Understanding begins to dawn, cold and terrible. “By my aunt.” It wasn’t a question.
He doesn’t confirm immediately.
“By one who is insufficient for the role she has claimed.”
The sharpness of his assessment surprises me. Clearly, he has formed a deeply unfavorable opinion of my aunt Lenora, and this cat, I am learning, doesn’t mince his words.
“The town requires an Anchor,” he continues, jumping back onto the counter, this time settling near an ornate brass cash register that looks like it belongs in a museum. “The magical foundation that keeps everything stable. The wards are weakening without proper oversight. The shop was dormant without you. Oh, I maintained the physical space, but the magical essence slept. The house, too, remained in stasis because its bloodline was missing.”
I look around at the shop with new eyes, trying to process what he is telling me. I can feel something stirring deep in my chest, a recognition that bypasses my rational mind. A resonance, like a tuning fork struck at exactly the right frequency. It is the same feeling I experienced in the manor, that sense of homecoming I tried to dismiss.
“You’re telling me I’m responsible for all of this? The whole town’s magical. . .infrastructure?”
“No,” he says firmly, his voice carrying absolute certainty.
He pauses, those golden eyes boring into mine, and I feel like he is seeing straight through to my soul.
“I am telling you it was always yours. The responsibility, the power, the role. It passed to you. There is a difference.”
The distinction settles over me, weighty with implications. I run my finger along the dust-free counter, feeling the smooth wood warm under my touch. Connections begin forming in my mind, puzzle pieces clicking into place. My mysteriously delayed inheritance, Lucien’s cryptic comments about timing, my aunt’sevasive behavior, the river’s strange reaction to my presence, the house’s immediate welcome. Even the way Ezra looked at me yesterday, like he was seeing something I couldn’t.
“Was I. . .blocked?” The question emerges barely above a whisper, fear and hope warring in my chest. “Deliberately?”
Sir studies me again, clinical yet somehow compassionate, like a doctor preparing to deliver difficult news.
“Yes.”
One word. Simple. Devastating. The proverbial mic drop that changes everything.
I exhale slowly, feeling tears burn at the corners of my eyes, but I’ll be damned if I cry. Not here, not now. Instead, something cold and controlled builds in my chest, a fury so pure it feels like ice.
“On purpose?” I ask, though I already know the truth of it. I can feel it in my bones.
His eyes hold mine, unflinching. “Magic does not restrain itself.”
The words land like a verdict, final and irrevocable. Someone did this to me. Someone stole what was mine, my birthright, my potential, my identity, my entire sense of self. Thirty-five years of thinking I was broken, defective, a disappointment to my family legacy, and it was all a lie. The controlled fury builds, hot like banked coals ready to ignite, but I force it down. What I lack in accessible magic, I more than make up for in temperament. Right now, I’m sliding rapidly into my ‘don’t fuck with me’ mood, and that is a dangerous place for anyone who might be responsible for this.
“So, what do we do?” I ask finally, surprised by how steady my voice sounds.
“We correct it.”
I laugh softly, the sound carrying no humor whatsoever. “That simple?”
“No.” His honesty is almost refreshing. “It will be complex, dangerous, and likely unpleasant. Magical bindings of this nature, maintained for decades, do not simply. . .dissolve. They must be carefully dismantled, or the backlash can be catastrophic.”
“Good.” I say, attempting to smile but not quite. “I was worried for a minute there. Nothing in my life has ever been easy, so why start now?”
The joke feels like reclaiming a tiny piece of myself, finding solid ground in familiar sarcasm.
Sir doesn’t smile, can cats even smile? Something about his posture relaxes infinitesimally, as if he approves of my response.
“You will require instruction,” he says matter-of-factly. “And assistance. Preferably from someone competent in magical theory and practical application.”
I think of Ezra, those quiet, observant eyes that seem to see too much, the way he’d studied me yesterday like I was a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. He is a Wizard, his magic must be similar to what mine should be. Maybe I can ask him for help? Did he sense what was wrong with me? Is that why he seemed so thoughtful, so careful in his responses?
I turn in a slow circle, taking in the shop with a fresh perspective. Thorne Curiosities. My inheritance, my responsibility, my legacy. I can’t hope to maintain this place or properly handle its inventory without access to my magic, that much is becoming painfully clear. The very air thrums with energy I can sense but not touch, items that probably require magical handling. Customers would expect a Thorne to actually know what she is doing.
The thought sends a familiar wave of inadequacy through me, but this time it carries a different edge. No longer the resigned acceptance of limitation I’ve grown used to. This is anger at what has been stolen from me.
