“I’m Julia, by the way,” the woman said, glancing at all three of them. “I’m the owner. You actually came at a good time; the book club’s about to start. You’re welcome to sit in. Maybe you’ll hear something useful.”
Riya didn’t want maybes. She didn’t want more suggestions to drink Kian’s tears. She wanted answers.
“Okay,” she said, her voice tight.
Julia led them to a narrow, creaking staircase in the back. They descended into what looked more like a candlelit cavern than a basement. Shadows pooled between old bookshelves and exposed pipes. A Persian rug stretched across the center of the floor, ringed by mismatched chairs and beanbags that had definitely seen better decades.
A dozen people had already taken their seats. Some wore flowing scarves or vintage band tees, while others looked like retired college professors. One woman’s rings sparkled on nearly every finger, and Riya was momentarily blinded. Julia gestured toward the three empty chairs at the edge of the circle.
The book of the month was a pseudo-memoir about a woman who traveled to Tibet after her husband died, searching for a necromancer.
“Frankly, I found it exploitative,” said a man in a sweater vest. “She turnedrealcultural rituals into a selfish catharsis.”
“But still, shebelievedin those rituals,” countered a woman in a paisley shawl. “And her intent was good. Doesn’t that matter?”
Julia lifted a hand before the debate could spiral. “Let’s not miss the larger thread,” she said. “The rituals in this book aren’t just literary devices. They’re a symbol of how people reach out when they’re desperate. A way to make meaning from the mess. What is magic, if not a metaphor for wanting something badly enough to change the world around you?”
Riya’s jaw clenched. If she wanted a list of all the things magic was supposedly a surrogate for, she’d call a therapist.
This was already proving a waste of precious time.
She turned to Kian, who was jotting something in his green lyric notebook. “Forget it,” she whispered. “We never should’ve come here. Let’s just go—”
“You know,” said a man on a beanbag, “my uncle saw real magic, once.” His bracelets rattled. “Realfae magic. He made a deal with a fae and was never the same again. Kept sleepwalking until the day he died. Dangerous, but fascinating stuff.”
Riya stiffened.
Fae.
Not a word her family used—peris were technically under the umbrella—but still. It was close enough to strike a nerve. And yet, he’d said it so casually, like it was just another story. Something you could gawk at safely from a distance.
Julia’s gaze flicked toward him, unreadable. “Let’s stay focused on the book,” she said smoothly. “Though I suppose the line between folklore and reality is often... blurred. That’s what makes stories like this resonate so deeply.”
Riya stared at a nearby candle. The flame wobbled in its jar.
While Kian’s hands trembled beside her, his eyes hollow, these strangers spoke about magic like it was an interesting hypothetical.
Riya leaned forward.
“If magic is real,” she said sharply, “and powerful enough to change people—or hurt them—then shouldn’t we treat it like the real risk it is?”
The sound dampened at once. All eyes turned to her.
Julia studied her. “A fair question,” she said. “In stories like this, magic is usually shown as something beautiful. Transformative. But power always carries risk.” She let that sit. “What interests me most, personally,isthat risk. How magic doesn’t always respond to what we ask. Like our words and emotions, it can create unexpected ripples.”
Her gaze flicked, almost imperceptibly, between Riya and Kian.
“That’s why I believe magic gives not what we want butwhat weneed. Whether we realize it or not.”
Kian shifted beside her. That tremor again. His skin, paling.
Riya’s throat squeezed.
“And if it gets it wrong?” she heard herself say. Her voice cracked, smaller now. “What if it responds to something we never meant?”
Julia smiled. “Magic is never wrong. It’shonest.”
That did it.
