I stare at him for a long moment, taking in his regal posture and the way his eyes seem to hold centuries of wisdom, then lean my head back against the headboard with a quiet exhale.
“I hate that you’re right all the time.”
“I am not right all the time,”he says, and I swear I can hear amusement.“Only when it matters most.”
“Well, that’s a first,” I say with a chuckle, but the sound is cut off abruptly as the doorbell rings, its chimes echoing through the manor like a warning.
I sit up straighter, frowning as I glance at the antique clock on the mantelpiece, its ornate hands clearly showing the late hour.
“Who in the world is at my door at ten o’clock at night?”
“Someone who chose not to wait for morning,”Sir replies cryptically, already settling back down as if he knows exactly who it is.
I slide off the bed, my bare feet hitting the cool hardwood floor, and head toward the bedroom door.
“What is that supposed to mean, cat? You are so incredibly cryptic half the time that I wonder if you do it just to annoy me.” I mutter, turning to see if he’s going to follow me downstairs.
Sir stands and stretches languorously, displaying the full elegant length of his body, then lays back down again with deliberate dismissal.
I roll my eyes at his obvious refusal to help. “Oh, that’s fine,” I complain as I step into the hallway, the runner soft under my feet. “Stay up here in the warm bed. If something drags me into the shadows, just know I will remember this betrayal in whatever afterlife awaits me.”
He doesn’t respond, and honestly, why am I not surprised?
I head downstairs, my hand trailing along the smooth banister as I descend, the manor’s magic humming more insistently around me now, as if sensing the late-night visitor. I’m hoping against hope that I’m not about to have another confrontation with my aunt, only to remember with relief that she can’t actually reach the porch, much less ring the bell and force me into another battle of wills.
When I open the heavy front door, I find Ezra standing there.
Tension sits in his posture, subtle but unmistakably present in the way he holds his shoulders, the careful set of his jaw, like something brought him here that he could not ignore or put off until morning. His dark eyes are bright with urgency behind his black-rimmed glasses, and his usually neat appearance is slightly disheveled, as if he’s been running his hands through his locs.
“Ezra? Is everything okay?” I say, genuine concern coloring my voice as I take in his obvious agitation.
“I did not mean to come this late,” he says, his voice carrying that careful precision he uses when he’s trying to maintain control. “I can come back in the morning if you prefer.”
“No,” I say immediately, stepping back to give him room. “You’re here now, and you look like you’ve discovered something important. Come in.”
He steps inside but doesn’t move any further into the foyer before he begins to speak, his words tumbling out with uncharacteristic urgency.
“I found something in the municipal archives,” he says, dragging a hand through his locs. “A spell that’s supposed to be forbidden, something that was banned decades ago. It was designed to drain a Witch’s magic completely, to sever the connection between practitioner and power permanently.”
I drop my head forward, weariness already weighing me down like a physical force. “Let me guess,” I say with resignation, “the pages describing this spell are conveniently missing.”
Ezra’s eyes widen a fraction at my immediate understanding, and he nods grimly. “The pages have been carefully removed. Not torn out in haste, but cut away with precision, as if someone knew exactly what they were looking for.”
“Do you think this is what Lenora used on me?” I ask, though I’m honestly unsure if I want to know the answer. Part of mehas been hoping that whatever was done to me was reversible, fixable, not the result of forbidden magic designed to destroy.
Ezra blows out a breath, then pulls his glasses away from his face to squeeze the bridge of his nose, a gesture that speaks to hours of research and growing concern. “I believe she attempted to use it on you, yes. But your magic is not gone, Keisha. I can sense it every time I’m near you, like a current running just beneath your skin. I don’t think the spell worked the way she intended it to.”
“So instead of draining me completely, she managed to lock it away,” I say, reaching up to scratch my scalp through my silk bonnet. The weight of this revelation settles over me.
“That is my working theory,” he confirms, “I think we should look through some of the older grimoires, see if the origin of the spell was documented by one of your ancestors. There might be a counter-spell, or at least a better understanding of what was done to you.”
I exhale slowly, feeling the day’s exhaustion catching up with me. “Tomorrow,” I say firmly.
He pauses, his mouth opening as if to protest or offer to stay up all night researching, but I hold up my hands in surrender.
“You look completely exhausted,” I add, noting the dark circles under his eyes, the way his usually perfect posture has sagged slightly. “We’ll figure it out in the morning when we’re both thinking clearly.”
He nods reluctantly, stepping back toward the door. “Okay, yes, that makes sense. It is late, and you were already settled for the night. I didn’t mean to interrupt your evening routine.”
