I shuffled a half step away from the desk, leery of being reeled in again by that forceful undertow. “So what does that mean, really, being Arbiter? What am I going to need to do?”
My father took a seat at the desk, motioning me toward the other chair. “How much do you remember about the Gauntlet?”
“All the basic stuff. A spellcasting tournament of three challenges for the three competing houses,” I said, ticking them off my fingers as I sat down a healthy distance from the desk, still wary of getting too close to this Grimoire. “Magical contests of strength, wit, and speed. Kind of drawing a blank beyond that, though. I don’t recall reading much about the Arbiter’s specific responsibilities.”
It had been a very long time since I read the Harlow copy of the Grimoire from cover to cover. Back when we were in our early teens, Delilah and I had alternated weeks in checking it out from my dad at Tomes & Omens, all but wrestling each other to the ground over whose turn it was. As if the store was our personal library, and the Grimoire itself something that rightfully belonged to us even if it did have to be borrowed.
That nerdy little witch I used to be, immersed in my family’s spellbook for hours and so in love with magic, felt like a distant, achy memory. Somebody I’d once known well, but hadn’t seen in years.
“That’s because that bit wouldn’t have been in our family’s copy of the Grimoire. The four others are almost exact facsimiles of this one, but the original isn’t just a spellbook . . . part of it is a spell. You won’t find this particular section in any of the others.”
His eyes agleam with the zeal of a scholar on a roll, he cracked the heavy book open about three-quarters of the way through, sliding it toward me.
“？‘Incantations for the Gauntlet of the Grove,’？” I read on the open page, in a flowing antiquated script full of flourishes and loops. Below the title, the rest of the page was blank. “But there’s nothing here?”
“The challenges will appear only for the Arbiter, and only when it’s time,” he explained. “That way, the competing families couldn’t possibly prepare for them in advance. On Wednesday night, you’ll put on the Arbiter’s mantle, and once its spell activates, the charm that declares the Gauntlet open will manifest for you. The mantle’s spell also serves to magnify your senses—so you can see what plays out between the combatants during challenges, down to the smallest detail.”
“Like superhero senses?” I made an appreciative moue, raising my eyebrows. “Sounds nifty.”
“From what she’s told me, your nana Caro certainly thought so, back when she arbitrated.” His smile faded a little, and he fixed me with a semistern look, brows beetling together. “The magic will also force you to be impartial in your verdict—not that I’d expect any less of you, even if that weren’t the case.”
The idea of being a lightning rod for a current of magic as powerful as what I’d felt touching the Grimoire—maybe even more powerful—hollowed out my stomach with both excitement and a chilly curl of trepidation.
“So, okay, I play master of ceremonies,” I said, striving for composure. “And then what happens?”
“The Avramovs will host the opening gala right afterward, as is traditional. After that, Lady’s Lake will . . .”
My father’s words receded into a background murmur as I wondered dreamily how Talia Avramov might dress for a gala hosted at her imposing family manse. Something formfitting but dramatically dark, I’d expect, against all that creamy skin. Maybe she’d wear her hair up for it, all the better to showcase the Avramov garnet against that absurdly long and slender neck. Maybe—
“Scoot?” I emerged from my reverie to find my father watching me with a touch of censure, one expectant eyebrow raised. “Have I lost you already?”
“No, no, sorry,” I said, chastened. “Lady’s Lake, you were saying?”
“Yes, next Saturday, in lieu of a Sabbat,” he said, a touch impatiently. The families held witches’ Sabbats every Saturday in October, I remembered, though it’d been a long time since I’d last been at one. “The lake is always the site of the opening challenge, whichever one falls first. Remember, it’s the Grimoire that chooses the order in which combatants are tested for strength, speed, and wit. They won’t know which it is until you tell them.”
“And they’re always different, the challenges?” I asked, taking care to keep only innocent curiosity on my face—though I was wondering how Talia and Rowan could practice for something completely unexpected, and how I could possibly be of any help without compromising the Arbiter’s integrity. “Or does the Grimoire ever recycle them?”