Page 89 of Enchanted to Meet You

Rosalie crossed her legs and rested her hands on her knee, looking prim. “Jessica, I know it’s hard for you to understand since you’re not a member of the WCW. But the fact is, he didn’t have to send it to me. I have the original.I’mthe Chosen One.”

It was a good thing I didn’t have Esther’s particular gift of magic, because I for sure would have blown something up at that moment. Probably the couches.

“Rosalie, that’s simply not possible,” I settled for saying instead.

“Why? Did Derrick tell you thatyou’rethe Chosen One?” Something in my face must have given away the truth, since Rosalie went on, knowingly, “I was afraid of that. I suspected the moment I saw that you were wearing the amulet. That’s why I called the professor. You know, he told me that Derrick isn’teven a member. He’s never had any affiliation whatsoever with the Council.”

“I’m aware. Rosalie—”

“Well, if you knew all along, why on earth did you believe him?” Rosalie was gazing up at me, her perfectly threaded eyebrows constricted with phony concern. “Not that I’m blaming you. It isn’t your fault. I know it must have been hard for you all these years, not qualifying for membership in the Council, and never having been part of a coven. You were easy prey to anyone who came along and said you were special.”

I felt my blood beginning to boil. “Rosalie—”

“But don’t worry.” She had the gall to reach up and pat my hand, like I was Esther’s age. “No harm’s been done. And Bartholomew says his little brother really doesmeanwell. He just has a bizarre antipathy toward authority figures. Something to do with how he was raised. No respect for tradition—which is why, of course, he hates the WCW. Funny, you two seem to have that in common.”

I chose to ignore that last dig. “Rosalie, what did you mean when you said you have the original of this prophecy?”

“I’m sure Derrick told you about the witch to whom the grimoire belonged, the one who hid it inside a wall in a home in upstate New York?”

“Yeah. So?”

“So that witch was my eleventh great-grandmother, Elizabeth,” Rosalie said. “The one I told you about, who was found guilty of witchcraft right here in West Harbor—well, what would become West Harbor, but was then just a settlement, like the professor said.”

I stared at her. “You said she was banished instead of executed.”

“Yes! But only because as a widow, she was wealthy enough to bribe a judge.” Rosalie’s gaze had moved so that it was on myreflection in the mirror instead of on me. What it was actually doing was moving between me and her own reflection as she delivered her news, enjoying watching herself as she talked. “She had just enough money left afterward to flee to New York. That’s where she hid the book that prophecy came from—the one that said the Bringer of Light who would save this place would come from the thirteenth generation—mydaughter’sgeneration.”

It took a moment or two for the information to register.

“Wait,” I said. “You think the Bringer of Light isyour daughter?”

Rosalie frowned. Now she wasn’t looking at our reflection. She was looking directly at me.

“I don’t think it,” she said. “I know it. And Bartholomew does, too. So does Derrick, of course. He admitted as much to me last night.”

“Lastnight?” None of this was making any sense.

“Yes, when he asked to meet with me during Trivia, and begged me not to tell you the truth.”

She lifted the tablet and scrolled to another page, then handed it to me. On the screen was a photo of the deck outside the Brewport. It was difficult to make out because it had been taken at night, at an odd angle, and there appeared to be moisture of some kind on the lens.

But I could clearly see two people standing close to one another. The woman’s back was to the camera, but her hair gleamed as gold as the rose on Rosalie’s stationery in the fluorescent security lighting, and she was wearing the same sweater set that Rosalie had worn last night.

And there was no doubt whatsoever that the man glaring down at her in the photo was Derrick. I’d recognize those furiously lowered brows and that sarcastic frown anywhere.

Rosalie must have seen the dismay in my face, since she said,“Oh, don’t be too hard on yourself . . . or him. Apparently he’s done this to dozens of women—convinced them that he’s working for some secret organization, and that their town is in mortal peril, and they’re the Chosen One and only they can save it. Bartholomew says he’s been doing it for years. I guess he’s always had issues. Their mother is supposedly a very refined and cultured woman. She obviously prefers spending time with Bartholomew, who’s done so much with his life. Derrick will do anything to get her attention. His father is just a farmer, or something, whereas Bartholomew’s father was a dean at Oxford. Look, I’m sorry. I know you like him, which is why last night I tried to get him to promise he’d tell you the truth. He said he would. But I’m guessing, from the look on your face, it didn’t work.”

I couldn’t tear my eyes from the photo. When had Derrick snuck out of Trivia to meet with Rosalie? Andwhy? Surely not because anything she was saying was true. Derrick and I were in a fake relationship, but notallof it was fake. You couldn’t fake the light Esther made when she used her powers and I was with her.

And Derrick couldn’t have faked what he and I had together in bed—or the glow in his eyes when he looked at me. Could he?

There was no way I was going to let Rosalie—or Bartholomew Brewster—know that I had any such doubts, however.

“Huh,” I said, and handed the tablet back to her. “I guess he forgot to mention it.”

I saw Rosalie’s shoulders relax. She’d won, and she knew it. Her gaze swung back toward her reflection, reveling in the knowledge that once again, she’d defeated me—even though I’d never wanted to be in competition in the first place.

“I’m really sorry,” Rosalie said, smoothing another invisible hair away from her face. “I can’t imagine what you must be going through right now.”