Celeste snorted, then sobered. “So… you grew up without knowing any of this. And then you find out in your forties that your grandmother is basically the most dangerous woman in any room.”
“Yes,” I said. “On top of finding out my shifter dad had magic, my other grandmother is bound to a sentient Academy, and now cottage as a haunt, and half the town has known things about me my entire life that I didn’t.”
“That explains a lot,” Celeste said quietly.
“How so?”
She met my gaze. “You’ve always looked like someone waiting for the ground to shift.”
The honesty of it stole my breath.
“I didn’t feel ready,” I admitted. “Learning all of this so late, learning who I come from, what runs in my blood, it mademe feel unstable. Like I’d missed some essential instruction manual.”
Stella waved a dismissive hand. “Instruction manuals are overrated. Most of us wing it and hope for the best.”
Celeste smiled at her, then turned back to me. “So what does that mean for me?”
I reached across the table and took her hand.
“It means I don’t want to repeat the same mistakes. I don’t want to hide things from you because I’m afraid of them.”
Her fingers tightened around mine. “Even if I’m part of it.”
“Especially if you are,” I said.
She hesitated, then said the words again, quieter this time but no less certain. “So I’m a witch.”
I didn’t correct her. I didn’t soften it.
“Yes,” I said. “You are.”
The word didn’t frighten her. It didn’t thrill her either. It simplyfit.
Stella smiled into her teacup. “Welcome to the mess, darling.”
Celeste laughed, then frowned. “Does that mean the Priestess is going to come after me, too?”
The room seemed to still, the cozy hum dimming just a fraction.
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “But it means we’ll be prepared if she does.”
Celeste nodded once, resolve settling into her posture in a way that made my heart swell and ache all at once.
“I don’t want to be used,” she said. “I don’t want to be controlled.”
“Neither did my mother,” I said softly. “And neither do I.”
Stella leaned back, studying us both. “The difference,” she said, “is that you two are talking about it. Secrets are the Priestess’s favorite weapon. You’ve already dulled the blade.”
Outside, a breeze rattled the paper leaves strung along the street, and inside the tea shop, surrounded by warmth and truth and just enough humor to keep us upright, I realized something quietly profound.
This moment, this conversation, was the magic my mother had been trying to avoid.
It wasn’t about power or magic. It had been about choice. I never had the choice to learn or distance myself from it.
And I wasn’t about to let that be taken from my daughter, no matter who came knocking.
But then I noticed Skonk before I meant to.
