Page 8 of This Witch Is Not Wicked

“You said you ‘should’ve gone with abdominal pain.’” I squinted at her. “Are you . . . faking your injury?”

She shuffled her feet and averted her gaze, confirming my suspicions. “No.” Her voice came out as a squeak.

I pushed my spectacles up my nose. “Why would you fake an injury? There are real patients with real injuries who need to be seen.”

I thought about the previous women who’d come to me this morning.

The mysterious head injury.

The nonexistent rash.

The tick I couldn’t find no matter how much she insisted it was there . . . right by her breast.

Godwitches be.

“I’m sorry, okay?” Emoire burst out, wringing her hands together. She started pacing back and forth in front of my shelves of tinctures and potions. “Your mother mentioned that you’re looking for a wife, and it’s spread through Fairwitch like a bad case of boils.”

I felt faint. “My mother did what . . .?” I sank against the wall, legs suddenly not working.

“So that’s why I’m here. Why we’re all here. And we won’t give up. We’re very persistent.”

That sounded really bad.

“I’m not looking . . .”

She shook her head. “But your mother is. And if a mother wants her son to get married, she’ll make it happen. We’re desperate, Nevan.” She surged forward and grabbed my hands, her eyes wild. “We don’t have a lot of options here in Fairwitch. You’re one of the only eligible bachelors left. Until a few come of age.”

That was what happened when you lived in a city with a sentient castle that chose its ruler and citizens. That sentient castle also made Fairwitch hidden to outsiders. It was great when it came to protecting all of us who lived here, but not so great when it came to wanting to get married and having very few options.

Emoire was right. There weren’t a lot of eligible bachelors in Fairwitch, and it didn’t help that I had no interest in a relationship, no time for a relationship.

I glanced toward the back wall that held shelves full of potions I’d created over the years. Not nearly enough to be able to open an apothecary shop and finally quit as town healer. It was hard balancing a full-time job with a hobby that I desperately wanted to make into a career. A relationship absolutely did not fit into that equation.

So why had my mother claimed that I wanted one? She knew firsthand how busy I was, always telling me I was working too much, doing too much. Yet she had no suggestions for how I could balance it all.

“So?” Emoire’s eyes brightened but still had that feral look to them that made me wish she wasn’t pinning me to a wall right now. “What do you say? You want to do this thing?”

By “this thing” I assumed she meant courting her. “Oh, look at the time.” I gently slipped my hands from hers. “I have to get to my next patient.”

She raised her chin and sniffed. “Your mother is going to have something to say about this.”

I started pushing her toward the door. “It was so great seeing you. Please don’t come back unless you have a real injury.”

“But—” I opened the door, shoved her out, and slammed it again before anyone else could enter.

Fuck. I’d have to see them all, whether I suspected they were faking or not. This was going to be a long, long day.

I would attend to every single patient in that line, and then, when I was done, I was going to have a long chat with my mother.

CHAPTER 3

Nevan

Ihobbled into the throne room, the setting sun shining through the big yellow stained-glass windows lining the walls on either side of me.

Golden banners hung between the windows, each depicting a different godwitch, showing how larger than life they were. Normally I loved studying the tapestries, remembering the greatness of the godwitches, the impact of their magic.

It motivated me to want to do more with my alchemy, to use the magic they left behind to make amazing potions. But today all I felt as I passed each banner and got closer to my brothers and my mother was anger.