“I’ve read your dissertation,” Zara said. “I even found your published papers on code-switching in grimoires — it’s extraordinary work, Ramona.”
Ramona’s throat tightened. “How did you?—”
“Hell has an excellent archival library. And I was curious.” Zara’s expression was serious. “Your research on how medieval witches deliberately mixed languages to control who couldaccess their spells — it could fundamentally change how witches understand magical text preservation.”
Ramona shifted her weight on the bed, the springs creaking. “Well, it doesn’t matter that I studied dead languages now, since it’s all dead to me anyway.”
Zara’s thumb traced absent patterns on the quilt between them. “You didn’t just study dead languages. You proved they were strategic choices. Power moves.”
“Really, it doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it matters.” Zara’s hand found hers, warmer than Ramona had imagined. Her grip was firm, and Ramona felt a tightening of the tether between them, a taut bowstring of tension. “That doesn’t disappear because you can’t teach anymore.”
Ramona stared at their joined hands. “What use is a magical languages professor who can’t cast spells?” Ramona’s laugh was bitter. “What use is expertise without execution?”
“The same use as any scholar, any subject-matter expert.” Zara squeezed her hand. “Knowledge doesn’t require performance. Understanding doesn’t require demonstration. You taught them how to read power. How to see strategy in syntax. That’s not less valuable because your own magic is…” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “Difficult.”
Ramona’s eyes were burning. “You don’t understand. The theories needed practical applications. My students needed someone who could show them the spells, not just explain the grammar.”
“They needed someone who could teach them to think critically about magical texts. And you did that.” Zara turned to face her fully. “Do you think all the archivists citing your work care that you can’t cast? They care that you can read a thirteenth-century grimoire and explain exactly why the authorswitched languages mid-incantation. That’s rare, Ramona. That’s valuable.”
They sat there for a moment, hands joined, shoulders pressed together on the too-small bed. The room felt smaller than it had when Ramona was young. Or maybe she just felt bigger — older, sadder, carrying years of weight that teenage Ramona never could have imagined.
“Thank you,” Ramona said quietly. “For what you said downstairs. You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I did.” Zara shifted slightly, and suddenly they were very close. Close enough that Ramona could see the exact shade of Zara’s eyes — she’d once thought they were black with red speckles, but now she could make out that they were a very deep brown with flecks of gold and orange and red, like trees in fall. Her dark eyelashes were long and thick. “Your mother was being cruel. Someone needed to say something.”
Ramona’s heart was doing a tap routine in her chest. She had to remind herself that every feeling was the magical bond between them, the tether creating a false intimate knowledge of one another. They were both vulnerable because of it, but Zara was a demon, and a damn powerful one at that. A demon of temptation. A shiver ran down Ramona’s spine.
Zara’s gaze dropped to Ramona’s mouth, just for a second, then back up. Like she felt it, too. Of course she felt it. Ramona couldn’t feel a hunger pang without Zara immediately asking her if she wanted to eat. It wasn’t a real emotional connection. It was magical duress.
And yet it felt so real in this moment.
The air between them felt charged. Electric. Ramona was acutely aware of every point of contact — their hands, their shoulders, their knees. The way Zara’s breathing had changed, gone slightly uneven. The way her own pulse was racing.
Ramona didn’t have words for what she wanted. Couldn’t form them past the tightness in her throat, the worry and rationale racing through her mind. She just leaned forward, drawn by something magnetic, irresistible.
Zara met her halfway.
Their lips were a breath apart. Ramona could feel the warmth of Zara’s exhale against her mouth. Could see her eyes starting to close. Could feel her own heart trying to break out of her chest.
“Auntie Mona!” Daphne’s voice rang up the stairs, cheerful and oblivious. “We’re lighting the bonfire! Come on!”
They jerked apart like they’d been electrocuted.
Ramona’s face went hot immediately. Zara had gone very still beside her, her expression carefully neutral except a darkening color on her cheeks.
“We should—” Ramona started.
“Yes.” Zara stood up, putting distance between them. “The bonfire. We should go.”
They didn’t look at each other as they left the room. Didn’t speak as they descended the stairs. But Ramona could feel it — the almost kiss hanging between them like unfinished business. The want that hadn’t gone anywhere, just been postponed.
Her hand was still warm where Zara had held it, and the pull of the tether felt sharper, more insistent than ever.
CHAPTER TEN
The apartment wasquiet when they got back. It seemed all of her roommates were either out or in their rooms. It was customary to leave the lights off, lighting only candles on Imbolc, so the apartment was dark save for one of Felix’s Autumnal Harvest pillars sitting on the stove, casting the apartment in a spooky glow.
