Witch's Pyre (Worldwalker 3)

The thought of throwing off her clothes and wading into the water pestered her. Lily’s lips twitched as she stifled an upwelling of mirth. So many inappropriate impulses were fighting to come out of her. She wanted to tear off her clothes, break every mirror she walked by, and tell everyone in the world to go to hell.

I think I’m going crazy, Lily said, reaching out for Lillian.

You’re not, Lillian answered. That would be easier, though.

You’ve felt like this?

Sure. Dozens of times, but most acutely when I took the crown.

What crown?

It would be quicker to show you . . .

. . . Rowan raises the crown over my head, and for the first time I get a good look at it in the mirror. The crown of the Salem Witch is made of burnt iron and diamonds. It’s a cruel-looking thing, barbed and jagged, frosted with icy jewels. It’s a thing of gothic beauty, born of fire and pressure. Like the Salem Witch herself.

That’s me now. I’m the Salem Witch. At thirteen that

makes me the youngest in history. As Rowan places it on my head all I can think is finally, as if I’ve waited centuries.

“Proud of yourself?” Rowan teases.

“Let’s go,” I say, rolling my eyes and trying not to blush.

“Are you sure you don’t want those?” Rowan gestures down into the black silk for the rest of the Salem Witch’s crown jewels. I balk. I don’t even want to look at them.

“I’m not going to the pyre this instant,” I say, rubbing my wrists absently. “It’s overkill.”

Rowan nods and covers them so I don’t have to see them. I’ve heard that the blood of other Salem Witches is scored into the metal, baked there by such high heat that nothing could ever really scour them clean. I’m not ready for the shackles of my new position. Not yet. Tonight I just want the crown.

We go downstairs and all eyes land on me. Councilmen smear on their smarmiest congratulations. The heads of the other twelve Covens narrow their eyes in dislike while they congratulate me, their smiles wide and frozen.

Laughter froths inside me. I try to stamp it down, but the more solemn I try to behave, the more I find myself fighting the urge to bray like a donkey. I’m a liar. I’ve somehow convinced this pack of fools that I’m good enough for this, but I know I’m not, and soon they’re all going to figure out what a fraud I am.

I want to laugh in everyone’s face, I say to Rowan.

Don’t, Rowan warns. They already hate you.

If they already hate me, then why bother?

Lillian—

But it’s too late. I’m already laughing, laughing, laughing in their stupid faces . . .

Lillian breezed out of Lily’s mind again, called away by something urgent. Lily wondered what it was that kept diverting Lillian’s attention, but she supposed that being the Salem Witch would keep one busy. Lily had never filled that role personally or experienced much of it through Lillian’s or Rowan’s memories.

It seemed like every memory of Lillian’s had Rowan in it. Lily was beginning to wonder whether there was any part of Lillian’s life that didn’t include him. At least, any part she cared to remember.

Lily, are you okay? It was Juliet. Lily looked at her and shook her head.

I feel like I’m losing it. What are we doing here, Jules?

Juliet shook her head and shrugged, wearing a helpless grin. As Lily smiled back she realized that she’d called this Juliet Jules—that was the nickname she had only ever used for her actual sister. She didn’t regret it, though, or wish she could take it back. It comforted her too much.

Toshi brought the coven across the atrium and to another wing of Grace’s enormous mansion, where the ball was already in progress.

A slim Indian woman in her mid-twenties met them before they could slip in through one of the sets of French doors that opened into the atrium from the ballroom.

“Toshi. Grace is waiting,” she said. Her voice was tight and her sharp smile didn’t make it up to her eyes. She wore a smoke-colored willstone. It wasn’t as dark or as large as Grace’s, but it was still impressive. Lily belatedly recognized her as one of the attendants who came with Grace and Toshi to the field of flowers earlier that day.