“So,” she said, helping herself to seconds of lasagna, “when’s the next gnome growth spurt? I want to document it for posterity.”
“The gnomes are stable,” Cassie said. “I grounded the residual magic last week. Margaret says they’ll probably stay at three feet.”
“Probably?”
“Magic isn’t exact.”
“Comforting.”
After dinner, after Margaret had gone home with promises to return for Tuesday’s lesson on protective wards, after Diane had finally left with plans to return tomorrow for “moral support and gossip,” after Sophia had claimed the guest room with herbags and her exhaustion—Cassie found herself in the garden.
The sun was setting, painting everything gold and amber. The roses—still impossibly lush, still blooming in colors that didn’t exist in nature—caught the light like stained glass. The gnomes stood in their usual formation near the gate, fishing pole and wheelbarrow and the third one she still privately called Gary, all three feet of ceramic judgment.
Liam found her there, standing among the flowers she’d accidentally created, watching the sky turn pink.
“Long day,” he said.
“Good day.”
“Aye. That too.” He came to stand beside her, close enough that their shoulders brushed. “Your daughter’s something.”
“She gets it from me.”
“The terrifying parts?”
“All the parts.” Cassie leaned into him, feeling his arm come up automatically around her shoulders. “She approves of you, by the way.”
“I gathered. Though I’m still not clear on whether that’s a good thing or a warning.”
“Both. Definitely both.”
They stood in comfortable silence as the sun dipped lower. The garden hummed with residual magic—not chaotic anymore, justalive. Present.Part of her, the way Liam was part of her now. The way the house and the cat and the ridiculous toaster were all part of her.
“I have something for you,” Liam said.
She turned. He was holding a small box—wooden, clearly handmade, with delicate carvings along the edges that she recognized as protective symbols from Margaret’s lessons.
“What is it?”
“Open it.”
Inside, nestled in velvet, was her grandmother’s music box.
The one he’d fixed months ago, during those early chaotic days when she’d been convinced he would leave the moment he could. The one she’d cried over, because Derek had broken it and she’d never had the heart to throw it away.
But it was different now. Along the lid, carved in careful letters, were four words:
Never too much. —L
Her vision blurred.
“Liam—”
“I know we haven’t been together long,” he said, voice rough. “And I know this isn’t—it’s not a ring or anything. It’s too soon for that. But I wanted you to have something. A reminder. For the days when you forget.”
“Forget what?”
“That you’re exactly enough. That you alwayswere.” He took the music box from her trembling hands and wound the key. The familiar melody began to play—slightly different now, richer, like the magic in the house had seeped into it too. “I spent twelve years with someone who made me doubt myself. Made me small. Made me think my feelings weren’t real unless she said they were.”
