I crawled into my new queen-size bed—the tag still on the frame. I didn’t care that the bed was way too big for the room. The mattress was like sleeping on a cloud, so it was worth the cramped space. Beneath the quilt, I pulled my knees tight to my chest. I lay there a while, shivering and exhausted, staring at the ceiling as Pearl’s words replayed in my head on a loop:
Don’t be afraid to rest. You’re safe here.
The phrase echoed in the silence, bouncing off the bare walls and the lamp-lit corners, until I almost believed it. For a second, I could even hear Mama’s voice layered over Pearl’s, that gentle hush she used whenever I worked myself into a panic.“It’s okay, baby. Just let it go. Let the world turn without you for a night.”
I let my eyes close, but the calm didn’t last. Out of nowhere, grief hit me in the gut—sharp and sudden and mean. I sat up, teeth clenched, and grabbed the battered duffel from the end of the bed. Inside wrapped in a dish towel was Mama’s grimoire.
The book was heavier than it looked; the leather warped and cracked; the edges stained with years of handling and spilled coffee. The sigil on the cover—three willow branches circled tight, dots at the center—looked different in the dim light. More ominous somehow, like it was warning me not to try. I didn’tlisten. I held the book in my lap and let the tears come, hot and silent, sliding down my cheeks to splatter on the worn leather.
I turned it in my hands, fingers tracing the pattern over and over, looking for a weak point. The clasp was as stubborn as ever; the lock refused to give even when I pressed hard enough to leave a crescent-shaped dent in my thumb. The defeat was nothing new, but tonight it tasted even more bitter. Like the book was keeping secrets on purpose, just to spite me.
I wiped my nose on my wrist, then let out a half-laugh, half-sob. “You’d think,” I said out loud, “that you’d have a chapter on starting over.” The words sounded pathetic in the empty room, but it made me feel a little better, talking to the book like it could actually hear.
I slid it under my pillow, feeling the hard edge dig into my neck, and killed the light. The darkness swept in fast, smothering every thought except the hope that tomorrow might be as good as today was. Maybe even better.
I fell asleep in less than a minute, dead to the world, the grimoire pressed close like it might actually keep me safe.
I woke up with a start, heart hammering so loud I could hear it in my ears. Sunlight poured through the thin white curtains, making strange patterns on the ceiling and painting my skin in pale gold. For a second, I didn’t know where I was—Georgia, maybe, or in that dream that was scraping the edges of my mind. But then the sounds of Dairyville crept in: a distant train whistle, a truck downshifting on Main, and the dull, steady tick of the wall clock over my bed.
It was morning, real and raw, and I was alone in my bakery apartment, the quilt tangled around my legs and my pajamas plastered to my back with sweat.
I shoved myself upright, trying to shake off the weight of the dream. It clung to me like cobwebs, sticky and persistent. I rubbed my eyes, then reached under my pillow for the grimoire—half expecting it to be gone, or changed, or maybe still thrumming with that light.
It was still there. But the second my fingers closed over it, I yanked my hand back in surprise. The leather was warm. Not just warm, but almost hot, like the book had been lying in a sunbeam all night. My heart hiccuped, and for a moment I just stared at the thing, waiting for it to move or speak or burst into flames.
Nothing happened. But when I finally picked it up and cradled it in my lap, I saw that the sigil on the cover wasn’t the same as last night. The willow branches had twisted, reshaping themselves into a tighter knot, and the dots in the center—three, like always—had drifted a little, forming a triangle where before they’d been in a line.
I traced the new pattern with my thumb, and something cold and electric zipped up my arm. I gasped and dropped the book, but it only bounced once on the quilt before sliding to the floor. My right hand tingled all the way to the wrist.
That’s when I noticed it. A mark on the back of my hand—faint, silvery, like it had been drawn with the world’s tiniest paintbrush. It was the same as the new sigil on the grimoire, willow branches and all, only instead of dots it shimmered with a little pulse of light, as if it were breathing.
I stared at it, holding my breath, half convinced I was still asleep. But the rest of me said,No, this is real, this is happening, don’t you dare flinch.
The mark glowed for maybe a minute, the light barely visible in the morning sun. Then, slowly, it faded, seeping into my skin until only the faintest outline remained. I touched it, expecting it to hurt or at least feel weird, but it was smooth as ever, warm to the touch.
I picked up the grimoire again, feeling the heat now more as a comfort than a threat. The book was still locked, the clasp stillstubborn, but I didn’t try to force it. For the first time, I thought maybe the thing wasn’t refusing me out of spite. Maybe it was just… waiting.
I flexed my fingers, watching the skin stretch where the mark had been. I didn’t know whether to be scared or grateful. But I knew one thing for certain: nothing in my life would ever be the same.
I got dressed, braided my hair back, and went to the kitchen to start the day. The whole time, I couldn’t stop glancing at my hand, or at the grimoire that I’d brought downstairs and set on a table in the kitchen. Even the light seemed different—brighter, richer, like the air itself was filled with new possibility.
Maybe that’s what hope was. Not a promise that everything would be okay, but a way to keep moving even when you had no idea what came next.
I rolled up my sleeves, scrubbed my hands, and went to work.
The coffeepot had just started to gurgle, letting me know it had completed its brew.
“You might want to rethink the cinnamon ratio in that crumble topping. Bit heavy-handed, if I may.”
I froze, one hand halfway to the flour canister, and stared at the empty kitchen.
“Over-spicing is a very common error among witches trying to distract themselves. Happens all the time. Emotional baking is highly unpredictable.”
The voice—dry, crisp, and unmistakably British—wasn’t in the room. It was in myhead.
I spun around anyway. “Hello?”
Nothing. No one. Just the quiet hiss of the kettle and the faint creak of the wooden floorboards.
