I blinked back sudden tears. Oscar, seeing my struggle, gently nudged the crook of my arm.
“Go on,” he whispered. “She’s waiting.”
I paged through, mouth dry, heart drumming. There were pie recipes and curse-breaking rituals jumbled together, diagrams of plant roots and star patterns, lists of enemies and their weaknesses, lists of friends and their true names. Some pages were sealed with wax, some folded into pockets, some blacked out entirely with heavy strokes of charcoal.
Oscar scanned each one over my shoulder, muttering small approvals. “Ah, yes, that’s elder thorn, rare these days… Oh, and here, the healing draft—useful if you’re poisoned or merely heartbroken… Oh, look at that, she added her own notes to the Wyrdmother’s Sleep!”
I kept turning pages faster and faster, growing dizzy with the sheer wealth of it. My mother had left a map for every possible disaster, and the further I got, the more I understood: she’d been scared, but she’d never been powerless.
I wanted that, too.
Oscar finally hopped onto the book itself, tapping the page with a tiny claw. “Here,” he said. “This is where you must begin.”
I read aloud. “Protection circle, bloodline variant. For use against those who mean you harm. Best performed at full moon, but potent if performed with true intent.”
I looked up. “We can do this, right?”
Oscar’s little mouth curled in a knowing smile. “Of course, Miss. With your wolf to guard you, and me at your side, there is nothing you cannot face.”
I grinned, reckless and alive. “What next?”
Oscar considered, then nodded at the grimoire. “We must research the symbol. The one the man left on your bag. There is power in it, and a message for you. But first, we strengthen your shields. No more running, not for you.”
I nodded. “No more running.”
Outside, I could hear the distant sound of Papa wrapping up his call, boots crossing the porch. The sky beyond the window had gone full gold, the day bright and hard and real.
I looked down at the open book, then at Oscar, who adjusted his tiny glasses and regarded me with the pride of a hundred generations.
“What do we need to look for first?” I asked, my voice steady now, my hands ready.
Oscar grinned. “We begin with protecting your bakery, then we continue to learn, to grow, and then—we fight.”
It felt like a switch had been flipped inside of me, and I was coming alive.
The grimoire glowed between us, warm as hearth light, waiting for me to write the next chapter.
Chapter 15
Big Papa
The sky over Dairyville was that late-winter blue that always looked deeper than it ought to, a color you could drown in if you didn’t keep your feet on the boards. I paced the length of my porch, boots drumming hollow over the wood, every other footstep sending up a protest from my old left knee. I had my phone pinned to my ear, but the line was silent for three seconds, maybe four, before Menace’s voice rolled out of it, thick as river gravel and twice as hard to budge.
“Big Papa, you still there, or did you finally let the old man put you under with that death trap coffee?”
I huffed. “Still here. Haven’t touched the sludge since you warned me it was hazardous material.”
A distant, wolfish chuckle. “Smart boy. You said you needed the mate-bond files. I’ve got answers, but you’re not gonna like all of them. First: wolf-witch pairings are so rare there’s maybe five or six on record, but I found a study from an old Scandinavian pack who documented it. You want the short version, or the version that’ll keep you up nights?”
“Lay it on me. I need it straight.”
There was a pause as he shuffled paper, or maybe just collected his own thoughts. “Alright. The fated mate bond—if it’s real, and I have zero doubt yours is—it’ll override any normal biological issues. Witches aren’t built to handle the full physical force of a wolf’s claim, but a true mate bond brings magic into play. Her blood, her lineage; it’ll start to change her at the cellular level. Not all at once, but fast enough your instincts will notice.”
I gripped the porch railing, feeling the bite of cold wood through my palm. “Change her how, exactly?”
“First, her magic’s gonna spike. Might see symptoms: light from the bite mark, increased appetite, erratic mood, dreams about the pack. Second, the bite itself, yours, specifically, will anchor both of you. If she’s willing, you’ll be able to mark her without lasting harm. There’ll be pain, but her magic will blunt the worst of it. Third; this is the one they never mention in the old stories. The knot? It’s only possible if her body and spirit accept you. If she rejects you, even unconsciously, it’ll never take.”
I shivered, thinking of Aspen’s skin, soft and white as a communion wafer, and the wild green in her eyes when she looked at me like I was her sun and her horizon both. “And if she accepts me?”
