Page 49 of Heart of a Witch
The small talk was killing me. I waved off another couple, then ducked before Father Montague and his wife saw me. From what I’d gathered, Lady Abor had recovered enough. The doctor believed it to be tuberculosis. He had seen a few who had strange symptoms from the disease. She had been shipped away to some hospital in quarantine, and so had her husband. It was all anyone could talk about. I was grateful they’d proven it to not be the work of witches, because the last thing I cared for was more trials in the town center.
“Son.” Father tapped me on the shoulder.
I turned slowly, forcing a smile.
“Have you spoken to Father Montague yet? He will be the one training you.”
“Not yet.” I looked around for him. “I’ve actually spoken to my bartender and—”
“I’ve already made arrangements for your club. Charles has agreed to take it over for a good price.”
“My friend Charles?”
“Yes. I spoke with his parents just yesterday.”
My smile faded. “I was supposed to continue running it. We had an agreement.”
“I don’t want you to have any distractions. After your ramblings that night, I made a decision.”
“You can’t sell my club.”
“It’s under my name. So I assure you I can.”
Before I did something I’d regret, I pushed my way through the party. Fuck Charles. Fuck Father. Fuck everyone. I was done. Everything I had built had been for nothing. It was only in his name because I’d been too young at the time, but everyone knew it was mine. I’d built it from the ground up when it was nothing but a rundown, back-alley building.
Ignoring a man I recognized from the church and his wife, I stormed into the study and rummaged through cabinets until I found my remaining cigars and my best bottle of scotch.
“Oh, apologies.” Some women tripped into the study. “Sir Shaw.”
Closing my eyes, I swore under my breath. I couldn’t get any fucking privacy.
It was pitch black outside when I emerged into the gardens. I forced my way through those gathered outside, past the fountain, along the path waving through the flowerbeds, and down a secret walkway until I reached my favorite spot. It was fenced in with one small opening. Trawling ivy covered the crisscrossed wood, large bushes covered the area in darkness, and a rose garden had been allowed to grow wild. I sat on a white metal bench and swigged the scotch.
I couldn’t have been in there for another second. I felt trapped, like a bird stuck in one of the priest’s gilded cages. Goose bumps spread along my arms, standing every hair erect, when I heard shuffling from the walkway.
“Elijah.”
I recognized her voice. The dark mass of her dress and wavy hair silhouetted against the indigo. “Victoria?”
“Yes. I saw you run out here. I was talking with my brother, and you seemed upset.”
I took another drink of scotch. “You don’t need to come.”
“I don’tneedto do anything. I followed you in here because I wanted to.”
“Why?”
“Because I saw you had a bottle of something I’ll assume is liquor.”
“It’s scotch.”
“Well, pass it over.” She took a seat next to me. “I’m having a bad evening too. I also need some space from being in there.”
“I didn’t take you as a scotch girl.”
“I’m an ‘I’ll drink anything right about now’ kind of girl.”
“What happened,” I asked, taking back the bottle as she coughed, “for your evening to be so terrible?”
