Page 65 of Magical Moonbeam
Back to the dragons.
Back to what the one had said with that moonlit voice in my mind.
The Moonbeam reveals what you already carry.
I rubbed at my temple, not because it hurt, but because I could feel the truth of it still thrumming there, like an echo. I hadtried not to think about it too much since, but the truth was, I hadn’t forgotten a single word.
And I couldn’t shake what Skonk had muttered on his way out of a staff meeting yesterday, just loud enough for Twobble to throw a muffin at him.
“Leaky dreams. Dangerous thing for someone with half-formed Hedge talent.”
At the time, it hadn’t landed. I’d been too busy dealing with attendance rosters and seating charts and whether or not one of the midlife witches had hexed a chalkboard into humming.
But now, in the quiet, it came back like a whisper with claws.
Leaky dreams.
Or had he saidthoughts?
Either way, the implication was the same. Something in me, some part of my Hedge magic, was bleeding through. If I wasn’t careful, my thoughts weren’t staying entirely my own.
And if that was true, what did that mean for the dragons?
The knowledge of them wasn’t something I could just lock up tight. If it slipped into a dream and wandered out into the world… if someone like Gideon ever got wind of it…
I set the bowl down with a thud, my appetite fading.
I was still learning. Stillbecoming,as the dragon had put it. But that didn’t make the risk any less real. Maybe I was trying too hard to hold the weight of everything. The Academy. Shadowick. The dragons. My dad’s curse.
And maybe my subconscious had no idea what belonged to me and what needed protection.
I pressed a hand to my chest and closed my eyes.
“Okay,” I whispered. “One thing at a time.”
A shriek cut through the hallway.
Not a magical screech or a panicked wail—no. This was a very specific kind of shriek.
The kind that involved Skonk.
And trouble.
I leapt up and bolted toward the door just as a blur of robes and broom bristles came whipping around the corner.
Skonk, hands flailing, was attempting to run backward down the hall while holding what looked like a pastry tin over his head as a makeshift shield.
“Lady Limora, it was anobservation!” he cried.
Hot on his heels was the woman in question, dark hair wild, eyes flashing, and a large broom clutched firmly in one elegant hand.
Not a cane.
Not an umbrella.
Definitely a broom.
“You implied my eyebrows were drawn on by a feral chipmunk!” she shouted, brandishing the broom like a saber.
