The realization landed gently but firmly. She’d done it, so she’d have to undo it.
It wasn’t done deliberately or with malice, but with emotion.
The book didn’t mince words. Spells born of emotional surges, especially first manifestations, couldn’t simply be undone by anyone else. Things tended to go wrong that couldn’t be reversed.
Reversals like this required the same magical signature…the same source.
The same heart.
I closed the book slowly and pressed my fingers to the cover.
The toad ribbited once, quietly.
I looked at him then, really looked at him, and felt the tangle of emotions twist in my chest. Anger. Resentment. A strange flicker of satisfaction I wasn’t proud of. And beneath it all, a reluctant sense of responsibility.
“You don’t get to stay like this forever,” I told him. “As tempting as that might be.”
He blinked.
“And I won’t force her to fix it until she’s ready,” I added. “Because that spell came from a place she didn’t even know she had yet.”
The sprites drifted closer, their presence soothing rather than insistent now.
“I should’ve known,” I murmured. “Magic like that doesn’t come out of nowhere.”
I imagined Celeste’s face when she’d realized what she’d done, the mix of horror and relief, and my chest tightened. Asking her to reverse it wasn’t just about fixing my ex-husband. It was about teaching her control. Responsibility. Choice.
And timing.
I sighed. “You’re going to have to wait.”
The toad croaked softly, clearly displeased.
“You can sulk,” I said. “You’re very good at that.”
I glanced back at the book one last time, committing the details to memory. Not the words. The intent. Reversal wasn’t about negating the magic. It was about releasing it and letting go of the emotion that had powered it in the first place.
Celeste wasn’t there yet.
And until she was, my ex-husband was going to remain exactly as he was… annoying, loud, and very much underfoot.
I closed the book and slid it gently back toward the sprites. “Thank you,” I told them.
They chirred happily and whisked it away, already pleased with themselves.
I turned back to the toad, hands on my hips.
“In the meantime,” I said, “you will stop inserting yourself into my life until I can find out a way to get you safely back to your creepy self.”
He hopped once.
“Stop.”
He hopped again.
I sighed. “Fine. But if you end up in a cauldron, that’s on you.”
As the library settled around us again, I felt the strange mix of resolve and exhaustion that had become my constant companion. One more problem was identified, and one more solution was waiting for the right moment.
