Sympathetic Magic(7)

That driveway had proved to be a magnet to intoxicated or merely befuddled travelers over the years…until Margot came up with the idea to cast a long-lasting illusion of a sturdy stone wall across the entrance to his property. Even someone who’d spent a hard afternoon drinking at the Spirit Room tended to look twice before backing into that. But the spell wouldn’t hold indefinitely, so she maintained a schedule of refreshing it every two weeks. The only drawback was that Boyd had to wait until the street was absolutely empty of civilians before he came and went, as otherwise they would see him backing his ancient F-150 right through a wall, but that seemed a small price to pay compared to having to replace the garage door once a year.

“That’s all?” her mother asked.

Irritated, Margot snapped, “What else would I be doing?”

Without blinking, Sylvia reached out and poured some more tea into her cup. The sweet-smelling tendrils of steam curled upward, and she inhaled deeply, then said, “Well, I’d hoped you might be getting out and about more.”

“And where precisely am I supposed to be getting out and about? I’m an elder here — I can’t just go running around on a whim.”

Her mother looped a finger into the handle of her teacup but didn’t lift it, seeming content to merely let it rest there on the tabletop. “I think you could go many places, if you’d only allow yourself.”

“And what precisely is that supposed to mean?” Her mother loved to talk that way, in elliptical sentences that made her sound like the clan seer. In reality, her gift was for growing things — the glory of the garden outside was her work originally, although Margot privately thought she did just fine on her own without any magical help.

“My dear, the borders are open! We can go almost anywhere we like now. Haven’t you ever wanted to see Flagstaff?”

“No,” Margot said shortly. That was a lie, as she’d often wondered when she was younger what it would be like to walk amongst those ponderosa forests, to breathe in cool air scented with pine. Those lands had been off limits for so many years that she’d stopped thinking about them somewhere along the line. Now, though, with this new joining of the clans, she realized she could go there…if she dared.

Her mother lifted an eyebrow and finally took a sip of her tea. “Not even to see your new friend?”

“Friend?” Margot asked, although she thought she knew exactly who her mother was talking about.

“The tall one…you know…who you danced with at the reception.”

More than ever she found herself regretting that single foolish lapse in judgment. It seemed everyone was conspiring to get her together with Lucas Wilcox. Well, all right, not everyone — she had no doubt that Bryce McAllister and Allegra Moss would be properly horrified if hers and Lucas’ “relationship,” if one could call it that, were to progress any further than that one ill-advised dance.

“If you mean Lucas Wilcox,” Margot said, not bothering to hide the irritation in her voice, “he is not my ‘friend,’ and I have no intention of going to Flagstaff to see him, or for any other reason.”

“Too bad,” her mother replied, her placid expression saying that she was used by now to her daughter’s curtness. “He’s a handsome one.”

“He’s a Wilcox.”

“So? Being with a Wilcox seems to be working fairly well for our prima.”

This was ridiculous. Connor’s and Angela’s was a very special case, a relationship that apparently had been preordained by the Goddess. Margot wouldn’t question the situation, as it was clear they were meant to be together, but one fated pairing didn’t mean it was suddenly open season on all the Wilcox men. Maybe her mother could forget how Damon Wilcox had kidnapped Angela right from her bedroom, and how his grandfather had attempted to do the same thing with Aunt Ruby back in the day, but Margot’s own memory wasn’t quite so short. Yes, according to Angela, Lucas had nothing to do with Damon’s plots, had actually tried to talk him out of the kidnapping, but that didn’t change the fact that he was born a Wilcox, was still a Wilcox, and would be a Wilcox until the day he died.

Just as she was a McAllister. Oh, her last name was Emory, but her grandmother had been Amanda McAllister, and so Margot was as much a part of the clan as anyone. More so, as she was an elder. And a McAllister elder couldn’t go off dallying with one of the Wilcoxes, no matter how good-looking he might be.

And that, she thought, is a big part of the problem. Those Wilcox men…they definitely have the “tall, dark, and handsome” thing down pat. I doubt they’d be as much trouble if they didn’t.