“I know.” His voice was quiet. Defeated. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? You can’t control it. And you won’t let anyone help you learn.”
“Liam—”
“I can’t make you trust me, Cassie.” He brushed glass from his sleeve with careful, deliberate movements. “I can’t prove something you’ve already decided is impossible. You have to choose to believe it might be real. And until you do…” He met her eyes, and the distance in them was worse than any anger. “I’ll be at the house. When you’re ready to stop running.”
He turned and walked away.
She watched him go—past the staring neighbors, past Marjorie’s gleeful shock, past the destruction she’d caused—and didn’t follow.
Couldn’t follow.
Her legs wouldn’t move. Her lungs wouldn’t work. The magic had retreated, leaving her hollow and shaking in the middle of a farmers market, surrounded by broken glass and whispers.
“Oh, child.”
Margaret appeared at her elbow like a witch-shaped ghost, carrying a pie in one hand and a look of profound exhaustion in the other.
“I ruined it,” Cassie said. Her voice sounded far away. “I ruined everything.”
“You made a mess,” Margaret agreed. “Come. Sit. The pie booth has a bench that sees a lot of crying. You won’t be the first.”
She let Margaret guide her to a wooden bench behind the baked goods table, away from the worst of the staring. The pie appeared in her hands again—she must have dropped it, and Margaret must have rescued it. She stared at it without seeing.
“He’s been free to leave for days,” she said. “He stayed anyway. And I…”
“Pushed him away. Yes. I saw.”
“I hurt him. With magic. I didn’t mean to, but I?—”
“You lashed out because you were scared. Because letting someone love you feels more dangerous than keeping them at arm’s length.” Margaret’s voice was gentle but unsparing. “It’s the thing all new witches do.”
Cassie looked up. “What thing?”
“Destroying the good stuff before it can hurt you.” Margaret settled beside her with a creak of aging joints. “Magic is emotional, dear. It responds to what you feel. And right now, you’re feelingsomething terrifying—the possibility that you might actually deserve what he’s offering. So your magic did what you couldn’t bring yourself to do consciously. It pushed him away before he could choose to leave.”
“That’s not—I didn’t?—”
“You didn’t mean to. I know. But magic doesn’t care about intentions. It cares about truths.” Margaret handed her a napkin for the tears Cassie hadn’t realized were falling. “The question now is: what are you going to do about it?”
Cassie didn’t have an answer.
She ate pie and cried and let Margaret’s presence be a kind of comfort, even though nothing felt comforting right now.
Somewhere across town, Liam was walking home.
And she had no idea how to follow.
8
DESPERATE SPELL. UNEXPECTED WISDOM
The house was quiet when Cassie got home.
Too quiet. The kind of quiet that meant Liam was either asleep or avoiding her, and given that it was only 4 p.m. and she’d just magically assaulted him in front of half the town, she was betting on the latter.
She stood in the kitchen, still sticky with pie residue and shame, and stared at the grimoire sitting on the counter. It had migrated there again—or maybe she’d left it there, she couldn’t remember anymore. The house liked to move things around when it was agitated, and right now the walls were cycling through shades of gray like a mood ring having a breakdown.
Luna sat on top of the grimoire, tail wrapped neatly around her paws, watching Cassie with the particular judgment reserved forcreatures who’d never made a mistake in their lives.
