Page 192 of Magical Mission
Twobble crossed his arms. “You better bring me snacks.”
“Bribery is my love language,” Keegan muttered, and they vanished down the side path toward the garden.
I closed the door slowly, pressed my forehead against the wood, and whispered, “Why is this my life?”
Behind me, Stella’s laughter rolled out like warm bread from the oven.
“Because, darling,” she said, sipping her tea, “you were never meant for normal.”
The moment I shut the door behind Keegan, my dad, and a very grumbly Twobble, I whirled around like someone trying to hide a wildfire with a napkin. My eyes darted to the wide windows flanking the living room, giving a perfect view of the herb path winding around the side of the house, with Keegan hauling and pushing various creatures along with him.
Skye’s brows furrowed as she noticed Keegan hunching over and sneaking by.
“Stella,” I whispered, gripping her elbow like a woman hanging off a magical cliff. “Help me block the other windows.”
She blinked, mid-sip of tea. “Are we under siege?”
“These are the best snacks in the world,” Celeste said dreamily as she reached for another pastry.
“Not exactly,” I hissed, yanking the nearest curtain shut, “but my goblin friend just tried to stroll into the living room and introduce himself to my daughter.”
“Ooh,” Stella said, her voice dropping to an understanding hum. “We’re in stealth mode.”
“Exactly. Stealth. Mode.”
She snapped her fingers. “I have a spell that makes drapes look drawn even when they’re open. They won’t see outside.”
“Of course you do.”
I caught a flicker of movement as Keegan herded Twobble past one of the sheds like he was wrangling a disobedient toddler with pockets full of grenades.
“Stella,” I whispered again, more frantic now.
“I’m on it,” she muttered, tossing a handful of dried lavender and chamomile into the air and chanting softly.
The curtains shimmered, then stilled as Celeste glanced toward the side window.
I blinked. “That’s... actually amazing.”
“I have my moments.”
I walked to the kitchen and noticed the door pop open.
“Frank,” I muttered. “No.”
Too late.
The old bulldog trotted in like he owned the place, no subtlety, no shame, and curled up by the fire, and let out a heavy groan as he plopped down like a retired warrior sighing over lost battles.
Celeste, who was now stretched out on the sofa with one of the hand pies in hand, perked up.
“Oh my god,that’sthe dog?” she asked. “I thought I was hallucinating earlier. He looks like he’s been through it.”
My daughter was very astute as my dad kept one eye propped on the granddaughter he’d never met.
“He’s the most loyal dog ever.” I smiled, knowing my dad was loving every second.
Skye, who had both feet propped up and a teacup balanced on her belly, chuckled. “He looks like he’s about to tell us stories from the war.”
