"In this town?" Rafe appeared from the back room carrying a crate of glass bottles, hazel eyes bright with amusement. "Commentary is the unofficial currency."
Ivy set down her pestle and wiped her hands on her apron—slow, deliberate movements that Hazel had learned to read as approval. Ivy didn't waste motion on things she didn't care about.
"Love potions are unnecessary when you have genuine compatibility." She pulled a small amber bottle from the shelf behind her and set it on the counter with a decisive click. "Though I do have some enhancement oils that help with magical synchronization. Lavender and moonstone base. Rub it on your wrists before joint spellwork."
Hazel picked up the bottle. Warmth pulsed through the glass.
"Thank you, Ivy."
Rafe set down his crate and crossed to Nate. Something shifted in his expression—the roguish charm settling into something older, steadier, earned through his own long fight toward vulnerability.
"Nate, my friend, you've found your anchor. Don't let go."
Nate's jaw tightened. Not against the words—around them, holding them close. He nodded once.
Zelda's cottagesmelled of cinnamon and ozone and something that might have been prophecy. The door opened before they knocked.
"The cards predicted this months ago!" Zelda stood in the doorway, auburn curls wild, a tarot spread visible on the table behind her. Fat Bastard occupied the center of the reading, asleep on the Tower card. "True love always finds a way!"
"We're not asking for advice?—"
"Too bad, you're getting it anyway!" Zelda pulled them both inside with a grip that belied her frame. The cottage rearranged a wall to create a wider sitting area. "Sit. Tea's already poured. The house knew you were coming."
Hazel sank into a chair that adjusted to cradle her exactly. Nate's chair did the same. Their knees touched under the table, and the teacups trembled faintly in their saucers.
Zelda's green eyes—her father's eyes—softened into something ancient and knowing.
"You two have no idea what you've built." She touched the spread. "The Lovers, the Magician, the World. I haven't seen this configuration in thirty years of reading." Her voice dropped to a theatrical edge. "Protect what you have. What's coming will test it."
Hazel's fingers found Nate's under the table. His closed around hers immediately—reflex, instinct, anchor.
"We know," Hazel said.
"Good." Zelda's grin returned. "Now drink your tea before it gets cold and prophetic."
Suddenly, the front wall of Zelda's cottage exploded inward in a cloud of purple smoke and glitter that smelled, improbably, of Aqua Net and gardenia.
"ZELDA, DARLING, WHERE IS YOUR FATHER? I NEED A QUICKIE."
Baba Yaga materialized through the settling haze like a vision from a 1987 music video—shoulder pads sharp enough to cut glass, blonde hair cascading in defiance of both gravity and good sense, her long manicured fingers trailing sparks of violet light. The sparkles whirled around her in a cyclone of self-generated drama, then settled onto every surface like radioactive confetti.
Fat Bastard launched off the Tower card and disappeared under the couch.
Zelda dropped her forehead to the table. The teacups rattled.
"Oh myGod."
"Goddess, technically." Baba Yaga adjusted one shoulder pad. "But I appreciate the sentiment. Now—Fabio. Location. Quickly. I have a window between continental ley line maintenance and a three o'clock possession in Tucson."
"He's at the bakery," Zelda said into the table surface. "Where he always is. Please leave my walls intact."
"Noted, not promised." Baba Yaga turned toward the door—and stopped.
Her gaze landed on Hazel and Nate's joined hands under the table. Those ancient eyes, older than the town, older than the continent's magical wards, tracked up from their intertwined fingers to their faces. The sparkles around her slowed their orbit and stilled.
The air in the cottage changed. Something vast and quiet pressed against the windows.
"Well." Baba Yaga's voice shed its theatrical register. What remained was bedrock. "So you finally stopped being idiots."
