Page 3 of Season of the Witch (Toil and Trouble #3)

three

Gloria Hightower’s office was as practical as the rest of her, but like the woman, it also had touches of softness.

The desk was metal and modern, the bookcases white and stark under the sun that struggled to poke through the gray clouds of New Orleans October.

But a lush rug of navy spread across the expanse of dark hardwood, pots in mixed colors sat on varying levels around the space, and the curtains hung across the wide windows were crushed velvet.

A silver frame displayed photos on a loop, sat at a right angle to the sleek modern phone she insisted on using when dealing with human suppliers.

And her office chair was supple leather with soft curves in dove gray, the guest chairs similar in style and ideal for comfort.

“Sit up straight, Tia.”

In theory, anyway.

Tia restrained her eye roll and stiffened her spine as a good little witch did. She swore her mom, sitting across from her, read her mind as she gave her a warning look.

While Tia most closely resembled her nana, she saw her features hinted at in her mother’s no-bullshit eyes, the slope of nose, the stubborn chin.

Gloria still looked to be in her late forties, magic slowing the aging process.

A suggestion of wrinkles, of laugh lines, were all that showed in her dark skin.

Those laugh lines sure as shit weren’t visible now as she leaned back and stared at her daughter.

“Did you write down a curse to transmogrify Henry into a pig last week and leave it on his desk?”

Tia opened her mouth. Closed it. Like she was seven again instead of twenty-nine, she felt the urge to shift in her seat. “It was a joke,” she muttered.

“Wasting company time?” Gloria hiked an eyebrow. “Not to mention the immaturity of the act. Not exactly behavior I’d like to see from someone potentially inheriting our company one day.”

Tia ran her tongue around her teeth. It was hard to argue.

Though if she was going to argue, she’d point out she’d only resorted to it because Henry had been repeatedly staring at her.

Even after she’d asked him to stop in every way possible.

She’d been particularly proud of her mime.

Not many ways to mime “fuck off,” but judging by his thundercloud expression, she’d managed.

“Did you see the tweaks to the Prima potion I sent over?” she asked instead.

Part of their hobbies range, the potion coordinated the drinker’s limbs to dance a ballet routine for the space of one number.

Tia’s team had worked through the night polishing it, and Xia, her secondary alchemist, had performed a dance from The Nutcracker to perfection last week.

Gloria’s face softened a fraction. “I did. Your solution to the chemical delay was genius.”

Pride glowed inside her as she allowed herself a smile.

She knew she was one of the best; alchemy was her specialty as a witch after all.

It wasn’t a big surprise that the other business she’d started with her friends was a bar famous for witchy cocktails, and what were cocktails if not human potions?

But direct praise from her mom was harder to get than blood out of a stone. There was almost always a “but.”

You look beautiful, but maybe you should wear something more elegant, like a true Hightower.

Your ideas are interesting, but there are too many of them and you need to think logically, like a Hightower should.

“But,” her mom added on cue, crushing the glow, “a Hightower doesn’t resort to childish tactics. Especially not with a warlock of Henry’s caliber. I don’t know what he must have thought of you.”

“He tattled, didn’t he? Little snitch.”

Gloria flicked her a look.

Tia ground her hands in her lap, using her magic to twist part of the curtain tighter and tighter. Pretending it was Henry’s neck.

“Don’t crush my curtains,” Gloria warned, a flicker of humor washing the sternness from her face. “You knew you would be working in close proximity. You could have raised any arguments then.”

“I did .” Through the first conversation, the negotiations, the signing, Tia had made her feelings clearer than a crystal cauldron. Which was to say it was a fucking mistake.

“Your breakup was years ago. Surely it’s time to bury the hatchet.”

“In his head,” Tia mumbled. “Let me guess: a Hightower would let it go?”

“Don’t be petulant. You have so many wonderful qualities but this blind spot with Henry is affecting your judgment. You used to be so good at working together—when you taught him how to master his fire magic into shapes? And when he helped you perfect your first anthology of potions?”

Tia felt her blood pressure rise. “Mom…”

“Henry has no problem working with you.”

“Of course not. Daddy’s perfect boy would never say no.”

“Tia.”

“Come on, Richard says kiss my boots and Henry hits the dirt.”

Eyebrows winged up at that. “It’s not a sin to respect your parents.”

Tia slumped, resigned to the tut of disapproval. “Trust me, if I didn’t respect you, I’d have already walked.”

“You’re too stubborn for that, which is a blessing here, I suppose.”

Tia snorted at that coming from her mom. Her dad claimed the only reason they’d broken up for six months before they’d married was because he’d refused to give in on an argument. Family legend had it that Gloria made him crawl before she took him back.

Stubborn bred stubborn, was all she was saying.

As if she’d heard the silent sass, her mom’s lips pinched. “There was a time when all you wanted was to be with Henry.”

“I also wanted to be a scuba diver and thought money grew on trees. Then I grew up.” Tia’s tone soured. “And you can tell Nana to stop dropping hints, too. No matchmaking.”

“Nobody tells your nana what to do.” That humor surfaced again as Gloria twisted her wedding band. “She still has her sights set on a wedding.”

Tia stared her down, unamused.

Gloria huffed a quiet laugh and stood, graceful in a citrine pantsuit. Her black hair was coiled in her usual bun, leaving her face open to interpretation. Tia needed no interpretation to know her mom had shifted from mom to matriarch.

Sure enough, Gloria’s tone was sterner as she picked a clear quartz crystal from the desk and passed it from hand to hand. “We’ve been approached by a potential new client from Europe.”

Tia’s brows rose. Their potion research and development company was well respected but on the smaller side, meaning a lot of European business slipped through their fingers.

Had been on the smaller side, she corrected herself. And with all the press swirling around the merger—some around Henry and Tia, to her disgruntlement—there was no reason why the company couldn’t have gained attention from the international crowd.

“Who?” was all she asked.

Gloria passed the crystal across as she perched on the edge of her desk. Tia spoke the access word and an image projected onto the far wall.

She’d place the man around sixty, though if he was a witch, he could’ve been older.

His face had the lines of aristocracy, softened with age, a pair of joyous blue eyes and thick brown eyebrows over a straight nose.

Broad grin. Fair skin with a ruddy undertone.

His hair was brown shot through with silver and shaggy under a tweed flat cap.

The crystal didn’t show from the neck down, but if Tia had to guess, she’d go for a lot of tweed and maybe some galoshes.

“Lord Archibald Siddeley.” Gloria’s fingers curled around the lip of the desk. “One of the richest warlocks in Europe, though he makes his primary home outside London in a town he presides over. His assistant contacted us last week, saying he’d love to meet when he was in New Orleans.”

“He wants to check us out.”

A nod. “Siddeley is an investor with pockets so deep, you’d need equipment and a day’s worth of food before you hit bottom. His last three projects have gone international within two years, to great success.”

Now her mom’s clutching fingers made sense. It had forever been her ambition to grow the company, sometimes to desperate ends—cough, merger , cough—and her eyes had always been on international business.

Tia sat forward, eyes trained on Siddeley’s image. “The witch who persuades Siddeley to invest would have a lot of sway in the company. A lot of respect.” Maybe even…approval?

Gloria’s gaze connected with hers, meaning in every sweep of her lashes.

“Indeed.” Even as Tia’s lips spread into a grin, her mom warned, “This is your first big test under the new structure.” She watched her daughter closely.

“Don’t let your emotions cloud your abilities.

Be the Hightower I know you can be. Get us that warlock. ”

* * *

Henry grinned at his mom over the teacup he held. “And then what did she say?”

Maybelline Pearlmatter lifted her nose, the feather she wore quivering in her blond hair.

“She had the audacity to claim I didn’t know a Lobbitin spell from a Pyrotyke,” she declared in an accent straight out of Gone with the Wind .

“I told her, honey, my family’s been dealing with Pyrotyke spells longer than you’ve been dabbling with eternal youth potions. I know one when I see it.”

“Brutal.” Henry swallowed another disgusting sip of the chamomile tea his mom had served.

“Brutal is as brutal does.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means don’t dish it if you can’t take it.” Maybelline smiled in satisfaction as she selected a small lemon cake from the platter between their easy chairs.

Henry couldn’t disagree. That was witch society: polite but vicious. Small cruelties with a smile. He’d never understand it.