Page 41 of The Witch's Spell
Her kind words, mixed with the pressure I’ve felt these last few days to solve all the problems I suddenly find myself wading through, make me tear up. I clutch the book to my chest with one hand and use the other to wipe the moisture from my eyes.
“Thank you, Welma. It means a lot.”
“Of course. Now, I’ll leave you to it. Let me know if you need anything.” She smiles at me—and casts a lingering look at Thorne—before meandering away through the shelves, humming to herself as she goes. Once she’s out of earshot, I turn to Thorne.
“Would you like to stay awhile? I’m not so sure I’m ready to head home.”
He nods once. “I’d love to.”
His smile makes my chest warm. With the book held tight to my breast, I lead the way back down the aisle of books, and we take a seat in two armchairs near the crackling hearth. The fire chases what remains of the cold from my bones, and I sigh into the soft embrace of the well-worn chair.
Thorne sets his cane aside, then removes his satchel and reaches inside to extract a bottle of the shimmering golden liquid. When he pops the cork, I catch the gentle scent ofhoney and cinnamon. He lifts it to his lips and takes a swallow, and the bobbing of his throat catches my eye. His skin looks so soft in the firelight. My mouth wants badly to taste the spot just below his ear—which I know is beautifully pointed beneath his human glamour—but I don’t allow myself the luxury. Instead, I clear my throat and open the cover of the book.
“Secrets of Fairyland,” I start as Thorne slips the vial into his satchel and leans back in the deep armchair. “We’ve”—I flip quickly to the back of the book—“approximately three hundred pages to get through.”
Thorne tips his head at me, silver eyes glittering. “We’d best get started, then.”
With his eyes still on me and the fire keeping us company, I turn to chapter one and start to read.
“Chapter seven,” I read aloud. I’ve shed my boots, and my legs are tucked up beneath me as we sit before the fire. Welma poured tea earlier, and my half-full teacup sits on a low table beside the armchair. “Crossing the Veil.”
At this, Thorne opens one eye. I thought he fell asleep at one point, but he’s been quietly listening over the past hour or so, making small humorous noises and smiling at some of the information in the book.
“That sounds promising,” he says.
I nod once, then continue to read.
“Portals into Fairyland are rare gateways existing at the thin boundaries between the human world and the enchanted realm of the fae. Hidden in plain sight,portals often appear as an ordinary object or place—a forgotten door, a secluded pond, or an ancient tree—waiting to be discovered by those attuned to its subtle magic. However, crossing the veil is not as simple as stepping through, nor is it considered wise.
“A portal itself is a conduit for powerful energies that flow between the realms, and its stability depends on a careful balance of magic. When the energies of the human world and the fairy realm are in harmony, the portal opens smoothly, allowing for passage between worlds. But a disruption of that balance can lead to unexpected and dangerous consequences.”
My eyes widen. I look at Thorne. He’s sitting forward in the armchair now, brow furrowed in concentration. I wiggle around in my chair to face him more fully. Turning the page, I continue to read.
“The delicate balance of magic that sustains a fairy portal is easily disturbed. Even the slightest shift in the flow of energy between the realms can cause a portal to malfunction. This disruption may appear as nothing more than a flicker in the air, a sudden gust of wind, or a strange sensation on the skin, but the consequences can be far-reaching. Creatures from Fairyland may slip through unnoticed, drawn by the instability of the portal, or worse, the human world may be inundated with chaotic bursts of fairy magic. Such incidents often result in storms, bizarre weather patterns, or even alterations to the landscape itself, where the laws of nature bend and twist under the influence of the fae.
“For those who seek to use the portals for their own purposes, the risks are immense. Few have the wisdom or strength to truly understand the forces at play. It is saidthat only those with deep knowledge of both realms and a profound connection to the flow of magic can hope to pass through the portal safely, without causing unintended harm. Many would-be travelers have tried to cross into Fairyland, only to disappear without a trace, their fates sealed by the magic that lingers at the portal’s edge. Some legends even speak of those who stepped through and found themselves forever lost between worlds, caught in the turbulent ebb and flow of magical energies.”
When I come to the end of the paragraph, I pause, letting my eyes skim the page, returning time and again to the words that jumped out at me.
Balance. Energy. Instability.
“The storm . . .” Thorne whispers.
I tear my eyes from the page. “Yes. The one that came through when you—” I glance around, but Welma is nowhere to be seen. Despite this, I lower my voice. “The one that came through when you used the portal. I think you’re right: the sudden burst of magic caused an imbalance in our worlds. Now the portal is unstable.”
Thorne is rubbing that same strand of hair again, rolling it back and forth along his forefinger and thumb. “But how do we correct it? How do I send it back if the portal refuses to open for me?”
I consult the book still lying open in my lap, but the chapter is short, and it offers no guidance on how to fix a fairy portal after throwing it off-balance.
Chewing my lip, I try to recall my lessons at Coven Crest, some of the basics we were taught in our early classes. Onlyproblem is we were taught very little about fairies, and what wedidlearn was rudimentary at best.
“Tell me about fairy magic,” I say. Then I realize I don’t know if Thorne evenhasmagic. I don’t know if all fairies possess abilities or if only a few are born with gifts, like humans and witches here in our realm. “Do you—” I glance around again, but still no Welma. “Do you have magic?”
Thorne’s thumb and forefinger pause in their worrying at his hair. With a small smile, he directs his attention to the hearth, where the fire has started to burn low. I follow his gaze, and with a whoosh of air and sparking of flame, the fire roars back to life. I let out a small gasp.
“Yes,” he says, leaning back in the armchair. “I have magic. Most fairies do. But it doesn’t work like yours... At least, not exactly. It’s more unpredictable, tied closely to our environment and our emotions. Rather than being something separate from or outside of us, it’spartof us, an extension of our life force. Like spring storms, our magic can be wild, untamed. I’ve had it all my life, yet I feel I’ve only just begun to grasp the very edge of my understanding of how it works.” He sighs and props his sharp chin upon his hand. “I wish I were less useless.”
Slowly, with no fresh wood to devour, the fire dies down again. I close the book and set it aside, then lean on the plush armrest.
