I stepped closer. The salt should have burned, but it felt warm and clean, like stepping into the shallow end of a summer river.
Mama watched, proud and sad all at once.
I wanted to ask her everything—the truth about my father, the reason I could never make magic work the way the others did. But what came out was, “Why did you lie about him?”
She winced, the lines in her face deepening. “To keep you safe. If they knew what you were, they’d have torn you apart before you could walk.” She looked away, then back, her eyes fierce. “You have the blood, Aspen. You have the book. And you have a heart stronger than anyone I’ve ever known.”
The stones began to hum louder. My skin prickled with power.
Mama stepped forward, the spiral closing behind her. She reached out and took my hand, her touch warm and solid. “They will come for you,” she said, voice shaking. “But you are ready. You can do what I could not.”
I gripped her hand, refusing to let go. “What about the grimoire? It won’t let me in. Not really.”
She smiled, a secret in it. “Because it’s waiting for you to be brave. To bleed for it. It’s not about the words, Aspen. It’s about the will.” She traced the back of my hand, where the sigil had appeared. She tapped it, gentle. “Blood remembers, love. Blood forgives.”
I tried to hold on to the moment, but already the world was fading at the edges, the colors running together like wet paint.
“Mama, wait—”
She pulled me close, hugged me tight, and whispered into my ear. “The book won’t give you everything. There are things too dangerous to know. But it will show you all you need to learn. Trust yourself. And trust the wolf, too. He loves you more than he knows.”
I opened my mouth to answer, but the world went white.
When I blinked again, I was back in the kitchen, the smell of bacon and coffee washing over me like a wave. My hands still rested on the grimoire, but now the cover was warm, almost pulsing under my touch.
Oscar stared up at me, eyes wide. “Well?” he prompted, voice trembling with excitement. “What did you see?”
I breathed out, slow and shaky, and told him everything.
He listened without interruption, tail curled around his feet, and when I finished, he nodded once, solemn as a judge. “You must open the book with blood,” he said. “I suspected as much. It is the only way.”
I laughed, surprised at the relief that flooded me. “You have quite a flair for the dramatic, Oscar.”
He puffed up, offended. “Witchcraft is always dramatic, Miss. It’s rather the point. I don’t make the rules.”
I looked at my hand, and a faint outline of the sigil that matched the one on the grimoire glowed faintly.
Oscar saw where I was looking. “Use the same hand, Miss. It will remember you.”
I looked around the kitchen, searching for a knife, but thought better of it. Instead, I rummaged in the junk drawer for a safety pin. After moving around some batteries and a roll of tape, I found one.
Oscar hopped onto the table, watching with rapt attention. “Go on, then.”
I took a deep breath, held the pin to my thumb, and pressed. The pain was sharp and bright, but quick. A bead of blood welled up, dark and perfect.
I smeared it across the clasp of the grimoire.
Nothing happened for a second. Then, with a soft click, the lock slid open.
Oscar gasped, paws covering his mouth. “By the Queen’s whiskers,” he whispered. “You did it.”
I grinned, tears in my eyes, and flipped the book open.
Every page was different—some thick with pasted flowers or faded herbs, others dense with tiny handwriting or explosions of color, ink so old it blurred at the edges. The first entries were in a hand I didn’t know—slanted, stern, and old. They spoke ofharvests and hard winters, of names I’d never heard, of bargains struck at moonrise and secrets paid in coin or tears.
I turned the page. My mother’s script danced across the paper; familiar, warm, a little rushed, always running out of room before the margin. The first line was dated just months before she died:
If you’re reading this, it means you survived.
