I smile. “Would you use magic to help the garden along?”
“Oh, of course. Once you taste magically grown zucchini, there’s no going back.”
“Good. I’d also like to request a willow tree. I love the one here.”
“That can be arranged.” She props herself up on one elbow, looking down at me with a seriousness that makes my heart skip. “I want you to know that I’m not just saying this. I’ve thought about it a lot. I want a place that’s ours, where we can just be us.”
Warmth blooms in my chest. “That sounds perfect.”
Her eyes crinkle at the corners. “So you like it?”
I kiss her hand and sink deeper into her. “Living in a cottage with my witch girlfriend? I can think of nothing better.”
But as I picture this perfect future, an unbearable sadness presses down on me. It feels too good to be true. Fragile at best. And like the entire magical world is standing in our way.
From the Journal of Hazel Okada
Oaklyn’s place is as fascinating as she is. It’s minimal because she moved in recently, but the sparse decor draws me in like I’m at an art gallery. Nearly everything is black—wardrobe, bedspread, towels, dishes. Dried flowers hang in the window, their deep purple petals like bruises against the white sky. But among all the darkness are signs of life—potted herbs line the windowsills, well-used copper cookware gleams above the kitchen island, and the odd tuft of dog fur floats across the hardwood floor.
Most fascinating of all is the collection of pressed butterflies under glass covering her dining table, all an incredible shade of purple.
“My brother and I used to catch them,” she explained, turning away to hide the sheen in her eyes. “Most of those were his.”
I wanted to ask more, but something in her expression told me not to push. Not yet.
It was our second date. I sat at a bar stool while she cooked me dinner, mesmerized by the way she expertly prepared a red wine-braised pot roast without following a recipe. She’d removed the potatoes from the Dutch oven and transferred them to a baking sheet, smashing each one with a wooden spoon before topping it with butter and spices. The kitchen smelled heavenly, like wine and broth and sage.
“I wanted to ask you more about what we saw in White Rock,” I said, propping my elbows on the island.
She stiffened, her shoulders tensing beneath her black tank top. Like she was afraid I was close to uncovering a secret.
She turned her back to me to adjust the oven temperature. “What about it?”
“It was weird, right? And it’s not the first time something totally unusual has happened lately.”
“Yeah.” She slid the tray of potatoes into the oven, drawing my gaze to the rippling muscles on her shoulder blades. “A lot of theories floating around.”
A pause. No elaboration or eye contact. Time to get to the point.
“I’ve been tracking them all with software, in case someone might find it useful,” I said, trying to sound casual.
She faced me again, studying me closely. “Really?”
My heart skipped as she pierced me with those blue eyes. Something vulnerable was buried beneath her intensity, making me want to reach out and tell her she could trust me with whatever she was hiding.
I reached for my phone. “Do you want to see?”
Slowly, she walked around the island toward me, moving as gracefully as a cat stalking prey. “Yes.”
I showed her the map, and she was very quiet. Unreadable. She just watched me point out chimera sightings and run an analysis on where one might appear next. A new prediction popped up since the last time I ran it.
“Huh. Next one should show up around Squamish,” I said, making a mental note to tell Katie.
“You’re so smart,” Oaklyn said, her voice a little faint.
I flushed. “Thanks.”
She took the phone out of my hand and set it on the island, stepping close. She looked down at me in a way that made me melt like I was just another slab of butter over a hot potato.
