Page 103 of Consort's Glory
Margot sucked in a deep breath. When she turned to look at the Priestess, her smile was wobbly but sincere. “I am.”
Petra set down her pencil, her bemusement open. Alone with her fellow witch, she’d softened, her icy perfection melting away to reveal a quiet, perceptive woman who didn’t once complain when Margot rejected the first five iterations of their marriage sigil.
“I won’t question you further, then.” Petra caught her gaze, held it. “But… this is a big thing. Perhaps the biggest union in a century. More, even. I’m sure you know this already, but… this is going to change things, sister. For better and worse.”
Margot didn’t look away. Perhaps she should have been scared, or at least intimidated by the path that lay before her, but she couldn’t muster it. How could she, when fear and death were her companions for so long? If she didn’t do this, there would be countless more people like her in the world, without a place, wondering if every shadow hid danger.
Marrying Theodore Solbourne, her bondmateand her… consort, was the right thing to do. Not just for herself, but for the world. If even one person saw their union and thought, That could be me, then it would be worth it.
Besides, she didn’t want anyone else. The knowledge that he was right made its way into the marrow of her bones, settling like glittering silt in her veins.
“I can do this,” she assured Petra. Margot straightened her spine. “I’m a Goode. We can do anything.”
The Priestess’s smile was slight, but more genuine than the grin from the reception hall. “You Coven witches,” she muttered, “always so arrogant.”
Margot didn’t bother denying it. “True. It’s the only way we survived.” She looked askance at the Priestess, but suspected she knew the answer to her question before the words left her mouth. “Do you belong to a Coven?”
Petra smoothed a hand down the front of her blouse, her lashes lowering to create crescent moons against the tops of her high cheekbones. “No. My parents were arrant.”
“Oh.” Margot swallowed. There appeared a small fissure between them, a gap in understanding. What would it be like to grow up in an arrant family, to be one of those witches whose m-gene appeared spontaneously, with no support structure built around them to understand their abilities, their legacy?
Sometimes, the only thing Margot could understand about herself was that history, that storied arrogance. When nothing else made sense, at least she had that.
The audacity of continued survival, her grandma called it. The arrogance of thumbing your nose at a world that thought it could step on you simply because you lacked claws or wings or tough skin. The pride in knowing that they could not burn or slaughter or eat every witch even if they tried.
Covens carried that legacy, but witches like Petra were unfortunately disconnected from that righteous arrogance, that rich vein of pride in their survival. So many never learned how to use their abilities. So many fell into the hands of those who would abuse them. So many, like Petra, ended up in institutions like the Temple, who offered them some semblance of community in exchange for their unerring loyalty.
No matter how the Collective, with Sophie at the helm, fought on the Congress floor, no matter how many laws they passed through and institutions they exposed for being corrupt, they couldn’t catch them all.
Brushing a lock of Margot’s hair over her shoulder with a fingertip, Petra met Margot’s stark gaze with an expression of solemn warmth. Her blue eyes glowed with a ring of pure light around the pupil — the mark of a born luminist, those rare few who could bend light to their will.
In an instant, Margot got the impression that she was no longer talking to a fellow witch, but a High Priestess of Glory.
“Whatever happens with your elf, sister,” the Priestess murmured, “don’t ever forget that you were forged in the fury of Glory’s fiery heart. Be strong. And if you should ever need me, I will be there.” The light in her eyes, two perfect, razor-thin circles of white, burned brighter. “Witches don’t walk alone.”
A buzzing warmth passed down her spine and across her cheeks. A caress from a hand unseen.
Margot gasped, the magic in her veins singing with awareness. “Was that—”
Petra touched the heavy gold necklace around her throat, her buffed nails gleaming against the sun and its beams, stretching out to warm the Earth. She leveled Margot with an intense look; one of deep, unshakable knowing. The light disappeared with a slow blink. “Glory has her eye on us, sister.” Her lips quirked. “Perhaps she’s urging us to get on with the ceremony.”
A nervous laugh bubbled up from Margot’s throat as she smoothed her hands down the bodice of her white cocktail dress, the kiss of heat lingering in her cheeks. “Yes, I suppose we should get on with it, shouldn’t we?”
Petra hummed, her hair sliding over her shoulder to catch the light with her slow nod. “It’s no good to keep a goddess waiting.”
No, Margot thought, the sense of some great weight settling heavily on her shoulders. It’s not.
* * *
The ceremony didn’t take long.
They did not have a procession. Her Coven didn’t line the aisle, welcoming her into the marriage. Neither Margot nor Theodore had vows prepared. There was no exchanging of family gifts before the altar.
There was only the ritual lighting of the hearth built into Glory’s statue, their hands joined by a golden ribbon as they dipped the long match into the flame cupped in Petra’s hands, then into the kindling. There was only hushed expectation as the flame crept higher, burning hotter, to burn in the heart of the goddess, the red glow building in the hollows of the statue’s eyes as she came to life.
There were no cheers when Petra asked whether they consented to be wed in the eyes of Glory and Burden, the divine union of Earth and sunlight, and Light and Darkness, the couple who created all things. There was no music.
There was only the great, solemn silence of a nearly empty cathedral built to shelter hundreds, the fragrant smoke of the hearth curling from the cutouts in Glory’s forehead, and the light of the sun passing through the dome of stained glass over their heads, a shattering brilliance of color so lovely it stole the breath from Margot’s lungs.
