Karvey inclined his head. “Fear of losing relevance. Fear of being overrun. Fear disguised as protection. Stone clans divided.”
“And what stopped it?” I asked.
He looked past us, toward the cottage.
“Memory,” he said simply. “We finally remembered why we guarded in the first place.”
Silence settled between us.
“Division nearly destroyed more than stone,” Karvey added. “It nearly destroyed trust. And once trust fractures, it takes generations to mend.”
Keegan and I exchanged a look.
That was the lesson, not just about gargoyles, but about us.
“I will remain alert,” he said. “But I won’t mistake movement for malice.”
“Thank you,” I said.
His stone features softened just enough to read as affection.
“You’re building something delicate,” he said. “Delicate things require vigilance without paranoia.”
“I’ll try to remember that.”
“Good.”
He stepped back toward the side of the cottage, stretched his wings, and scaled the walls effortlessly, settling once again along the roofline where he belonged.
“Comforting,” Keegan said quietly, “having a sentient stone sentinel with historical trauma.”
“Fitting, isn’t it?” I snorted.
We approached the front door, and the cottage greeted me the way it always had. The iron latch clicked softly under my fingers.
Inside, warmth wrapped around us immediately.
The hearth fire was already lit, low and steady. The familiar scent of dried herbs hung in the air, with rosemary, sage, and something floral my grandmother refused to identify. The wooden beams overhead held the faint scent of years of smoke and oil. Shelves lined the walls, intentionally cluttered with jarsof preserves, folded linens, and old spellbooks stacked beside recipe cards written in looping script.
Miora’s knitting basket sat beside the armchair, yarn trailing across the cushion, like she’d only stepped away for a moment. A teacup rested on the side table, still half full.
“They were in this room recently,” I murmured.
Keegan nodded.
“Now, they’re just lurking.” He laughed.
Grandma Elira’s presence lingered like a steady buzz, and Miora’s always felt like a steady beat.
The cottage felt lived in. It wasn’t pristine or curated. It was merely layered with years of choice.
Keegan shrugged off his jacket and hung it on the familiar hook near the door.
“I’ll make tea,” he said.
I smiled as I slipped off my boots and Keegan went to make tea.
“Revolution. Displacement. Shadow manipulation,” I listed. “And we’re boiling water.”
