I’m not hiding anymore. I’m fortifying.
After Mari wakesand eats a bowl of cereal with more blueberries than actual flakes, I send her with Delphina again. There’s a tremble in her smile that didn’t used to be there, a softness in her voice when she whispers goodbye that leaves something sharp in my chest. But she hugs me twice before she goes and promises to bring back some lichen “because it’s cool and squishy.”
Once the door closes behind them, I sit at the kitchen table with my laptop and a cup of lukewarm tea that tastes faintly of lemongrass and iron. The spell isn’t enough on its own.
I need paper shields too.
I log into the legal aid portal that Therrin showed me last spring. He told me once, while fixing a broken window latch with nothing but a rune and a grunt, that bureaucracies were just another form of ritual. You fill in the blanks, you draw the right circles, and if you say the words in the right order, you summon outcomes.
I’m going to hold him to that.
I pull every form. Residency affidavits. Caregiver documentation. Hollow jurisdictional exceptions. I fill out each one like I’m sketching a protection circle, careful, focused, naming every truth I have like it’s a spell in itself.
Mari lives here.
I am her mother.
We are safe here.
The words don’t tremble anymore when I type them. My fingers move with purpose. When the cursor blinks on the screen, it feels like a heartbeat echoing my own.
By early evening,I’ve finished the enchantments on the threshold and woven sigils into the windowsills with chalk mixed from eggshells and charcoal. I pour a bit of wax over each corner and whisper her name into the seal.
The house feels different now. Not louder. But firmer. Rooted.
The second I sit down, body aching from the hunched intensity of the day, I hear the front door creak.
It’s Hardin.
He’s damp from the fog, his hair curling at the edges, eyes sharp and watchful like he’s been scouting. I don’t ask where he’s been. I know.
I just nod toward the kettle. “Tea?”
He grunts, but his lips twitch like he’s trying not to smile. “That’d be good.”
I pour it without speaking, and he takes it with both hands like he’s holding something precious, even if it’s just warm leaves and water. He’s quiet for a minute, just watching me the way he does when he’s trying to memorize something.
“What?”
“You look different,” he says.
“Do I?”
“Yeah.” He takes a sip. “Like you’re not scared anymore.”
I think about that. “I’m still scared. I’m just not waiting for someone else to make it better.”
His jaw tightens, and I know that means something to him. I don’t think Hardin’s ever liked watching someone else fight. I think it makes him feel like he’s failing.
But I’m not something he has to save.
“You’re doing more than anyone else could,” he says. “I’ve seen council mages who wouldn’t know how to do half of what you did today.”
I don’t know what to say to that. So I nod.
Then he leans forward, sets his cup down, and says, “I’m proud of you.”
The words land softer than I expected. Like rain instead of thunder.
