Page 19 of Strings Attached
But that’s not something I can commit to paper. Not something I can let myself examine too closely. Because if my attraction to her influences the wards’ response…
I drop the pen. There’s no point in maintaining this pretense of academic observation. These notes are as false as Magnolia Cove’s non-magical facade we craft for visitors.
Who sees you exactly as you are?
Missy’s words from before echo in my head, golden as the dawn light that cascaded over her. The question lingers alongside the clove and cinnamon spices, demanding an answer I’m not ready to give.
The cookie crumbles beneath my fingers as I reach for it blindly. Outside, waves crash against the shore in a rhythm that reminds me of her playing. Of Emma’s magic finding its harmony under her touch. Of something that shouldn’t be possible becoming beautifully, terrifyingly real.
My father’s journals lie scattered across the desk, their margins filled with his precise handwriting. I used to find comfort in his methodical approach to magical theory. Now his certainties feel like accusations.Magic follows rules, Dean. Understanding those rules is the key to controlling them.
But what if that isn’t true?
Missy breaks every rule simply by existing. Seeing past wards is rare for humans, but not unheard of. Her sister has the same issue. Calming magic, though? Strengthening the wards? Making me feel…
My fingers crush together, and the cookie crumbles over my desk. I wipe the mess away. Pick the pen back up.
Further observation required to determine the extent of the subject's influence on magical energy patterns.
Maybe this is what finding faith feels like—this terrifying certainty that something exists beyond explanation. Beyond control. Beyond something a person can tame, understand, or capture in neatly organized notes.
I close the journal, its wards humming softly in the darkness. Tomorrow I’ll go back to being the council’s perfect protector, the son who stays away to ensure his sister’s happiness, the warlock who puts duty before desire.
But tonight, in the quiet hours between midnight and dawn, I let myself remember the way my magic danced when Missy smiled. How her music made impossible things feel inevitable. The weight of her in my arms and how her laughter echoed into me.
Maybe that’s the most dangerous magic of all.
Missy
A clatter of laughter and conversations fill the town square and light spills across the space like honey dripping from a spoon, catching on the half-constructed leaf arch that looks more like a botanical disaster than the elegant entrance Grammie Rae seems to have envisioned.
It took precisely thirty seconds of me meeting the woman before she insisted I call her Grammie. She also told me she was Emma’s actual grandmother and listed off all the town’s most eligible bachelors.
She stands beneath the arch now, silver curls tucked beneath a ball cap, wrinkled hands fisted on her hips over a pair of practical overalls. “Tom, honey, those mums need to be at least six inches to the left. No, your other left.” She throws her hands in the air. “This is why I told the council we needed a professional.”
Tom shoves the flowers a third direction and laughs. “Last time I’ll spend my day off volunteering.”
“Good.” Grammie Rae weaves more leaves into the arch. “Maybe the council will actually become useful and hire people who know what they’re doing.”
“I heard that,” Dean calls from where he’s helping arrange pumpkins by the gazebo. His all-black ensemble makes him look like a crow among autumn leaves, but somehow he pulls it off. Not that I’m noticing.
Rachel appears beside me, two steaming cups in hand. “Your sister’s cinnamon lattes are dangerous,” she says, passing one over. The rich scent fills the air between us as the heat warms my hands. Rachel laughs before taking a drink. “I’ve had three already, and it’s not even noon.”
“Alex’s specialty is making things addictive. She didn’t get a cookbook deal for nothing.” I take a sip, the creamy richness blending seamlessly with the nutty flavor of espresso. I try not to think about how many things in Magnolia Cove fall into theaddictivecategory. Like the way certain council members look when they’re concentrating on perfectly spacing gourds.
“Speaking of addictive,” Rachel says like she’s read my mind. I can’t help the heat that flushes my cheeks. “Emma’s been different since you’ve started teaching her. There’s something about the way she plays now…” She trails off, watching Emma twirl in her burnt-orange dress and laughing with other teens from the music program. “I can’t explain it in words really, but thank you.”
She keeps dancing around whatever she really wants to say, keeps exchanging strange looks with Dean although they seem to barely tolerate each other. There’s some mystery happening here. When I shared that with Alex last night, she’d become flighty, tossing her wedding magazine to the side and jumping up to ‘do the dishes’ despite me having already washed them earlier.
I try to think of a careful question I could ask that might unravel whatever Magnolia Cove hides. There’s a part of me that wonders if Alex really joined a cult. Part of me wonders if I want to join it as well.
Just as I’m about to speak, Mrs. Delehay’s Pomeranian makes a break for freedom, then gets tangled in the raffia streamers Tom’s trying to hang. The chaos that follows prompts Grammie Rae to throw her hands in the air, dramatically calling for divine intervention.
Iris, the florist, giggles and covers her laugh with her fingers. “At least the dog has good taste. Those streamers are a crime against autumn.”
Tom untangles himself then freezes and gapes at her. “You act like I chose the material. I’d like to see you do better.”
“That’s what she’s been trying to explain for twenty minutes,” Grammie Rae says with a wink that makes Iris laugh harder. Tom sticks his tongue out at her, and without missing a beat, Iris does the same, her grin wide as she mimics him. They burst into laughter together.
