I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing. Klaus, usually so careful and measured, looked momentarily disarmed. It was like watching a man realize he’d been caught enjoying someone’s company for the first time in centuries. And that’s probably exactly what was happening.
“I am so very happy to make your acquaintance, Klaus,” Olga gushed.
And just like that, I realized I should probably take my lunch to go.
It looked like there was someone for everyone, after all.
Chapter Twenty-five
The Hollow settled back into its rhythm in the days that followed. My wards were mended, Dirk stayed in Klaus’ home where he belonged, and for once, we all got a good night’s sleep.
And my alchemy? I threw myself into my studies like they’d evaporate the moment I turned my back on them. Mornings were for Klaus and the slow, deliberate logic of alchemy, including the ratios, the transmutations, the patient work of waiting. Afternoons belonged to Wanda, who had no patience for stillness and preferred to teach by hurling spells at me and hoping I caught up eventually. Between the two of them, I was forging something that was neither craft nor science but something totallymine.
Sometimes, Finn and I compared notes over dinner. He’d tell me about what he’d learned from Andre and Ouire. Sigils, runic geometry, and a little combat magic when I wasn’t looking. In return, I showed him my latest experiments, both of us laughing when a brew puffed out sparks or a salve turned the wrong color.
Klaus, for his part, became a quiet fixture on the periphery of our lives. Every few weeks, he’d knock on the door just before supper, stiff as a board, bearing some rare reagent or obscure text as an unspoken thank-you. We always invited him to stay for dinner, and he always did. And he always left before dessert.
I tried not to get too offended when I saw him retreat. He wasn’t rude about it. He simply wasn’t used to belonging anywhere, least of all with the strange little family I’d cobbled together.
Rumor had it that he’d been spotted at the coven house more than once. I had a feeling the reason for those visits started with the letter O and ended with the letter A.
The last time he’d stayed for dinner, as he rose to leave, I caught the faintest flicker of warmth behind those coal-dark eyes. Maybe we were growing on him.
“Same time next week?” I’d asked lightly.
He’d hesitated, then gave the smallest of nods. “If you insist.”
***
The first week in my new lab felt almost sacred. Glassware glimmered under the soft light, vapors coiling like incense above simmering cauldrons. The lab smelled of herbs and heated metals, a mixture so pungent it made my head swim.
Klaus, meanwhile, moved around the space like a stiff, foul-tempered phantom, measuring, stirring, and infusing elixirs. He paused long enough to stand at the far end of the table, hands clasped behind his back, watching me work with that same unyielding, unreadable expression. He looked every bit the man trapped in his late sixties. He rarely smiled, and that restraint made him appear much older than he should have.
“Alchemy is not simply magic,” he said, voice calm and precise. “It is understanding: the way energy moves, how elements interact, and how intention guides the transformation. You cannot simply will a reaction to occur. You must also knowwhyit occurs.”
He gestured to a small pile of herbs and a glass vial filled with a shimmering powder. “This is the most basic principle: affinity. Every substance has one. Fire answers to air differently than to water. Metals respond to heat differently from cold. Your magic, Poppy, flows through the same rules. You are not bending the world; you are cooperating with it.”
I leaned forward, fascinated despite myself as he carefully lifted a single herb with tweezers and dropped it into a vial. The powder sizzled, changing color from pale blue to gold in seconds.
“Every action in alchemy requires equilibrium. Too much of one component will spoil the reaction. Too little will make it inert. Magic, at its core, obeys the same laws. You must respect it, or it will punish carelessness.”
“So… if I understand how the elements interact, I can guide the magic instead of just hoping it works?”
“Exactly,” Klaus answered. “Control comes not from power, but from knowledge. The moment you rely on strength alone, you will fail.” He handed me a glass rod. “Your turn. Start with a simple transmutation. Observe, measure, adjust. Do not rush.”
I set to work after a moment of hesitation, hands trembling slightly, but the cauldron responded—slowly, carefully, obediently. Klaus’s gaze followed my every motion, silent and critical as always.
“Focus,” he said, tapping the open page of my textbook. “Intent governs transformation. The material is obedient only to certainty.”
“Iamfocusing,” I protested. “You just don’t like how I focus.”
“You frown too much. Alchemy is precision, not scowling.”
I bit back a sharp retort—something along the lines of “no one can frown as much as you do”—and leaned over the cauldron, coaxing my magic to flow through the base mixture.
“Just a touch,” Klaus instructed. “You’re stabilizing its resonance field. You should not see—”
There was a softpop. Then another.
