She paused. “One where I died.”
I swallowed hard.
“They don’t show you to punish you,” she said. “They show you what you carry. Every choice. Every doubt. Every dream you buried. Every choice you didn’t make and every choice you did.”
I stared at her. “And when you came back?”
“I understood the cost of holding too tightly to the wrong things,” she said. “And the danger of refusing to let go of the right ones.”
I looked down at my tea, as the steam now curled lazily in the morning light.
“I want to bring Celeste here,” I whispered. “Imissher. But I know it’s not time. I know the risk.”
Miora nodded slowly. “And yet the ache remains.”
I met her eyes. “Yes.”
She studied me for a long, quiet moment.
“I can’t tell you what yours will show you,” she said gently. “But I suspect it won’t be merely about danger. It’ll be about truth, in its various shades. Perhaps, possibilities.”
“And I have to walk it alone?”
“Most do. But you’re not most.” She smiled then, a soft and bittersweet expression. “You’ve always walked with others around you. That’s part of your magic. But the final step? That will be yours.”
I felt something shift inside me. Resolve replaced readiness.
Miora looked at me with that familiar patience I’d come to love during my first days in the cottage when I’d cried over burnt spells and cursed at my ex.
“You’ve already begun, Maeve,” she said. “The moment you saw the path, you started answering it, and it started questioning you.”
I let out a slow breath. “What if I’m not ready?”
She smiled. “Then wait until you are. It will not leave. It will not forget you.”
“Thank you.”
“You always come home when you need to,” she said. “And that, too, is magic.”
Outside, the trees rustled softly. A wind picked up that wasn’t part of the weather.
And somewhere beyond the Butterfly Ward, the path shimmered quietly, still waiting.
The fire had burned low. Miora had vanished somewhere between the shadows and the kettle, leaving only the faintest hum of her magic behind.
Twobble, comfortably burrowed in the armchair with a blanket up to his chin and a biscuit balanced on his chest. He’d pretended not to eavesdrop so well that he fell asleep.
I was just starting to let my thoughts drift when there was a knock at the door.
Not a loud one.
Firm. Familiar.
Twobble groaned without opening his eyes. “This better be good. I finally got some good zzzs.”
I moved to stand, but he waved a lazy hand and slid down from the armchair with a theatrical sigh. “Fine, fine. I’ll get it. Spirits, gremlins, smitten travelers—come one, come all.”
He waddled dramatically to the door, flung it open, and froze.
