Page 7 of Vengefully Matched

Otho frowned, but several other Council members chuckled. There was no way that Priscilla could admit her lack of success after that pointed barb.

Priscilla cocked her head lazily. She opened her mouth, prepared to distract her colleagues from her stalled progress. “Perhaps it’s too difficult for you to understand the art of waiting patiently so we don’t interfere with mundane events more than is appropriate.”

Agatha’s cheeks flushed bright pink. “Being a Witchery Council nepo baby doesn’t mean you know what you’re doing, Hart. Age counts for something here.”

The titters of discontent from the rest of the Council were louder this time. Priscilla frowned, thinking of how during the election, Agatha had finally snapped and stooped to her level of campaign insults, piling her age on top of her family name as reasons she wasn’t truly fit to run the Council.

“It’s my experience, not my parentage, that makes me qualified for this position on the Council,” she fired back. “And there’s not that much difference between twenties and thirties.”

Priscilla cursed herself for taking the bait. Most of the other Council members were far older.

Otho banged his fist on the table, managing to make even that action seem genteel.

“I move to call a ten-minute recess. My old bones could benefit from a constitutional.” Otho nodded at Ben Smith, the only council member who occasionally joined him for a smoking break.

“Agreed,” said Agatha. “Please meet back at 8:07.”

Priscilla rolled her eyes at her precision; the woman couldn’t have given them until 8:10? She held her tongue, though. She was the youngest member, and it wouldn’t do to remind them all again. Not that she was ashamed of that; she had worked with the Council since she’d volunteered as a page when she was a teenager. Altogether, she had almost a decade of Council experience. Most of the people here respected her, even if her game had been a little off since the regrettable leaving-her-fiancée-at-the-altar-and-causing-an-international-incident-when-said-fiancée-immediately-resigned-as-Council-president fiasco. She’d tried to fix it by running for the position herself, but just as it had in this meeting, the tide had turned against her.

Everyone else had adjourned to the restroom or the vending machine; the muffins and coffee Agatha’s assistant had put out earlier were long gone. By the time the thirteenth member returned—Otho, straggling in from an inadvisable balcony cigar that made the whole room smell rather painfully like her dead father—it was 8:25, and Agatha had been checking her watch, primly at first and then more and more aggressively, the corners of her mouth turning down as the minutes ticked by.

The frustrated blush blooming on Agatha’s cheeks and her almost-maniacal watch checking was the highlight of Priscilla’s evening. Behind Agatha, the monstera plant against the wall shuddered, shooting up at least an inch taller with the plant witch’s irritation.

“Council members,” Xiomara Cohen began. “Let’s return to the agenda.”

Priscilla sat back. Across from her, Agatha adjusted the lapels of her coral blazer.

“Very well. We need Councilman Ashbrooke’s decision on the mundane mayoral project, and we need a verbal report on Connie Witherspoon, formerly known as Madam Cleopatra, the charlatan-turned-actual-practitioner-of-divination.”

Xiomara nodded.

“And then we can finalize items one, three, and four and hold the Hildebrand von Auden estate and the other carryover items from last time until the next meeting.”

Priscilla fought the urge to rub her forehead. As though reacting to her frustration, Agatha smiled and brushed a lock of long blond hair over her shoulder.

Agatha had insulted her dignity, brought shame upon her family name, and worst of all, beat her in the presidential race. The woman was a giant pain in the ass. So it didn’t matter that she was hot in that chip-on-her-shoulder-hidden-by-extreme-politeness way. It mattered that Agatha was staring at Priscilla, her perfectly lined lips curving into a slight frown.

“Councilwoman Hart, your report?”

“Right,” said Priscilla, definitely not noticing how pretty the other woman’s mouth was when contorted into a stern little pout. Not one bit. Priscilla shut her eyes tight for a moment before opening them and reminding herself that Agatha was the enemy. “You ought to be pleased to know,” she said icily, “that I have been making progress with the mayor. And if he told you he wanted me to call him, I will, of course, be happy to do so.”

“The mayor is Councilman Ashbrooke’s responsibility.” The monstera loomed again, betraying Agatha’s anger, and Prissy wondered if Agatha even noticed when she did that.

“Of course,” said Otho smoothly. “Priscilla just has such a rapport with him, on account of Benedict Hart.” The mention of her father still twisted her heart in pain a little, even now.

If Agatha had been pink before, she was beet red now.

“I wasn’t aware you were handing off that project.” The president’s mouth pursed.

“It’s not handed off,” said Otho breezily. He brushed an invisible speck of dust off his suit, a cloud-blue, three-piece affair. “We are collaborators. Priscilla and I have been working together with the mayor since before Benedict Hart passed.” He fixed Agatha with an imperious stare that Priscilla wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of. “You do recall, Madam President, what an institution he was.” His stare dared her to say anything to contradict him.

“Fine. The two of you should have the project finalized before the fall solstice. And I’ll reserve the right to tag along as needed.”

“With pleasure,” said Otho, bowing his head. “Councilwoman Hart and I are on it.”

“That takes us to discussion of item three.” Agatha narrowed her eyes. “At our last meeting, the Council made it absolutely clear that Constance Witherspoon requires weekly meetings. Have you been able to visit her following the agreed-upon schedule?”

Priscilla squirmed.