Page 14 of Summer of Sacrifice

He really couldn’t blame her for the wide swings of her mood. He was feeling quite the same as of late, after all. When Agatha was overwhelmed, overstimulated, and over-anxious, she always held it in until she was safely alone with Grimm or Tindle. Nestled in that safety, she turned into the lost, sullen little eight-year-old witchling of her shadow self until her inner turmoil smoothed out.

If Grimm were to hazard a guess, it broke Tindle’s heart as much as it did his. And neither one of them would ever not be there when she needed them. When she needed to sit in the dark. When she needed to rage. When she needed that little girl inside to heal.

“I know I’m hard on you,” Tindle said to her out of nowhere, as if he had been having the very same thoughts as Grimm, “but tell me you know it’s because?—”

“Because you believe in me and care about me, and blah blah,” Agatha said, rolling her eyes and lolling her head back and forth. She grinned. “Yes, Tindle. I know. Apologies to you both for my ridiculous behaviour. Now, let’s get this atrocious coronation over with.”

Augustus met them in the corridor with wide eyes pinned on Agatha’s dress. “You look like you could flatten a field of soldiers with just a look!” Turning to Tindle, he added, “Well done!”

Tindle preened. “See? Elegance and Vitality.”

“Mm,” Agatha considered, her eyes squinted. “I prefer bewitching.”

Grimm barked a laugh, taking her hand and setting it in the crook of his elbow. “You, my love, are the most bewitching, wicked little creature of them all.” She smiled, her first true smile of the day, and Grimm couldn’t help but add, “With a heart as secretly soft as a pumpkin loaf.” He bent and kissed her cheek. “My beloved study in contrasts.”

AGATHA

Agatha focused on the click-clack of her heels—infernal things—against the checkered marble as she walked toward the dais. If she looked to either side, she would see just how many people were gathered, and she did not care to know. Instead, all she paid attention to was the blend of fabrics. Fine silk brushing against homely cotton.

The whispered words of those in the crowd seeped past her mental shield, though.

…gods, she opened the event up to everyone, someone sniffed as she passed

…goddess above, she looks beautiful…

…looks like Death’s mistress… That one made her snort.

…done so much for us…

…let those evil witches and half-breeds ruin this city…

Just before they’d entered, Augustus said they’d begun to turn people away, even after they’d opened four overflow rooms. Gaggles of citizens just waiting for a glimpse.

Agatha took a steadying breath. One step in front of the other, she heard in the bond, the voice drowning out all others. She knew her Sisters were somewhere in the crowd, blending in and watching with pride. Somewhere, Anne, Dulci, Tindle, and Augustus also watched on.

Grimm stood off to one side of the dais, holding the pillow where her new crown rested. He was flanked by Emile on one side and his father on the other, who was slumped over in his chair. It was a peculiar mockery of her first entry into the very same throne room. The very same black waves of Mer Noir visible through the large window behind the dais.

Only, on this occasion, Gaius was absent. Queen Fleurina was dead. The king was a shell of a man. Emile was her friend. And Grimm was everything.

Not quite so similar at all, then.

Like Tindle and his damned dress.

One blood-red velvet and gilded throne sat empty in the middle of the dais. Waiting for her.

Emile strode to the centre, his golden robes billowing and all whispers dying out as Agatha climbed the two steps to meet him there.

“Breathe,” the Grand Magus whispered, just loud enough for her alone to hear. “I’ll be quick.” He offered her a gentle smile and the swiftest of winks before turning to those gathered in attendance. “Citizens of Seagovia!” His voice rang out in the marble and stone room. “It is with my greatest pleasure that I crown your new Sovereign Queen before you all and before Our Holy Goddess Three. A queen of the people, of all people in this sovereign land, mortal and witch alike. Of which Her Majesty sees no difference. All are equal in her eyes and in the eyes of Hespa.”

“Convenu,” the attendees murmured in unison.

Emile held aloft the Sacred Text of Hespa. Agatha expected him to read some fluff Scripture common to such royal ceremonies. To her immense surprise, he turned to a page marked at the back and began reading something she’d never heard before.

“O, afflicted one,

O Daughter lashed by storms and left alone,

I shall rebuild you with obsidian,

---