Talia lifted her head long enough to stare at Linden with slit-eyed affront before dropping it back down.
“You know what Yoda said about trying,” she said, muffled. “It’s for fucking losers.”
“Okay, so, he did maybe say something like that,” Lin admitted, her brow wrinkling. “But I don’t think he meant it . . . exactly that way.”
“Weak, sis.” Rowan shrugged, tipping back his Dos Equis. “Let’s be real, that mess was not our finest hour.”
I stayed quiet, toying with the lime slice floating in my drink. Though all of us were despondent over this setback, I felt inordinately glum; not just overcast, but like it was maybe hailing in my soul. Some of it might have been just mantle withdrawal, but I was wallowing in existential angst much stickier and deeper than I’d experienced in years.
It made even Dead Fred look somehow dourer than usual, more “Abandon All Hope” than the cheerfully macabre YOLO vibe he usually exuded.
Why did I even care this much that Gareth would probably bring home the win, I wondered, holding the bobbing citrus slice under the surface with a fingertip. We’d known from the start that this was the likeliest outcome, and Talia and Rowan had even managed to get a little egg on Gareth’s face; more than we might have hoped for when we made the pact. And once this was all over, I’d disappear, headed safely back to my real life—and all of this would become just another unwelcome memory of Thistle Grove, lodged in my brain like a burr before it desiccated and fell away.
So why did that thought make me feel not better, but immeasurably worse?
“I’m really sorry, man,” Talia was saying to Rowan. “I know I owed you this challenge. If I’d only gotten to him faster—”
Rowan shook his head, reaching over to grip her shoulder and give her a little shake. “Nah, you did what you could . . . I took too long. If I’d just managed to get Sunflower Stacy pinned down for even a hot minute . . .”
“At least you guys had the chance to do something,” I groused. “My only actual job was to pronounce Gareth the Victor, blech.”
“You know what, you don’t get to have it the worst,” Linden countered. “All I got to do was sit on the sidelines and watch that . . . that jagbag win.”
At that we all lapsed into a dismal silence, heavy as graveyard dirt.
“So, what now?” Talia said, after a few minutes of communal languishing. “We cannot let this be the death of the pact. Especially since we’re agreed, right, that it’s not just about us anymore?”
I thought of the Thorns’ semideserted orchard, and how vibrant it had been even the last time I came to town for a visit, about four years ago. And though I hadn’t stopped by the Avramovs’ Emporium, I was sure the sight of it emptied out and quiet—compared to the lively bustle I remembered, the town destination it made of Hyssop Street—would be no less disheartening.
Talia was right. This was bigger than three scorned witches and their private scores to settle. It may have started out that way, but it had grown into something larger by several scales of magnitude; something the rough size and shape of Thistle Grove itself.
“You know what,” Linden mused, “maybe that’s it. It’s not just about us. The Blackmoores have had the run of this town too long, and we all know it. So maybe it’s time we roped in the elders for real.”
Talia cocked her head, intrigued. “What are you saying, sunshine?”
“I’m saying we really lay it out for them,” Linden said, gaining steam, a trace of new excitement shading her voice. “What we’re trying to do, and exactly why we’re doing it. Obviously they must know the broad strokes by now—but not the particulars. So we bring them into the huddle, ask their advice. You know how the elders all love to play the sage.”
“Hey, that’s not a bad idea,” Talia said, her face brightening. “They might have tricks up their sleeves, geezer shit we won’t have thought of ourselves. I’ll sit down with Elena, put our heads together. She’s been dying for a chance to stick it to Igraine anyway.”
“And I’ll tackle Mama,” Rowan said to Lin, shrugging elaborately when she narrowed her eyes at him. “What, sis, it only makes sense. I’m her favorite kid, it’s my whole thing.”
Linden stared at him, shaking her head. “You are not Mama’s favorite, Rowan, that is delusional.”
“I am, though. But it’s cool, really, it’s no big deal. You can just talk to Dad like you always do anyway.”