He pauses, glancing down at the books. “I’ve searched there before,” he says. “These weren’t there.” His eyes lift to mine. “Not until today.”
I run my fingertips over the cover of the topmost grimoire, feeling the worn leather beneath my touch, smooth in some places, rough in others where time and use have left their marks. This is my birthright. My grandmother’s life’s work and the accumulated wisdom of every Thorne ancestor who came before her. The knowledge that should have been mine two years ago, the moment my grandmother’s spirit left this world.
“It won’t work for me,” I say, frustration creeping in as I pull my hand back like the book has already rejected me. “Even if this is real, if these are the actual grimoires my aunt has been searching for since my grandmother died, even if they hold every secret of our family’s magic. Mine shows up when it feels like it and disappears just as fast. It’s unreliable at best.” I shake my head. “What am I supposed to do with a grimoire full of spells I may never be able to use?”
He’s quiet for a long moment, and I can practically hear the gears turning in that brilliant mind of his. Then he reaches out and covers my retreating hand with his own, enveloping my fingers in warmth and callused strength.
His palm is warm, surprisingly rough from years of working with tools and warding stones and the delicate, dangerous magic that keeps Ruby Springs functioning within its protective boundaries. I can feel every line, every small scar, the evidence of a man who works with his hands as much as his mind. The contrast between his gentleness and that hidden strength makes something flutter deep inside me, and I have to fight the urge to shiver under his touch.
“Keisha.” The way he says my name is different from how everyone else pronounces it. Softer, more careful, like he’s testing the weight and texture of each syllable on his tongue. “When I walked into this shop, you were glowing.”
I blink at him in confusion. “I was dancing. Exercise makes people. . .glow, I guess?”
“You were literally illuminated,” he insists, and there’s no humor in his voice, no attempt to soften what he’s saying to make me feel better. “Your magic is bleeding through whatever’s been suppressing it. I can see it in the air around you like an aura. Golden light, warm and rich, like sunlight streaming through honey.”
“That’s not possible.” I shake my head, but even as I deny it, there has been moments, brief flashes, the diner with Maceo, times during meditation with Lucien, when Sir looked at me with something like approval, when the herbs in the shop seemed to respond to my touch, when I felt something stirring deep inside me like a sleeping giant beginning to wake. “My magic is broken, Ezra. It’s been broken my entire life.”
“It’s not broken,” he says with absolute certainty, squeezing my hand once before reluctantly letting it go. “It’s beensuppressed, deliberately and skillfully hidden. There’s a profound difference. With everything we’ve been doing these past weeks, the exercises, the meditation, the gradual exposure to magical energy, something is definitely working. The suppression is weakening.”
Something is working. I’ve seen evidence of it in bits and pieces that I’ve been too afraid to trust. Hearing Ezra say it, hearing it from someone who can actually see magic the way other people see light and shadow, that changes everything.
“I think Lenora did this to me,” I say quietly, the suspicion I’ve been carrying for weeks finally breaking free into words. The question that’s been circling in my mind like a vulture, growing stronger with each passing day. “She was there when I was born, wasn’t she? She helped deliver me. She would have had access, opportunity, the knowledge to cast something that sophisticated on an infant.” I meet his eyes, looking for confirmation of what I already know in my heart. “Why would my own aunt suppress my magic?”
I stop speaking because suddenly the answer is right there, crystal clear and terrible, waiting for me to acknowledge it.
“You’re the Anchor,” Ezra says simply, gesturing toward the grimoire between us like a loaded weapon. “The ancestral magic that maintains the town’s protective wards passed to you when your grandmother died. It’s usually automatic, though no one fully understands how it chooses. Something interfered. More than one variable is at play here.” He pauses, clearly working through the implications. “These books aren’t just family history, Keisha. They’re proof of your claim to the Anchor line. Not political maneuvering, not town council votes, not whatever games Lenora’s been playing with municipal authority. This grimoire responding to your presence, appearing now when you need it most, that’s the magic itself recognizing its rightful keeper.”
My heart pounds against my ribs so hard I’m surprised he can’t hear it echoing through the shop.
“She’s been searching for these books,” I breathe, understanding flooding through me like ice water. “She can’t fully control the wards without the accumulated knowledge in these pages.”
“Of course, she has and you’re correct,” Ezra confirms, pushing his glasses up again in that nervous gesture that tells me he’s been thinking about this for much longer than he’s let on. “I’ve suspected something wasn’t right for months now. At first, I thought the instability in the town’s magical infrastructure was simply because she lacked the grimoire’s specialized knowledge. I’ve been cross-referencing the ward signatures against historical records, tracking the fluctuations and fractures in Ruby Springs’ protective barriers. Something wasn’t adding up. The pattern was wrong, inconsistent with what should happen when an Anchor line transfers naturally.”
“You knew,” I whisper, pieces of a puzzle I didn’t even know I was solving falling into place with sickening clarity. “You knew something wasn’t right,” I whisper. “With her claim to be the Anchor.”
“I knew she was hiding something significant,” he admits. “The magical signatures were all wrong, the energy flows were forced rather than organic. I couldn’t prove anything, and I didn’t want to make accusations without concrete evidence. Challenging an acting mayor, especially one from the founding family, isn’t something you do lightly in a town like this.”
The grimoire sits between us like a grenade with the pin pulled, innocent-looking but capable of destroying everything I thought I knew about my life. My entire existence, every wound I’ve carried, every moment of feeling broken and insufficient, all of if untrue.
“Open it,” I say quietly, surprised by the steadiness in my own voice.
Ezra’s eyebrows rise in surprise. “Here? Now? These kinds of magical texts can be unpredictable when they’re first accessed by their rightful owner. There might be protective spells, authentication magic, things designed to test?—”
“If this book is supposed to belong to me, I need to know what’s inside it,” I interrupt, placing my palm flat against the worn leather cover. The material feels warm beneath my skin, almost alive, humming with some energy I can’t quite identify. “Everything I believed about myself has been a lie, Ezra. Every insecurity, every moment of thinking I wasn’t enough, that I was somehow defective?—”
I pause, meeting his eyes, the concern there unmistakable.
“I need to know if I can find my way back to who I’m supposed to be through these pages.”
Ezra studies my face, weighing the potential risks against my obvious need for answers. Then he nods once, decisive and supportive. “Together then. If something goes wrong, I’ll be right here.”
He reaches out and carefully lifts the cover. The pages beneath glow with a soft inner light.
The grimoire falls open to a specific page, as if guided by invisible hands, revealing a handwritten inscription in faded but elegant ink. I lean closer, the script shifting at the edges of my vision. My breath catches as the words resolve into clarity.
To my heir, who will be mightier than I ever dared to dream.
Do not let them make you small.
