anymore.

Desmond. “You mean my father?” I shoot at her, and I think this is more lies, but—

Mom closes her eyes and sighs, and I’ve never seen her look defeated before. Not ever. “Right before your pubertatum, he told me he wanted the daughter he couldn’t claim to have something of

his family’s. But he couldn’t give it to you without arousing suspicion, so he asked me to do it. And I did.”

I swear I don’t breathe. I can’t even think. All these years I’ve thought of Emerson and Rebekah’s father as an asshole, sure.

But one too self-absorbed to cause any real trouble. Even finding out he was my father too didn’t change that estimation.

But right before I took the test to determine if I wielded enough power to be considered a witch, and before Emerson and Rebekah

were given different forms of punishment for not having enough magic—when, really, it was because they had too much—he gave

me a necklace imbued with black magic.

The Joywood specialty.

“Georgina. I did not know,” my mother says to me now, forthright and earnest in a way I’ve never seen her before. “I have

no interest in dealing with black magic. It’s wrong .”

But she doesn’t argue about what happened. Which means she isn’t surprised , really. Which means she knows this is something Desmond would do, even if she wouldn’t.

She gets to her feet and crosses the room to stand in front of me.

“You must stop,” she says to me with this new earnestness that makes me uneasy.

Because she isn’t lecturing or demanding.

There is desperation here, and I don’t know what to do with that—not coming from her.

“Stop all this pushing, prying, fighting. Dragons aren’t what we need.

Dramatic battles aren’t what we need. We need peace. ”

“By capitulating to the most evil force there is?”

She makes a face. “I thought you would understand once you had access to power. I thought you would be better than this.”