Page 65 of This Witch Is Not Wicked

“Please not friends-to-lovers.” Ceri tugged on her blond curls.

“What’s wrong with friends becoming lovers?” I shot a glance around the group. Maybe I was missing something.

“It hits too close to home,” Harriet said into her cup.

Ceri shot her a glare. “No it does not because there’s nothing going on between us.”

“Between who?” I’d caught up to speed on one topic only to fall behind on another.

Ceri leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “Prince Cillian and I have been best friends since we were children, before Castle ever chose him as high prince. There are constant rumors about the nature of our relationship, but none of them are true. Everyone is convinced we’re secretly lovers. It’s absurd.”

“Okay, okay, no friends-to-lovers,” Niamh said. She held up a light blue book with a floral golden border. “The decision is made. This is going to be our read this month. It’s about a woman on the run who hides out in a village and the grumpy innkeeper she falls for.”

A woman on the run. That sounded like it could be interesting.

Niamh patted a stack of books sitting on the table between us. “How about we all read the first few chapters, then meet again next week?”

She started passing out the books, handing me my copy.

“Morton,” Niamh said sternly at the little wyrm that sat in her chair. “No eating this one and spoiling it.”

Morton groaned. “I did that one time.”

“And it ruined the book for all of us.” Ceri shook her head, blond curls bouncing.

“You eat books?” I asked, studying the creature and wondering what godwitch’s magic was responsible for it.

“Just don’t eat this one,” Niamh said gently, and Morton harrumphed.

“I should get back and help Maya put Fiona to bed.” Harriet stood. “See you all next week.”

“And I need to check on my father. I don’t like leaving him alone for too long.” Ceri gave a quick wave and followed Harriet out the door.

“I’ll be right back,” Niamh said as Morton spread his wings and flew to her shoulder. “I just need to check something.” She disappeared behind one of the bookshelves.

I drummed my fingers on my legs, not sure what to do. Would it be rude to leave or would it be rude to stay? Was that why she’d said something—because she wanted me to wait for her? I moved to get up, then plopped back in my chair, unable to make up my mind.

Trying to pick up on social cues that came so easily to humans was exhausting. I glanced around and realized Margaret was staring at me curiously from her painting.

Here it came. Some comment about my skin color or my plants or literally anything else about me that bothered someone. It always happened. I couldn’t escape it no matter where I went, though I’d hoped tonight might be different.

Margaret just kept staring, head tilted.

“Can I help you?” I finally snapped.

“Oh!” She put her hands to her cheeks. “I didn’t even realize I was staring.” She sighed. “It’s just so nice to meet someone like me.”

I blinked. No one had ever compared themselves to me. “You and I aren’t anything alike,” I said.

Margaret studied me, and I had no idea how a painted character could have so much depth, so much emotion as she shrank back, clearly hurt by my words. “You’re right. I’m just a painting. Not a real human like you.”

Except I wasn’t a human.

I swallowed. I should have said something, but before I could, Margaret disappeared, then reappeared in another painting. I gaped as she moved from painting to painting until she got to the last one by the library doors and disappeared entirely.

“You get used to it,” Niamh said, and I looked up to see the librarian smiling down at me.

“Well, you’ve had a lifetime,” I responded.