She chuckled, taking a sip. “Not-impossible-though-fairly-unlikely hedgehogification aside, the Grimoire doesn’t forbid the next-eldest Harlow of the younger generation from taking your place. Delilah could certainly have stepped in for you.”
“Oh, I just bet Delilah could have,” I muttered under my breath, trying to stifle the reflexive eye roll my cousin’s name reliably provoked.
“Don’t be mean about your cousin, darling. She’s only a bit . . . eager.”
This was one of my mother’s epic British understatements, as Delilah was both the eagerest of beavers and the ultimate Harlow stan. She was a year older than me, but unfortunately for her, she wasn’t the firstborn of the Harlow main line—which automatically disqualified her from serving as Arbiter unless I stepped down.
Delilah’s borderline obsession with our family history had always struck me as kind of hilarious, given the role the Harlows actually played in the founding of the town. Legend had it that a little over three hundred years ago, four witches were drawn to Hallows Hill, lured by the siren song of magical power that emanated from this place. To consecrate the founding of the town below, Caelia Blackmoore conjured a spectacular lightning storm, Margarita Avramov summoned spirits from beyond the veil to serve as witnesses, Alastair Thorn called down the birds from the sky as his congregation, and Elias Harlow drew forth his mighty quill and . . .
Took a bunch of notes.
Seriously, that was it. My esteemed ancestor participated in this magical event of unprecedented majesty and drama by writing it all down in the driest possible manner, diligently avoiding wit or flair lest a historical account actually entertain future readers, perish the thought. Making him more or less the equivalent of the accidentally purple-haired lady named Irma who jots down the talking points of every town council meeting ever.
To be fair, Elias was also responsible for the Grimoire, the spellbook that contained the four families’ collected spells and the rules for the Gauntlet of the Grove, the tournament held every fifty years to determine which founding family got to preside over all things magical in Thistle Grove. According to the rules, the competition was intended for the rising generation, so that each new Victor started their reign in the prime of their life—which meant that the firstborn scions of each line, the heirs apparent, went up against one another, as long as they were older than eighteen.
The Harlows didn’t even compete, being so magically stunted that we’ve historically overseen the proceedings instead. And as the Harlow heir and the other scions’ peer, the Grimoire also demanded that I be the Arbiter, rather than my father.
Woot for tradition.
“Well, bully to Delilah,” I replied a little sourly. “But, huzzah, here I am! So she still doesn’t get to steal my thunder as Emmeline, scion to House Harlow, the magical admins of Thistle Grove.”
My mother frowned at me over the rim of her mug. “If you’re going to be so glib about it, darling, perhaps you really should have let her step in for you. You know respecting the spirit of the thing is terribly important to your father.”
I leaned back into my chair, my insides churning. I did know that, thanks to the tragically heartfelt and impressively guilt-trip-ridden letter my father had sent me a few months ago. Even thinking about his swooping script across the grainy Tomes & Omens stationery made my stomach twist, with the particular flavor of angst reserved for disappointing daughters.
Dearest Scoot, I know you’ve chosen to make your life a different one—a separate one from us. But, please, consider coming back to the covenstead just this once, for tradition’s sake. Consider discharging this final obligation to your history and kin, to your mother and myself, and I promise this is the last we’ll ever speak of duty.
How could I have said no after that—especially to parents who had always been so supportive of my choices, and my magicless life in Chicago? A life they’d never understood, and one that so pointedly made no room for them?
“I know that,” I said, not mentioning the letter, because there was no way my mother would have let him send something so emotionally manipulative had she known about it. My parents were basically the living embodiment of #relationshipgoals, and I had no desire to stir the pot between them. “And the spirit of the thing demands that it be me. And since the Blackmoores have won since pretty much time’s inception, it’s not like I’ll have all that much arbitration to even do.”
This was technically incorrect. The Thorns won once, back in 1921—but only because Evrain Blackmoore was such a roaring drunk he lit both himself and the Avramov combatant on fire while transforming a fishpond into a fountain of flaming spiced rum.