Nova hesitated. Then, in a voice lower than before, said, “Not exactly. But I may have said too much.”
“What did you say?”
“She asked about tarot. About what I do. And whatyoudo. And I answered a beat too slowly.”
I closed my eyes for a moment.
“She asked if I was like Luna,” Nova added. “If I was likeyou.”
“And?”
“I didn’t lie,” Nova said softly. “But I didn’t explain either. Which means she’s imagining it all, and I’m afraid her guesses might becloserthan the truth would be.”
Skye looked between us. “Wait…what’s going on? Is someone in trouble?”
“No,” I said. “Not yet.”
Nova leaned across the counter. “She’s starting tofeelthings, Maeve. To notice patterns. Energy. You can only hide the seams for so long. And you’ve woven her into the fabric whether you wanted to or not.”
I swallowed the knot rising in my throat.
“She’s not ready.”
“Neither were you,” Nova said.
The beads at the back rustled gently, and Celeste appeared again, mug still in hand. She paused just inside the doorway, her gaze flicking between the three of us.
“Hey, Mom?” she said carefully. “Do you want to go for a walk?”
There was something in her tone that twisted around my heart. Gentle. Open. But edged withintention.
“Yes,” I said. “Of course.”
We said our quick goodbyes. Skye looked between me and Nova like she was trying to finish a sentence she hadn’t been given the words for, but she stayed seated.
Outside, the sunlight fell through the branches above the path in scattered lines. Celeste and I walked in silence for a few moments.
She didn’t speak.
Neither did I.
But in the quiet, my butterfly mark fluttered.
And I knew whatever she was about to ask, it would unravel something that had been waiting in the shadows of our relationship for far too long.
Chapter Forty-Eight
We were half a block from Nova’s shop when Celeste turned to me and asked the one question I’d spent most of this trip dancing around.
“Do you believe in magic?” she asked.
I stopped walking.
The air around us kept moving, birds fluttering between awnings, the rustle of leaves in the tall sycamore by the post office, the distant clink of knitting needles from Luna’s outdoor display, but I felt frozen in place. My daughter had asked it with no drama, no teasing, no sly grin. Just those four simple words, as if they were as casual as asking about the weather.
My mouth went dry. My first instinct was to deflect, make a joke, change the subject with a perfectly placed mom-comment about schoolwork or boyfriends or how no one ever calls their mothers enough anymore.
But I didn’t.
