Page 1 of Reluctant Witch (A Course in Magic #2)

1

Prospero

Prospero fled to her study after retrieving Ellie from the nonmagical world. All the Victorian witch could think of was the venomous way Ellie had called her a “lying bitch” before Prospero erased Ellie’s memories of escaping Crenshaw.

Now, Ellie thought they chose to be wed. She remembered a handfasting that had never happened.

“Is something bothering you?” Ellie asked gently, glancing over at her as they walked toward the castle.

“I am tired.” Prospero opted not to lie outright.

And overwhelmed and not sure how to fix… anything. Not the rift. Not my life. Not this sham marriage.

Ellie’s expression tightened. “Something between us is wrong.”

Prospero gestured at the front door of the castle as they approached, and it opened like an invitation. “You cannot—”

“Bullshit. I know this sour face of yours is about you and me!” Ellie gestured with one hand as she snapped at Prospero. “You’re keeping secrets.”

Prospero tucked her wife’s other hand into the fold of her arm and all but marched her toward the room Ellie thought was hers. Ellie had moved out of her actual room when she escaped from Crenshaw. Too much evidence waited there, although the headmaster refused to throw it all away.

“You’re making a spectacle of us,” Prospero murmured softly.

“You have no idea what sort of ‘spectacle’ I could make.” Ellie’s voice thrummed with a threat.

Prospero looked around as they hurried through the castle. The hall was nearly empty now that the student class had been trimmed some. Those not staying had been siphoned of their magic, and the rest were free to roam the village.

“Here we are. Safe and sound.” Prospero gestured at the door to the student lodging. After a pause, she flicked her fingers, and the door opened at her unspoken command. “I’ll leave you in your home, and—”

“Seriously? We’re married. ”

“But you’re still a student.” Prospero stepped back, evading the door and the unspoken threat of being alone with Ellie. “Students live in the castle.”

Prospero crossed her arms over her chest. Until Ellie escaped Crenshaw, they’d been building something real—but then everything fell apart. She was not going to manage this ruse well.

Ellie stepped closer. “Find time for us.”

She tilted her head up in an obvious request. Instead of the kiss Ellie clearly expected, Prospero lifted Ellie’s hand to her lips and kissed the air above her knuckles. No touching. No kissing. And certainly absolutely nothing else .

Ellie scowled. “Surely the headmaster wouldn’t object to—”

“He is busy with his bride and the students and dozens of things,” Prospero explained lightly. Those details, of course, were all true. They were not the whole truth, however. One learned to twist words when overt lies were not options. “We had last night, Ellie—”

“Right. The night I fell asleep waiting for you?” Ellie snapped. “Exactly the honeymoon I dreamed of.”

“You know who I am, Ellie. I have obligations to Crenshaw.”

Ellie frowned. “I’m not sure why I married you.”

“I see.” Prospero flinched. She’d made Ellie’s memory alteration in a crude manner, leaving behind their few date-like moments but erasing the meeting with the Congress of Magic, the escape, anything with Maggie or Monahan. There hadn’t been time to sort through each memory slowly when Ellie’s aunt, the headmaster, the other escapee, and Monahan were all present.

With such massive deletions, the brain would fill in the gaps with conclusions. However, in barely a day, Ellie was already questioning the parts left behind after Prospero’s crude memory erasures.

“I feel like I should have met the headmaster’s wife.” Ellie frowned. “She’s a remedial witch, too, right? Margie? Same group as me?”

“ Maggie. Maybe you didn’t notice her. There are hundreds of witches who didn’t catch your attention.” Prospero stepped back, giving Ellie more space.

“I noticed you. ” Ellie flashed a flirtatious smile at her and reached out to catch Prospero’s hand. “What if you stayed in my room tonight? Remind me why I’m your wife.”

Prospero’s morals recoiled.

Ellie tugged on her hand, pulling her off-balance. Ellie, the same woman who said she’d rather die than be a witch, would not want any affection from Prospero. And she certainly wouldn’t want to be married to her.

Prospero sounded every bit the uptight Victorian she had once been as she retorted, “Truly, I must go—”

Any further words died as Ellie leaned forward and kissed her to silence.

Prospero’s lips parted reluctantly as Ellie pulled her closer. Prospero’s good sense considered fleeing at the feel of the woman she wanted becoming pliant and very eager to stay in her arms.

Which I don’t deserve.

Prospero detangled herself. “Good night, Ellie.”

Then she turned and walked away. Apparently, she couldn’t trust herself to kiss Ellie—not if she was to be tangentially ethical.

No more kisses.

No more anything.

After she left Ellie, Prospero strode through the castle hall and into the main foyer. A few witches gave her curious looks, and some of the staff looked away as if she were a monster they had stumbled upon. She straightened her spine and exited the front of the castle to head toward Lord Scylla’s home.

Scylla was one of the few witches she was likely to call a friend. They had no subterfuge between them, so it was no surprise to receive her summons that morning. When Scylla’s door drifted open, Prospero found herself in one of the most nondescript spaces in all of Crenshaw. The room was what Scylla called “open concept”—which as far as Prospero could see meant empty. No interior walls dividing rooms. Minimal furniture. From any position, a person could see everything other than the toilet and washing area.

And what Prospero saw was Cassandra, madam and seer of Crenshaw, sitting there waiting. Until recently, she was one of Prospero’s most trusted allies. Since Cass was in Scylla’s home, Prospero realized that the decision to meet here was a strategic move. Cassandra was banned from so much as approaching Prospero’s house, but here at Scylla’s home, there was no such edict.

“Why?”

Lord Scylla gave Prospero a look that was somewhere between “are you serious” and “don’t push me.” She lifted her chin in a regal way. “Because we are friends, even though you are irritated with her.”

Amusement simmered under the grumbling admonishment. Scylla was a striking woman, one of the few who dressed in what had been called “men’s clothes” before Prospero became a witch. Unlike Prospero, who preferred her suits to all other options, Scylla favored casual trousers and blouses when at home. Her throat was even bare at the moment.

Prospero glanced at Cassandra before returning her focus to the bottle of some strange liqueur that a hob had deposited earlier. “She deceived me.”

“I managed your moods, P.” Cassandra lifted the bottle and poured three glasses half-full of a dark red liquid that looked almost too thick to drink.

Aside from the exasperation in that brief statement, Cassandra was uncommonly subdued, as if she was trying to match her mood to Prospero’s temper. The usually vivacious seer was… dimmed. Typically, Cass was a bundle of motion and joy, so much so that her plain hair and plain features were transformed into Mona Lisa beauty. She was voluptuous, energetic, and most residents of Crenshaw found her irresistible.

“Ellie has to be in Crenshaw or… things go wrong.” Cassandra pronounced this in the way that she said all things, as if she were infallible.

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have put her in peril,” Prospero snapped. She tossed back the cherry-tasting syrup, not sure if the taste or the burn was worse.

“Look.” Scylla pointed at one woman and then the other. “I need you to hush your mouth for a moment, and I need to know exactly what you know that you aren’t telling P, and both of you need to check the attitude.”

Cassandra smothered a smile. “Without Elleanor Brandeau, Prospero will die.” Then she shrugged. “And without Prospero, we lose. Magic dies. We all die.”

“Well, fuck,” Scylla muttered.

For a moment, they all sat in silence.

Then Cass looked at Prospero. “You are upset, but I wouldn’t change a thing. You matter to me.”

Prospero opened her mouth to reply, but Cass held up her hand.

“But this is also about our home. Our people. Without you, Scylla dies. I don’t know how or why or when, but she dies.” Cass shot a sympathetic look at their friend, emptied her glass, and continued, “Then Walt. Sondre. Me. All I could see was a field of dead. Familiar and unfamiliar witches… and the only way to stop it is to protect you. And that meant bringing Elleanor here. So I won’t apologize for the things I did to bring your wife to our world.”

Then she stood, dipped in an odd little curtsy toward Scylla, pivoted, and walked away.

“I hate prophecies.” Scylla grabbed the bottle with one hand and shoved the third, still-full glass toward Prospero.

“She could have told me. Or you…” Prospero scowled in the general direction of Cassandra’s departure. “Cass keeps everything to herself and—”

“Pot, kettle,” Scylla said lightly. “You are nothing but secrets in a well-cut suit, P.”

“Oh, fine. We need a plan, then.” Prospero sighed. “I don’t see how I’m to be responsible for keeping everyone alive, though.”

“Well, step one was having your wife here. That’s done.”

“You know it’s not that simple.”

“We have to talk to Walt.”

“And Sondre,” Prospero added. For a moment, the weight of it all slammed into her. She felt like she’d lived for Crenshaw since she became a witch well over a century ago. When would it be her turn to live for something else?

For love.

For happiness.

Scylla lifted the bottle, tilting it to clink gently against Prospero’s glass. “To none of us dying.”