I tightened my grip on the wheel, fighting the urge to hunt down Eleanor and set her straight. "Did she ever try to make it right?"
Krystal shrugged. "She calls sometimes. Sends cards. Once, when Bryce was four, she showed up at his birthday party unannounced, gave him a bike and a bunch of books about animal trivia." She paused, the ghost of a smile there and gone. "He rode that bike into a ditch within a week. Broke his arm."
I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything.
"She always had a thing about consequences," Krystal went on. "If you do something wrong, you pay for it. No exceptions."
"That’s not always a bad thing," I offered, "but it sounds like she took it too far."
"She took everything too far," Krystal muttered. "When I was a kid, if I missed curfew, she’d lock the door and make me sleep outside. I started carrying a sleeping bag in my trunk."She snorted. "Never occurred to me to make sure I didn't miss curfew. It just made me figure out how to work around her ridiculous rules."
I wanted to reach over and take her hand, but she wasn’t ready for that. Instead, I watched her knuckles as they whitened on the door handle. My dragon flared inside me, full of heat and old instinct. I wanted to burn away everything that had ever hurt her.
"She was terrified I’d end up like her," Krystal said softly, as though she was talking to herself. "I think she tried to break the cycle, but it just made her harder."
I nodded, understanding more than she’d guess. "Some people think if they’re tough enough, the world can’t touch them."
She laughed, sharp and bright. "Yeah, well. The world has a way of finding the cracks."
The rest of the drive passed with small talk. We talked about Bryce’s upcoming school break, the weather, and the local high school football team’s losing streak. The closer we got to Eleanor’s house, the more Krystal shrank into herself. I kept to the speed limit and watched her from the corner of my eye, noting the way she pressed her mouth flat. She counted the mailbox numbers as if looking for a reason to turn around. When I reached the curb, she didn’t move to open the door.
The house looked like a thousand others in the valley, but the front garden had gone feral. White paint peeled from the siding in strips, and the porch sagged enough to betray years of hard winters and no repairs. A string of plastic wind chimes hung above the stoop, tangled in a spray of morning glory vines.
Krystal stared at the mess, her hands twisted in her lap. "She always hated gardening. Said it was weird for a witch to hate nature, but that she'd rather be inside away from the mosquitos."
I tried to think of a reply, but nothing came. She opened her door and got out, slamming the door a little too hard, and the truck gave a metallic groan. I locked up and followed, giving her space. She walked up the path, pausing at the bottom step to look back at me.
She took a breath, squared her shoulders, and rang the bell.
It took longer than it should have for the door to open. Behind the glass, I caught the silhouette of a woman moving slowly, not shuffling but careful, like someone who’d learned to brace for anything. Eleanor Gallagher stood half a head taller than her daughter, her hair iron-gray and parted severely. She wore a faded green sweater and soft slippers, the kind that barely made a sound on the floor.
She opened the door only as far as the chain allowed. Her eyes tracked from Krystal to me, sharp and assessing. "Krystal?"
Krystal squared her shoulders. "Hi, Mom."
Eleanor blinked. For a moment, her face didn’t change, then the lines around her mouth deepened. "You could have called."
"I tried, but you wouldn't answer," Krystal said.
Eleanor considered this, then shut the door. There was a click as the chain came off, and she opened it again, wide enough for both of us. "Come in, then. I must not have recognized your number."
Inside, the place was a museum of organized chaos. Every flat surface held a stack of books on plants, books on magic, books on child psychology. That was a joke. Glass jars crowded the kitchen pass-through, filled with dried leaves, pebbles, or twisted roots. The air was heavy with the scent of old sage and something more pungent, like vinegar or cleaning fluid.
The living room was small, with two armchairs and a brown couch crowded around a battered coffee table. No TV, but a laptop glowed on the desk by the window, next to a pile of bills and a cracked ceramic mug. The blinds were half shut, muting the morning sun.
Eleanor motioned for us to sit. Krystal took the edge of the couch, hands balled in her lap. I sat next to Krystal, wanting to take her hand in mine, but didn’t.
Eleanor eyed me again. "You’re a dragon?"
I nodded. "Zaden."
She made a noncommittal sound and turned to her daughter. "You look thin."
Krystal snorted. "You always said I was too thin."
"Not always." Eleanor settled into the armchair, ankles crossed. "What brings you here?"
For a moment, Krystal’s face went slack, as if she’d forgotten her script. Then she found it again. "I need to know about the spell. The one you put on me."
