Page 5

I reached for my left wrist, checking that my bracelet was secure. It was a dainty, vintage-looking piece of silver filigree, so fragile it looked as if it were woven from spiderwebs. Most people saw it as a pretty heirloom, but I felt the cooling hum of the dampening wards etched into the metal. It was my secret anchor, the only thing that kept my raw magic tucked away and my ‘high-level’ signature hidden from the world.

I stretched, rolling my shoulders loose, and reached for the floaty sundress I’d laid out the night before. The fabric was light, pastel yellow with little sprays of white flowers, and it brushed cool against my skin as I slipped it on. It was the kind of dress that made me feel like myself, not just a witch with secrets, but a woman who ran a bookshop and hummed silly tunes in the morning. And hum I did, the half-remembered song floating from my lips as I padded downstairs to open the shop. I smoothed the fabric down over my hips, catching my reflection in the mirror. For a heartbeat, I imagined no coven, no shards, no hunters on rooftops, only sunlight, a quiet shop, and the life I’d fought to make mine. Fragile, yes. But still mine.

Violet was less enchanted with the sunshine. The calico leapt onto the counter, tail lashing with theatrical irritation, causing a ceramic pot to tip, dirt spilling in a dark heap across the polished floor.

“Violet!” I scolded, though I couldn’t hide my smile. “All right, all right, breakfast first.”

I set the food dish down, and she gave me a sharp, knowing look, as if scolding me for my foolish wish, before diving into her food dish and purring smugly. As I knelt to sweep up the dirt, muttering under my breath, the bell above the door clanged violently.

A short, round man tumbled inside, his ruddy face flushed, nose bulbous from years of drink. His voice cracked high and sharp as he squeaked, “Ivy! Ivy! Ivy! Prepare yourself. They know.”

“Kingy,” I gasped, dropping the broom. He was more than just a friend. He was a constant part of my life, soft-hearted, bumbling, and loyal to a fault. You only get one of these friends in life, and he was mine. If he was running red-faced into my shop at this hour, then something had truly gone wrong, and danger was already here. My first instinct was to grab his pudgy hands, steady him and demand answers. But the panic rolling off him was enough. I already knew this wasn’t some foolish tavern tale.

My pulse spiked. I whispered a quick protective charm under my breath, the wards shimmering around the room. Then, like a mask sliding into place, I straightened my shoulders, smoothed my dress, and fixed the calm, professional smile I wore for customers onto my face. The door swung open again and in they came.

Two tall women, both cloaked in dark silks that caught the light like oil on water. One was broad through the shoulders and hips, hair bound tight in braids that gleamed black as crow feathers. The other was long and thin, face sharp as a blade, her pale eyes narrowed beneath a severe knot of silver hair. Their matching scowls could have carved cracks into the floor. My throat went dry and my stomach knotted. They’re not here for books and flowers. They’re here for answers I can’t give.

These women had taught me half the charms I used, had praised my cleverness at sixteen and had smiled with cold pride when I passed initiation. But loyalty is brittle when power is at stake. The weight in their eyes told me their sisterhood wouldn’t save me if they decided I was a threat. They were the High Sisters of my coven, the heads of the circle, and both wore the same stern expression—the kind that could silence a room with a look.

“Ivy Thornton,” said the thin one, Muriel St James, her voice like frost snapping over a pond. “You will tell us what you found.”

The broader one, Shirl Steele, added, “Do not waste our time. Rumours travel fast, and they all point to you.”

Kingy made a strangled noise, half hiccup, half squeak. I darted him a sharp look, subtle as I could manage, and flicked my fingers toward the door. Go! He caught the signal, nodded, and waddled quickly back out—though not before tripping over the threshold and cursing under his breath. The bell chimed behind him, leaving me alone with the Sisters. I forced my brows up in polite confusion.

“What I found?” I repeated, tone all innocence. “You’ll have to forgive me, but I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Muriel stepped closer, voice dropping low. “We are not fools. Something stirred two weeks ago, an energy felt across Ebonvale. You were seen in your shop late at night. You were felt.”

Shirl crossed her arms, her gaze sharp enough to cut through the shop's peaceful atmosphere. “You will attend the next council meeting. And there, you will speak plainly. No more evasions and no more deflections this time.”

She stepped closer, the weight of her authority making the air feel heavy. “We know you know, Ivy Thornton. You’ve played the part of the simple shopkeeper well, but the time for games is over.”

The words landed heavy, more command than invitation. My fingers curled against my skirt, nails biting through fabric. I held their gaze, my green eyes unflinching despite my heart thudding. “What I know,” I said softly, “is that accusations without evidence do nothing but spread fear.”

The Sisters didn’t flinch. Muriel’s lips curved into a smile, but there was no warmth in it. “We’ll see if your tune changes when you stand before the High Circle, girl.”

And with that, they turned in unison, silk cloaks sweeping the floor as they left my shop as suddenly as they had entered. The bell chimed once, then silence.

I exhaled, the mask slipping at last. My pulse thundered in my ears. Violet hopped onto the counter, tail curling around her paws, golden eyes fixed on me like she had understood every word spoken.

“They know,” I whispered to myself, barely daring to breathe it. Violet flicked her tail. I realised my days of humming folk songs in floaty sundresses might already be numbered.

Bass and Cocktails

“Absolutely not,” Aggy said, shoving a glass of something neon-pink and lethal into my hand. “You are not wearing your ‘sensible librarian’ sweater tonight, Ivy. We are going to The Glitch. We are drinking until we forget what a Council interrogation feels like, and we are dancing.”

I looked at my reflection in the full-length mirror of Aggy’s bedroom, which was currently a chaotic explosion of discarded heels and glitter palettes.

Aggy was a force of nature. Carrying the proud, ancient bloodline of the southern islanders, she was a stunning, curvy goddess with honey-brown skin and thick, dark waves that reached her waist. She was currently wrestling into a gold silk slip dress that hugged her hips in a way that should have been illegal. Aggy didn't just walk into rooms; she owned them, filling the space with a grounded, effortless confidence. There was a warmth to her that felt like home, a sense of whānau that meant if you were her friend, you were her family for life.

“Does this make me look like a ‘human’?” Mia asked, emerging from the bathroom. Mia was our resident sparkplug, tiny and lithe with a sharp, ink-black bob and an edgy, ‘Cyberpunk Princess’ vibe. She was wearing high-waisted leather pants and a sheer top that showed off the delicate, glowing protection sigils she’d tattooed down her spine. She tripped over a stray pump, recovered with a clumsy pirouette, and grinned. “I think I’ve nailed the ‘human-at-a-club’ vibe.”

“You look like a masterpiece, Mia. Just don’t try to cast anything after the third cocktail,” Lola warned. Lola was the opposite of Mia’s frantic energy. She was willowy, graceful and blonde, with sharp, porcelain features that made her look as if she were constantly judging the quality of the oxygen in the room. She had a world-class case of resting bitch face—a permanent, icy pout that sent most men running for the hills. The humans assumed she was an ice queen who hated everyone in the room, but we knew better. Lola was the one who carried the extra hair ties and the emergency chocolate. She wasn't unhappy, but she had a face that refused to smile for anyone who hadn't earned it.

And then there was me. I looked… loud. Aggy had poured me into a deep emerald silk camisole and a black miniskirt. My hair was down, wild and wavy, pinned back on one side with a sprig of dried lavender I’d enchanted to stay fragrant all night.

“I look like I’m trying too hard,” I murmured, tugging at the hem.