Page 91 of Vengefully Matched

For a second, she didn’t even recognize it, and she found herself staring at her laptop, wondering if she had the wrong one. Recognition slipped in front of her eyes, like a slide on a projector, and, probably from too many hours spent staring at the screen, her head began to ache.

She backed up the file, waiting the minute or two it took to upload to Dropbox properly, and then double-checked that she’d saved the latest version of it.

From the kitchen, she heard Priscilla bustling around, and then, inexplicably, the sound of the woman snapping, like she was performing some sort of offbeat song or had just remembered something important.

Agatha sighed. She’d always had a thing for a beautiful person who also happened to be strange and unusual. It was a real character flaw.

But Priscilla was emerging now with two steaming cups, her computer was away, and she took the cup passed to her, smiling at the fragrance of it. It smelled minty, and like something she didn’t quite recognize.

“I’m sorry for being a little weird earlier,” Priscilla said, smiling at her.

“That’s fine. I get nervous around cute girls too.” Agatha gave her what she hoped was a winning smile.

Priscilla cocked her head, an eyebrow raised. “I like your chutzpah. It’s like you can’t remember to be embarrassed about how you really feel. It’s a good look.”

Agatha grinned and took a sip of the tea. She frowned. It was inexplicably odd-tasting, and she also had the strongest sense that she absolutely had to keep drinking it.

She drained the cup, setting it down on the table.

“So,” she started, but a wave of dizziness hit her, and she sat down, staring at the table, which was familiar and then not, and again up at Priscilla, familiar and then not.

And then the pain exploded, agonizing, a white-hot blinding flash of it, and the shadows fell from her eyes.

She was not a university researcher and adjunct professor.

She was not in a cabin she recognized.

And this was not an unfamiliar woman in front of her.

Shit.

This was not an unfamiliar witch in front of her.

The headache was awful, and suddenly she knew exactly why, in her befuddled state, she’d thought she was hungover.

Memory magic was like drinking for days, and that kind of spell, one to make her forget herself completely and think she was someone else, one well woven enough to keep her from getting too suspicious and realizing that she was all wrong, was enough to make her feel like a semitruck had slammed into her brain. She swallowed again, throat dry, and clutched at her head. Everything hurt, and she felt like she was dying.

Good goddess, she had thought she was a normie, with no magic or anything.

She looked down.

She was wearing flannel. If she weren’t already in a chair, that alone would have been enough to get her to sit down.

“Agatha?” She looked up, and Priscilla was kneeling on the ground next to her chair, at eye level. “Do you know me, honey?”

She threw her arms around Prissy’s neck, pulling her close, leaning in to press her lips against the other woman’s.

“Wait,” asked Priscilla. “Do you know who I am, or are you still just trying to get into my pants?”

Agatha stiffened. She blinked, the fuzzy memory of fake her going through the motions of trying to seduce Priscilla Hart.

“Oh no,” she groaned. “Both, chérie, if I’m honest.”

“It’s fine,” said Priscilla, smirking. “Both is good. You’re cute when you’ve had your memory wiped and rewritten entirely. Can you tell me who you are?”

“Agatha Vanderbilt Voisin, NACoW president, old enough to feel a little bit foolish about this all, and young enough to hope that maybe you’re willing to make some foolish decisions.”

“There you are,” said Prissy gently. “That’s my girl.” Her smile was slow and soft.