“Well,” I say quietly, my voice sounding small in the vast room, “that explains a lot.”
Sir settles more comfortably beside me, his substantial weight creating a warm dip in the mattress, his tail curling neatly around his body in that precise way cats manage.
“It does,”he agrees, with a note of satisfaction, as if he’s been waiting for me to piece this together.
I lean back against the carved wooden headboard, letting the book rest loosely in my lap as I stare at the shadows playing across the opposite wall.
“She knew,” I murmur, the realization settling over me like a cold wave. “She knew Lenora wasn’t strong enough. She knew my mother wasn’t either.”
“Yes.”Sir replies, turning his head up to look at me with those knowing eyes that seem to see straight through to my soul.
“She still left everything to. . .” I trail off, the implications hitting me.
“To the bloodline,”Sir finishes, his voice gentle for once.“Not to either of them specifically. You were the last hope, the final card to play. She hedged her bets on you, on the possibility that the magic would skip a generation and return stronger than ever.”
I let out a slow breath, dragging a hand down my face, feeling suddenly exhausted by the weight of expectation.
“So, Lenora grows up knowing she’s not enough.” I work through the timeline in my head. “She watches her motherstruggle with the knowledge that the wards would potentially fail under her watch. She hears conversations she probably shouldn’t have heard, absorbs criticism that cuts deeper each time. Then one day, the woman who built all of this dies, and she decides she’s going to take it anyway, consequences be damned.”
“She doesn’t decide,”Sir corrects calmly, his whiskers twitching slightly.“She convinces herself it was always hers, that the tests were wrong, that she deserved it more than anyone else. No matter the cost to you or the town.”
I glance down at him, noting the way his fur has fluffed slightly, a sign of agitation. “That’s worse, isn’t it?”
“I agree.”
I shift again, stretching out my legs and crossing one ankle over the other, trying to find a more comfortable position as my mind processes everything I’ve learned.
“Now we’re here. With her playing mayor, sabotaging my shop opening, and the wards doing whatever it is they’re doing lately.” I pause, remembering the strange sensations I’ve been having, the way the air sometimes feels thin or charged. “They’re getting worse, aren’t they?”
Sir’s gaze never leaves mine as his words ring with absolute certainty in my head.
“They are weakening.”
I let out a quiet, humorless laugh that sounds more bitter than I intended. “Of course they are. I’m starting to notice it more and more.”
“You feel it.”
It is not a question, though Sir sounds slightly surprised by my admission, his ears perking forward with interest.
“I do,” I admit, finally giving voice to something I’ve been trying to ignore. “Not all the time. It comes and goes, like something trying to break through and then slipping back again. It’s right there, just at the edge of my awareness, and then it’snot, and I don’t know how to grab onto it. I just want to grab hold of it and not let go. It’s incredibly frustrating.”
My fingers tighten against the soft fabric of my pajama pants, bunching the material in my fists.
“How am I supposed to hold something together when I can’t even hold my own magic? We’ve been studying for months now. I’ve been doing everything Ezra tells me to do, following every exercise, reading every book, and I’m still here spinning my wheels.”
“You are not there,”Sir says quietly, with an unusual gentleness.
I look down at him. “Then where am I?”
“You’re close.”
I huff softly, frustration bleeding through. “You keep saying that like it means something concrete.”
“It does. I bicker with you, but it’s not because you’re stagnant or hopeless. I push because I want you to be stronger when the time comes, and that time is approaching faster than any of us anticipated. You are building toward something you do not yet understand, something that will require every ounce of strength you can muster.”
“That’s not particularly comforting,” I say, placing the grimoire carefully on the side table by the bed, making sure it’s well away from the lamp’s heat.
“It is not meant to be comforting. I don’t sugarcoat the truth for your benefit, and I won’t start now.”
