Page 186 of Magical Mission
I blinked. “She gave youthosedirections, and youfollowedthem?”
Skye shrugged. “Pregnant lady intuition.”
Celeste snorted. “It was better than any GPS.”
“I’m impressed and so happy you’re here.”
“So, you had no idea?” Celeste asked again, softer now.
I shook my head. “None. But... I’m so glad you’re here.”
Even if I didn’t understand how. Even if I was terrified of what it might mean.
Because the veil between the life I left behind and the one I’d just begun to understand wasn’t thin anymore.
It hadripped.
And yet, across that rip sat my daughter and my best friend, laughing on my couch like they’d always belonged here.
And maybe... they did.
Chapter Forty-Three
The second I heard Celeste’s delighted, “This couch is so weirdlybouncy!” from the living room, I made a beeline for the kitchen, grabbed the hem of my sweater, and muttered, “Oh no, no, no.”
The kitchen looked mostly how I left it, blessedly dusty in some corners, herbs a little too dry on the hooks, and not a single crumb or sign of life in the pantry. Which would’ve been fine if I’d beenlivinghere, but seeing as I’d been at the Academy for weeks, and the cottage was supposed to be my charming, off-the-grid sanctuary, I needed to whip up snacks. Fast. Normal ones. Nothing glowing, bubbling, or talking.
“Please let this book be kind,” I whispered, dragging the spellbook off the shelf and flipping through it with the panic of someone skimming for the fire extinguisher section in a cookbook.
Something simple. Something convincing. Something snacky.
Little Smokie Sausages, Mirthful Variant.
That soundedclose enough to human food.
I rolled up my sleeves, muttered the invocation, and began gathering ingredients. The book called for standard spices like garlic, sage, a pinch of optimism, that part I skipped, and a sausage charm I hadn’t used in a while.
I waved the wand with more flair than precision, whispering the activation word.
The pan shuddered.
Promising.
A gentle sizzle rose from the iron skillet. My shoulders relaxed just slightly.
And then the book’s corner turned on its own, as if nudged by a mischievous breeze, revealing the fine print I hadn’t seen before:
Warning: Results may vary in kitchens without regular magical alignment. Sausages may exhibit sentience. Use parsley sprigs for pacification.
“What?” I blinked, but it was too late.
The sausages hissed, jumped, and one launched itself straight into the air with a loudpop, ricocheting off the ceiling and smacking into the spice shelf with a splatter of mustardy magic.
A puff of black smoke billowed up, thick and theatrical.
“NOPE,” I yelped, scrambling to grab the dishrag and smother the pan. Another sausage rolled across the counter and tried to escape via the sink.
Behind me, the front door creaked.
