Do not let them quiet you.
Your power is not a curse to be hidden. It is a key waiting for the right lock.
Find what they have sealed away. Open it and burn whatever stands in your way.
Trust in your strength. Trust in your bloodline. Trust in the magic that flows through your veins like liquid starlight.
—Ruby Thorne, Founder and First Anchor
I stare at my great-great-great-great-grandmother’s words, written in her own hand more than two centuries ago, and feel tears burning at the back of my eyes. She knew. Somehow, across all those years, she knew that someone would try to diminish her heir, to steal what rightfully belonged to the Thorne line. Did she see it, I wonder.
“Keisha.” Ezra’s voice is rough with emotion. “You’re shaking.”
I am, and I can’t seem to stop. My whole body is trembling like a leaf in a windstorm, as if Ruby’s words have unlocked something deep inside me that’s been struggling to break free for thirty-five years.
“I need to sit down,” I admit, my legs suddenly feeling unsteady beneath me.
He’s there immediately, warm and solid and reassuring, steadying me with those gentle hands that somehow manage to ground me even as my world tilts on its axis. He guides me to the comfortable chair behind the counter, the one Sir usually claims as his throne, and presses a cool glass of water into my trembling fingers.
“Drink,” he orders softly, his voice carrying the kind of authority that comes from caring rather than commanding.
I sip the cool liquid and focus on the simple act of breathing, of pulling myself back from the edge of whatever emotional precipice I was teetering on. The water tastes faintly of mint and something else I can’t identify, something that seems to calm the storm raging inside my chest.
“Okay,” I whisper finally, setting the glass down on the counter with hands that are almost steady. “Okay. So, what do we do now? How do we prove what Lenora did? How do we break whatever she cast on me when I was too young to defend myself?”
Ezra looks at me for a long moment. Then he reaches out with infinite gentleness and brushes a tear from my cheek with his thumb, the simple touch sending warmth spiraling through my entire body.
“We find out what’s really in that grimoire,” he says softly, his voice carrying a promise I can feel in my bones. “We learn everything Ruby wanted you to know. And then we figure out how to reclaim what was stolen from you.” He pauses, leaning close, his face inches from mine once more, his hand still cupping my cheek. “Together.”
My heart does something complicated and wonderful in my chest, a flutter that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with hope.
“Together,” I echo, the word feeling like a vow.
Outside, the evening sun paints Thorne Curiosities’ windows in shades of gold and amber, casting long shadows across the polished wooden floors. Inside, the grimoire sits open between us like a doorway to possibilities I never dared imagine, its pages waiting to reveal secrets that might change everything, a legacy of power and knowledge waiting for me to claim it.
Chapter
Eleven
TAKE A HIKE, HE SAYS
Ideclare a magical timeout.
That is the official phrase I use when I shuffle down the stairs of Thorne Manor in pajama pants, fuzzy house slippers, my braids tossed up in a bun that has clearly lost its structural integrity sometime around dawn. My brain feels like someone stuffed it with pages from three different grimoires and shook the whole thing like a snow globe.
Three straight days of magical study will do that to a woman. Three days of squinting at handwritten notes in Ruby Thorne’s grimoire, deciphering potion recipes that seem to have been written by someone who believed commas were a personal enemy.
The manor seems to agree with my decision. None of the cabinets slam open demanding organization. No mysterious books appear on the table begging to be studied. Even the kettle whistles exactly once, then goes quiet like a polite houseguest who understands the meaning of personal space.
For the first time in days, the house feels calm. I’m calm, peaceful, blissfully human. My magic hasn’t made a stuttering appearance, content to rest after days of being stretched andprodded and coaxed into new shapes. The familiar weight of exhaustion sinks into my bones, the good kind, like after a hard workout rather than the bone-deep weariness I’ve carried for years.
Sir stretches along the back of the sofa like a king draped across his throne, his silver-blue fur catching the morning light streaming through the tall windows. His tail flicks while one eye opens just enough to study me as I cross the living room with my coffee, the hardwood floor creaking softly under my slippers.
“You look like someone who has abandoned dignity,”he says, his voice carrying that particular brand of disdain that only he can perfect.
I lean against the entrance to the kitchen and blow on my coffee before taking a careful sip. The warmth spreads through me, chasing away the last traces of morning fog from my brain. “I have abandoned everything.”
Sir’s whiskers twitch in what might be amusement or judgment. With Sir, the two emotions are often indistinguishable.
