His entire body stiffens in my arms like I’ve just committed the gravest possible offense against his dignity.“I am not a common house cat to be cuddled and cooed at, woman. I am a Familiar with centuries of distinguished service, a repository of wisdom, and I absolutely do not?—”
I twirl us both around, and his indignant protest cuts off mid-sentence. For one brief, glorious second, I swear I feel his paws tap against my forearm in perfect rhythm to the music before he apparently remembers his carefully cultivated reputation for aristocratic aloofness. When he nips at my fingers, not hardenough to actually hurt, just a warning shot across the bow of my presumption, I can’t help but laugh.
“Party pooper,” I tell him fondly.
With an aristocratic sniff that would make the King of England proud, he wriggles free of my embrace, dropping soundlessly to the polished wooden floor and immediately beginning to groom himself as if my touch has somehow contaminated his perfect fur.“I shall return when you’re prepared to approach your studies with the gravity and dedication they require.”
“Love you too!” I call after his retreating form, his tail held high like a flag of surrender as he disappears behind a shelf of enchanted trinkets.
Alone now in the golden afternoon light, I close my eyes and surrender completely to the music, to the rhythm that flows through my veins like liquid sunlight. The lyrics wash over me, and I spin faster, arms outstretched toward the vaulted ceiling, letting everything go, every worry, every insecurity, every moment of doubt that has plagued me since arriving in Ruby Springs. For these precious minutes, I’m not the failed Witch, the disappointing heir. I’m just Keisha, dancing in a pool of afternoon light, free and whole and completely myself.
The sound of someone clearing their throat shatters my musical sanctuary.
My eyes fly open in alarm, my foot catches on absolutely nothing but my own startled clumsiness, and suddenly I’m pitching forward toward the unforgiving antique hardwood floor. Before I can face-plant in a spectacularly ungraceful display that would give Sir enough material for months of condescending commentary, strong hands catch me, pulling me upright against a solid, warm chest.
Ezra.
His black-rimmed glasses are slightly askew from the sudden movement, and close, closer than we’ve ever been, close enough that I can feel his breath against my forehead. I can see the flecks of amber hidden in his dark brown eyes like tiny flames. His cologne, something earthy and sophisticated with hints of sandalwood and cedar, fills my senses and makes my head spin in an entirely different way than the dancing did. Heat radiates through his thin gray t-shirt, and beneath my palms, which have somehow found their way to his chest without my conscious permission, I can feel the unexpected firmness of lean muscles that speak of hours spent swimming and running, of a man who takes care of himself with the same quiet dedication he brings to everything else.
We’re so close I can count his individual eyelashes, can see the way his pupils dilate slightly as we stare at each other. Impossibly, breathtakingly close. If I just rose up on my toes, if I just tilted my chin up the smallest fraction. I can almost taste his lips. . .
He steps back abruptly, his hands steadying me for one more moment before falling away, leaving me feeling cold and strangely bereft. The space between us suddenly feels like an ocean.
“Sorry, Keisha.” His voice is deeper than usual, rougher around the edges as he reaches into his worn leather satchel with hands that aren’t quite steady, producing yet another stack of books that look far older and more mysterious than anything I’ve been studying. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Heat floods my face in a wave of embarrassment so intense I’m surprised I don’t spontaneously combust. “No, Ez, I’m sorry you had to see all of this—” I gesture vaguely but specifically at my curves, at my soft body that was just moving with such abandon, “—shaking around the room like some kind of amateur dance video gone wrong.”
Something flashes in his eyes, quick as lightning but unmistakable. Something sharp and intense. Not pity or not embarrassment on my behalf. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “No.” The word comes out firm, almost harsh. “You don’t get to say that about yourself.” His gaze holds mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch in my throat. “That, for one, was absolutely no hardship to witness.”
The air between us suddenly crackles with something electric, something I’m afraid to name because naming it might make it disappear, or worse, might make it real. My heart hammers against my ribs like it’s trying to escape my chest entirely.
Oh heavens.
I clear my throat, desperately grasping for solid ground in this suddenly shifting landscape between us. “So. . .more homework? More books to make me feel inadequately prepared for all of this?”
His focus shifts then, and I watch his expression transform as excitement takes over his features, lighting him up from within. It’s like watching the sun emerge from behind clouds. “Actually, I didn’t come to assign more reading. I came to show you something. Something incredibly important.” He holds out the stack of books to me almost reverently, like he’s presenting me with the Crown Jewels.
My heartbeat quickens, and I feel that familiar flutter of hope and terror that’s become my constant companion since arriving in Ruby Springs. “What are these, Ez?”
“The Thorne Family grimoires.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. My eyes widen in shock as I stare at the weathered volumes in his hands. “That’s impossible. The estate lawyers told me they were stolen years ago, despite the will explicitly stating they were to be given to me after my grandmother’s passing. I wanted to ask Lenora aboutthem, but without any concrete evidence of their existence, I didn’t dare start that particular battle.”
“That’s exactly what she wanted the town to believe,” Ezra says, his voice taking on that measured tone he gets when he’s working through a particularly complex magical problem. “She couldn’t let everyone know that the rightful Anchor didn’t have possession of something that should have transferred to her automatically upon your grandmother’s death. It would have raised too many questions about her legitimacy as interim keeper of the wards.” He pauses, adjusting his glasses. “But I honestly believe these books were spelled to hide themselves, to remain concealed until they were meant to be found. They appeared in exactly the place they needed to be, at exactly the right moment.”
I move toward him, drawn by curiosity stronger than my lingering embarrassment, my bare feet silent on the wooden floor. The books look impossibly old beyond measure, their leather spines cracked with age like dried riverbeds, their pages yellowed, edges worn by decades of handling. One of them bears a symbol I recognize instantly, carved deep into the leather and inlaid with what looks like silver that’s tarnished to a deep gray, the Thorne family crest. A crescent moon cradled tenderly between cupped hands.
Ruby’s hands. The same symbol that’s hung around my neck since childhood, that decorates the letterhead of the inheritance documents, that’s carved above the fireplace in Thorne Manor. The symbol of my family, my bloodline, my heritage.
“Where did you find these?” I reach toward the books, my hand hovering inches above their weathered surfaces as if they might burn me, or worse, reject me entirely.
He sets the grimoires on the counter between us with careful reverence, like he’s handling something priceless.
“A sealed section of the town archives,” he says. “Most people don’t even know it exists, and fewer still have the clearance to access it.”
“But you do,” I observe, not really a question. “Because you help maintain the town’s magic.”
“Because I maintain everything this town pretends it doesn’t need,” he corrects, a slight edge to his voice that speaks of years of being taken for granted. “Not the major wards, those are Anchor territory, but everything else. The smaller protections, the everyday enchantments that keep the mundane world from noticing what we really are, the delicate networks that hold it all together.” He pushes his glasses back into place, a gesture that’s becoming endearingly familiar. “Including, apparently, the things people would rather keep hidden.”
