I took a breath so deep it stole sound from my throat and reached for that familiar Hedge magic, the thread that ran from my ribs into the earth and back again. It was stretched thin, humming with the Ward’s energy, but it was mine.
Less,I told it. Not off. Not stop. Just… less.
The broom bucked, then steadied.
My wild arc flattened out, resolving into a jerky but recognizable spiral. I could feel the Ward listening, recalibrating, offended that I’d asked for less but willing to oblige.
“Good!” Nova cried. “Now point your toes at where you want to end up!”
“That is not a thing,” I yelled, but I did it anyway. I tilted my toes toward the center of the Ward, where they’d set up an absolutely ridiculous safety net: cushions, old mattresses, a mound of hay, and one extremely put-out shrub in a pot all conjured on the spot.
The Ward nudged me. The broom followed. The fire, apparently bored, began to sputter.
Keegan and the Silver Wolf moved to intercept, matching my slow descent with intent. Twobble kept pace, hands out, as if he could catch me and the broom and maybe also the meaning of life.
Stella cupped her hands around her mouth. “Stick the landing, darling! Knees bent! Try not to set the shrub on fire!”
The broom did one last little bounce like a child unable to resist jumping just once more on the bed, and then let me drop the final three feet.
I hit the safety pile in a graceless tangle of limbs and smoking straw. The broom’s bristles flared one last time, then died with a sad little fizzle as the shrub smacked it with a branch.
For a second, I just lay there, staring at the Ward’s sky, lungs heaving, heart galloping. My hair smelled sharply of singed ends. My fingers were cramped into claws around the broom handle. I could taste ash and adrenaline and, faintly, garlic from last night’s dinner.
Then the world resolved into faces leaning over me.
Twobble, eyes huge, ears drooped, expression torn between awe and horror. Skonk, peering at me as if checking my vital signs against a checklist. Stella, fanning herself with a handkerchief as if she’d just watched an opera. Nova, serene and faintly smug. The Silver Wolf, approving with reservations. Keegan, every line of his face sayingI want to yell at you and also kiss you and also wrap you in bubble wrap.
Twobble cleared his throat.
“So,” he said, grimacing a little. “It appears our emerging thesis is confirmed.”
“Which is?” I croaked.
He lifted one finger. “That your kitchen spells and broomsticks,” he said gravely, “are both things you should think twice about before inviting fire to the party.”
Skonk nodded. “Strong correlation between ‘Maeve uses magic on household objects’ and ‘unexpected combustion.’”
“Thank you,” I said. “Very helpful. I’ll add it to the chart I keep in mysoul.”
“Oh, I have a chart,” Skonk said cheerfully, flipping the clipboard around. There, in horrifying detail, was a list:
Soup Attempt #1: spontaneous dancing potatoes.
Bread Attempt #3: dough became sentient.
Kettle Incident: minor steam tornado.
