Page 27 of Barbells, Broomsticks & A Baby

Chapter 9—Grizelda

THREE WEEKS AFTER LYRA’Sbirth, our home has settled into a new normal—or at least, as normal as a household containing two witches, a troll, and a magically gifted infant can be.

Lyra continues to display remarkable magical abilities for her age. One afternoon, she recreates a miniature solar system of diapers revolving around a container of wipes while I’m changing her.

“Gravitational manipulation at three weeks,” my mother says with poorly disguised pride as she expertly captures a floating stack of diapers. “The Blackthorn twins didn’t manage that until they were six months old.”

“Mother, please don’t turn my daughter’s magical development into a competition.” I sigh, though I too feel a flutter of pride at Lyra’s precocious abilities.

“It’s not a competition when there’s clearly no contest,” she says pertly, tucking the diapers securely into a drawer enchanted to resist Lyra’s gravitational tampering.

Atlas wisely remains silent on this topic. He’s become adept at navigating between my occasional postpartum emotional storms and my mother’s confidence in her grandmotherly expertise.

“How is our little magical prodigy this morning?” he asks instead.

“Hungry and opinionated,” I say as Lyra waves her tiny fists impatiently. “Like her mother and grandmother.”

This earns me a rare smile from my mother. “The Greenwarth women have never been known for their patience, though your father used to say it was simply because we always knew exactly what we wanted.”

This casual mention of my father, who passed away when I was still at the finishing academy with Cala Caldera, years after his divorce from Mom, surprises me. She rarely speaks of him, and never with the fond tone she’s just used.

“I don’t remember him saying that,” I say carefully, settling into the rocking chair to feed Lyra.

“You wouldn’t.” She straightens already perfect stacks of baby clothes. “He said it to me privately, usually after you’d worn him down with your particular brand of stubborn determination as a child.”

The image of my serious, scholarly father being worn down by my childhood persistence brings an unexpected lump to my throat. “I wish he could have met Lyra,” I say softly.

“He would have adored her,” says my mother, her voice uncharacteristically gentle. “He always had a special fondness for strong-willed females, even if he couldn’t always live with them.” She smiles for a moment before returning to organizing baby clothes.

Atlas, sensing the emotional current in the room, discreetly murmurs something about checking the protective wards and slips out, leaving my mother and me in a rare moment of shared remembrance.

“I’ve been meaning to give you something,” she says after a moment, reaching into her robe pocket. She withdraws a small silver locket on a delicate chain. “This belonged to your father’s mother. It’s traditional to pass it to the first daughter when she has her first child.”

She places the locket in my free hand. It’s heavier than it looks, warm with old magic that tingles against my palm. “It contains a preservation charm for memories. If you place a strand of Lyra’s hair inside, it will create a magical impression of her at this age that you can revisit years from now.”

I’m touched beyond words by this unexpected gift. That she kept it and passed it on even after their divorce and somewhat standoffish relationship that I remember, surprises me. “Mom, I... Thank you.”

She waves away my gratitude with characteristic dismissiveness, but her eyes are softer than usual. “It’s tradition,” she says simply. “Besides, I have no use for sentimental trinkets at my age.”

The moment is interrupted by a gentle knock at the nursery door. Atlas peers in, his expression apologetic. “Forgive the interruption, but Minerva is here for Lyra’s one-month magical assessment.”

“It’s only been three weeks,” I say.

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