“Who do you send dreams to?
“My mother.”
I know for a fact she hasn’t seen her mother since she was sectioned when Beatriz was really young.
“What does she send back?”
“Nothing.”
Damn.
Grief is a one-way street; our calls are never returned. My heart squeezes at the thought of Mikayla. Maribel thought she didn’t want to be found, which means her silence might be on purpose. The idea of that hurts me so much. Probably as much as this hurts Beatriz.
No words can heal the pain of loss. “I’m sorry.”
Beatriz shrugs. “I guess where she’s at doesn’t have its own aviary.”
We both know that’s not the reason. Those who don't want to stay silent will always find their voice.
“What kind of thing can a Verity Witch like me send by crow?”
“Nothing. I guess you could send someone the truth.”
“No one wants the truth.”
“No one wants my dreams either.” She smiles. It’s the first bit of authenticity I’ve seen from her.
The silence is darker than the sky above us. I’d reach out to comfort her, but I know Beatriz is like me — a comforting touch is wasted on her.
A bird lands on the wall next to us.
“A message?”
Beatriz shakes her head. “This isn’t a messenger, it’s just a normal crow. Trapped birds attract free birds. Kind of sad, really.”
She looks over at me and I wonder what she sees. Because all I can see is my sister, trapped or scared or running from something. The not knowing is crushing every bone inside of me.
“Don’t worry, Saskia,” she says, heading to the door. “At some point the silence stops hurting.”
Chapter Ten
Sitting in a limo with Rafi and Luisa is awkward, especially since the latter won’t look at me, and the former is trying to make light with jokes while we wait for Beatriz to grace us with her presence. She needed to powder her nose, apparently, though I wasn’t aware anyone under seventy did that.
Rafi smiles at us. “What do you call two Witches sharing an apartment?”
“Calla,” Luisa says, telling him to shut up in Catalan. She’s wearing her usual murder pixie scowl, but it’s wavering, a smile struggling to make its way to the surface. She’s weak when it comes to Rafi.
“Broomates!” Rafi cracks up, and I swallow a snort.
All of his recycled Witch puns are lame, but that giant smile of his makes them worth it. He still hasn’t mentioned how I reacted yesterday. Maybe because he’s the one who nearly got me killed by a drug-dealing Vamp, and my mean words pale in comparison.
I have to admit, Señora Estrella, the Silkmage, did a truly spectacular job. I can’t stop staring at how the shadowy vines and dark thorns of Rafi’s suit rise up his neck, twisting into his ruffled hair.
Breathless, Beatriz finally enters the limo, and we take off.
I avert my gaze from her, our few minutes of intimate chat on the roof reduced to uncomfortable silence. And I don’t need to be a Touchmage myself to feel the dislike emanating from Luisa. The hurt is still there, crackling between us.
A twinge of guilt coils in my stomach, but I ignore it. Luisa is dangerous. Anyone who can control someone else’s emotions is bad news in my book. She’s no different to my mother — and the brew Jackson’s Witch-for-hire, Angel, gave me only protects me from one Touchmage. I can’t afford to be influenced by Luisa… even if tonight she does look like a queen of the underworld.
She’s watching me out the corner of her smoky, coal-lined eyes. Her hair is combed delicately to one side and dotted with tiny gold spikes. I sneak another look at her, but the moment my gaze catches hers, her fitted leather gown flickers and shifts, shadowy slits appearing where earlier there were none. Her hem rises steadily, and her low neckline dips further to reveal more of her peach-like chest. I swallow, then with a jolt, remember what Luisa told me about her dress at the Silkmage’s workshop.
It’s reflecting my thoughts back to me!
Fuck. I look away, irritated.
Fucking MA magic and Touchmages!
As soon as my mood changes, so does her outfit. Her dress quickly morphs back to its previous shape, doubling in fabric and matching my shame.
Rafi seems to be the only one who has noticed. He shoots me an amused look, and I stare at my uncomfortable shoes. Great, I’m looking forward to those jokes later.
The drive to Montjuic takes fifteen minutes along the sea, banking right up the mountain. I’ve been to this venue many times before, yet as soon as we join the line of cars at the entrance, I still can’t help but look on in wonder. The Museu Nacional d'Art de Catalunya is basically a palace. As kids, my sister and I would wander around Montjuic often. Back then, we only had eyes for the rainbow fountains that changed color to music. But tonight, I see it for the work of art it truly is, and all I can think is that for the very first time I feel like a proper Witch. Then it hits me why – it’s because this is the first MA event I’ve been personally invited to, and not just as Mikayla’s plus one.
I swallow down the guilt of that thought and look up at the grand building sitting atop the hill like the centerpiece on a four-tier wedding cake. The opulent fountains leading up to the museum glimmer with light, and the stairs are dotted with guests in elaborate ball gowns and tuxedos.
I step out of the limo and feel the heat of Luisa’s stare as I adjust my dress. I can’t believe I’m brave enough to be wearing this.
“Are we expected to walk up all those steps wearing these crazy outfits?” I whisper to Rafi.
“Of course. There are photographers here waiting to catch a glimpse of the youngest de la Cruz sister,” he teases. “You are the daughter of the acting First, after all.”
I gulp,
