Page 4 of Magic in My Bones

Eyes closed, I inhaled the familiar scent of Earl Grey tea and smiled. It was as pleasant and welcome a scent as the warm vanilla of old book bindings or the delicate black petals of the Ebonrose.

Bones, my faithful skeletal hound companion, clattered about the cottage, his bony tail wagging with unbridled enthusiasm as he chased after a rather lively little murkling. He was wearing the tiny bow tie I'd enchanted for him last week. It was black silk with silver skulls that glowed in the dark. Rather dashing, if I didsay so myself, though he had a terrible habit of losing them in the garden when he got too excited digging up interesting bones.

“Now, now, Bones,” I chided gently, “leave the little murkling be or we’ll have sour milk in the morning.”

The murkling darted under the couch, its tiny, translucent wings fluttering in agitation. Bones skidded to a halt, his skull tilting quizzically as he peered into the shadowy depths. With a resigned rattle of his bones, he turned and trotted over to me, nuzzling his smooth skull against my leg.

“That's a good boy,” I murmured, scratching him affectionately under his jaw. “Why don't we take our tea out to the garden? The moonflowers should be blooming any moment now.”

I grabbed a well-worn book from the shelf, tucked it under my arm, and headed out the back door, passing under strings of fairy lights made from captured starlight in mason jars. My cottage was a modest affair by Blackstone standards, but I'd made it my own over the years. Shelves of spell books lined every wall, interspersed with potted plants in various states of deliberately artistic decay. A collection of mismatched teacups floated gently in the air, organizing themselves by era. The skull-patterned curtains (a cheeky gift from a colleague) fluttered in a breeze that smelled of Earl Grey and old parchment.

The hawthorn tree I'd transplanted from home stood guard at the garden's edge, its ancient magic mingling with the newer spells I'd woven. The Fair Folk might have less power here in America, but I wasn't about to risk their displeasure by forgetting the old ways.

As I settled into my favorite wicker chair, the moonflowers unfurled their luminous petals, casting an ethereal glow across the garden. Bones curled up at my feet, his bones softly clinking together as he settled into a contented pile.

I had just cracked open my book, a delightfully obscure tome on the migratory patterns of spectral moths, when the soft crunch of footsteps on the garden path caught my attention. I glanced up, my eyebrows rising in surprise as I recognized the stern figure of Dean Elise Blackwood approaching through the moonlit garden. Her silver-streaked hair was tied back in its usual severe bun, though a few rebellious strands had escaped to frame her face. She wore her customary black robes, but I noticed she'd pinned her favorite brooch to the collar, which was a delicate silver spider that actually caught flies. A practical woman, our dean, who believed even jewelry should earn its keep.

“Dean Blackwood,” I greeted her warmly, rising from my seat with a flourish of my coat. “What an unexpected pleasure! I would have prepared a tray of those delightful little cucumber sandwiches you so enjoy had I known you were coming.”

The Dean's expression remained somber, her dark eyes reflecting the shimmering silver glow of the moonflowers. “Professor Crowe,” she acknowledged with a curt nod. “I'm afraid this isn't a social call.”

A flicker of unease passed through me, and Bones, ever attuned to my emotions, let out a soft, concerned rattle. I reached down to give his skull a reassuring pat before turning my full attention to the Dean.

“Ah, I see,” I said, my tone growing more serious. “Please, come. Sit. Can I get you anything? I'm afraid I'm all out of cucumber sandwiches, but I do have some Irish tea brack I baked this morning—Gran's recipe, with a splash of whiskey for the spirits. Both kinds.” I smiled at my own joke, though the Dean seemed less amused.

Dean Blackwood's fingers twitched slightly as she declined. “No, thank you, Professor.” She glanced at the shadowsgathering in the garden corners. “I'm here on a matter of grave importance.”

We took our seats and Bones curled up at my feet as I took up my teacup again.

“I understand you've been observing some rather peculiar spirit activity as of late?” said the dean.

I nodded, a frown tugging at the corners of my mouth. “Indeed, I have. The spirits have been uncharacteristically restless, even agitated. Just the other evening, I came across a spirit in the cemetery that was positively belligerent, hurling spectral objects and howling like a banshee. It took a great deal of coaxing and a rather potent calming charm to settle the poor fellow down.”

The Dean's brow furrowed, her lips pressing into a thin line. “And this isn't an isolated incident, I take it?”

“Far from it, I'm afraid,” I sighed, running a hand through my hair. “I've noticed spirits lingering in places they shouldn't be.”

“Such as?”

I shrugged and sipped my tea. “Well, in the library.”

Her frown deepened. “Professor, there arealwaysghosts in Fenshaw Library.”

“Book sprites, dusk wraiths, and ink eaters, certainly. But not ghasts and shades, Madam Dean. Those are highly unusual to find anywhere outside the necropolis itself.”

The Dean leaned forward, her expression grave. “Professor Crowe, I must ask. Have you any inkling as to what might be causing this unusual spirit activity?”

I took a thoughtful sip of my tea, the warm, fragrant liquid soothing my nerves. “In truth, Madam Dean, I've been turning that very question over in my mind for days now. The spirits are not typically prone to such erratic behavior without cause. Something, or someone, must be agitating them.”

I pulled out my research journal and added another observation to my growing list. The patterns were troubling: spirits appearing in unusual locations, displaying uncharacteristic aggression, some even manifesting without being summoned. Classic signs of magical interference, but with an odd twist I couldn't quite pin down.

“There's something we're missing, Bones,” I murmured, flipping through my notes. “The spirits aren't just restless. They're searching for something. And whatever it is, it has them scared.” I paused at a sketch I'd made of unusual rune markings I'd found in the older sections of the necropolis. They seemed familiar somehow, tugging at old memories I couldn't quite grasp.

“If only they could tell us directly what's wrong,” I sighed, “but fear makes spirits speak in riddles. Rather like my grandmother when she's trying to teach a particularly difficult lesson.”

“Indeed,” the Dean murmured, her fingers drumming a pensive rhythm against the arm of her chair. “Which brings me to the purpose of my visit. I'm afraid I must impose upon you, Professor Crowe, to take on an additional responsibility this semester.”

My eyebrows rose in surprise. “Oh?”

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