Page 17 of Magical Moonbeam
“What could he want from me?” I asked, half to him, half to myself.
“Maybe he thinks you can open something he can’t,” Keegan said. “Or maybe… maybe it’s deeper than that. Old magic doesn’t always follow logic. You said it yourself. The Veils are thinning. Maybe the Moonbeam isn’t just a bridge. Maybe it’s a mirror.”
“A mirror?”
Keegan nodded. “What if he sees something in you he lost or never had? A connection to Stonewick that he can’t recreate.”
The idea sank into my bones like an ember finding dry wood. Seeing the images of him as a young boy standing on the outskirts of Stonewick had haunted me from the moment I saw them in Gideon’s thoughts.
If Iwerethe key, if I was the connection between the Academy, the Wards, and the future of both towns, what did that make me?
A symbol?
A target?
Or a door?
“I don’t want to be a pawn in someone else’s plan,” I said softly.
“You’re not,” Keegan replied. “You’re the one making plans now. But that’s why we need to understand him. You’ve always been right about that, as much as I hate to agree, because if he’snot pulling at your magic right now, that means he’s waiting. And I don’t like what that might mean.”
I nodded slowly, staring out over the rise of the garden path, where the trees opened up just enough to reveal the far edge of the Academy grounds. Beyond that lay the wild fields.
And beyond those, Shadowick lurked.
“You’re not alone in this,” Keegan said.
I turned to him, his eyes steady on mine.
“I know,” I said. “That’s the only reason I’m not entirely scared out of my mind.”
He didn’t smile, not exactly. But something softened in his expression.
“We’ll be ready,” he said. “No matter what his reason is.”
And somehow, standing there under the rustling trees, I let myself believe that.
At least for now.
Chapter Five
The quiet of the cottage had begun to settle in all the right places. The tea had gone tepid on the windowsill, my dad snored softly near the hearth, and I’d finally managed to convince my mind to slow down, just a little, after hours of spinning through Moonbeam theory and Gideon what-ifs.
That was when I saw him.
Through the kitchen window, past the false honeysuckle and the windchimes, was Twobble. Or… at least, it looked like Twobble, but he’d mentioned that he planned on taking a nap that lasted until Moonbeam was finished.
But here he was in the garden, halfway hidden by the lavender bush, a small tool in hand as he dug with furious intent. His patched vest flapped as he leaned down, jabbing at the dirt with something too small to be a proper tool and too pointy to be approved by anyone who cared about property lines or magical root systems.
His little mouth muttered, no, grumbled. Phrases I couldn’t quite make out floated up through the cracked window.
I raised an eyebrow when I heard the word turnip.
Twobble didoddthings. That much was a given. But this had a different vibe to it. More... manic. More frantic. He rearranged the stones by the garden path with sharp movements, lining them up, then knocking them out of alignment again with a snarl of frustration.
I hesitated before pushing open the kitchen door, and the scent of chamomile and damp earth hit me in the face.
“Twobble?” I called out lightly, careful not to startle him.
