“Why?” I ask finally. “Why me?”
Hardin’s brow furrows like he doesn’t like the answer he’s about to give. “Magic knows need. And legacy. And pain. Your great-aunt was a guardian. Her blood carries weight. You walkedinto this town, and the Hollow opened its gates. That means something.”
“Johanna never told me anything. Just left me this cottage like a footnote in her will. Like I was an afterthought.”
“Maybe she didn’t want you caught in it too soon.”
I swallow against the dryness in my throat. “Too soon for what?”
Hardin doesn’t speak. He just reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out something small. A stone, etched with lines that shimmer faintly as he turns it in his palm. He holds it out to me.
I take it carefully, the warmth of it shocking against my skin. It feels like touching a heartbeat.
“What is it?”
“A tether. That stone’s been in your family longer than the Hollow’s council. It anchors you to the wards.”
“So I’m a piece of the puzzle.”
“No. You’re the key.”
That night,after Mari’s asleep and I’ve cleaned the last flecks of paint from her elbows and forehead, I light a candle in the sitting room and pull Johanna’s grimoire from its hiding place behind the bookshelf. It’s heavy in my lap, the leather cover cool and worn smooth in the places her hands must’ve rested a hundred times. The silver threadwork along the spine glints when the candle flickers, and the lock—ornate and old—sits in the center like a dare.
I press my fingers to it and whisper her name.
The lock clicks open like it never wanted to stay closed.
Inside, the pages are filled with notes so fine and precise they look printed until I see the small imperfections, the tilt of her letters, the occasional smudge where ink met fingertip. The language is dense in places, strange in others. Some of it isn’tin English. Some isn’t in any language I recognize. But my eyes trace the words, and the words trace me back.
Protection begins with knowing. Warding begins with witnessing. Power begins in the pause between your fear and your breath.
I read until my eyes blur, until the candle gutters and dies on its own.
When I finally close the book, I feel it like a pulse beneath my ribs. Something ancient has woken up, and it’s living in me now.
The next morning,I wake before Mari, which is rare. I wrap myself in a sweater too big for my frame and step outside with a cup of tea. The steam curls in the morning air, sweet with honey and rosemary, and the forest hums low around the cottage like it’s stretching awake.
Delphina is sitting on my porch swing when I round the corner.
“How long have you been there?” I ask, startled but not afraid.
She shrugs. “Long enough to know you opened the book.”
“You knew about it?”
“I know about most things that hum.”
I sit beside her, careful not to spill my tea. “It felt like it was waiting for me.”
“It was.”
We sit in silence for a while. The crows call lazily in the trees. The wind shifts, bringing the scent of damp bark and pine needles.
“There’s a price to being claimed by this place,” Delphina says finally.
“I didn’t ask to be claimed.”
“No one ever does.”
