Page 17 of Strings Attached
The thought stops me cold.
She’s a normal human. Magicless. Yet something about her presence seems to calm the very forces I’ve spent years learning to control. The same forces that are at their crankiest in the autumn during storm season.
I rise slowly. Above, the sky has cleared to a perfect cerulean. The morning mist has burned away completely, leaving only the ghostly impression of the lingering scent of vanilla and rosin in its wake.
I’d planned to spend the entire morning reinforcing the wards. Now they’re steady, not needing my intervention.
My fingers find the medallion in my pocket again. Some mysteries require too much thinking before breakfast.
But as I turn back toward town, I can’t help but wonder what other impossible things Missy Sinclair might be capable of awakening in Magnolia Cove. In its magic.
In me.
Dean
Notes scattered across my desk paint a fragmented picture of impossibility. Yellowed pages from my father’s journals, official council records dating back centuries, even controversial texts I’ve pulled from Magnolia Cove’s restricted archives. None of them explain what I witnessed Missy do to the ward lines though. What I keep witnessing.
My fingers trace the edge of another useless page while an autumn gale rattles the cottage windows. I have only the single lamp on, the glow casting long shadows past a well-worn leather chair and my stacked bookshelves to the guitar sitting quietly against the wall, waiting. I let my eyes linger on it for a moment before pushing the thought aside. There’s no time for distractions today.
Words blur together, meaningless academic observations about humans with magical sensitivity. It’s primarily focused on how to obscure the perception of magic, how to perform memory magic when necessary to erase things that shouldn’t have been seen, and what to do when minds resist magical influence.
Not a single damn word written about music that calms wards, or about someone’s magic being influenced by a human’spresence, or honey-warm eyes that melt the firmest defenses. I’ve even skimmed my sister’s recently published research—she’s one of the foremost researchers of living magical theory at Calthorne, the top magical university in our country. If anyone would know of such discoveries, it’s her. Reading her work feels like pressing against a door she’s closed, and the sting is knowing she continues to shape the field we once shared, while I stand on the outside by choice.
I rub my temples, a low hum of frustration rising in my chest.
The box sitting on the kitchen counter taunts me with its cheerful orange ribbon and familiar handwriting. Mom always loved autumn. She probably has pumpkins stacked on her porch steps and a wreath of dried leaves hanging on the door.
I’ve avoided the package all morning, like ignoring it might make it disappear. Might make the thing deep inside stop tugging at me. As if distance has ever made anything easier.
I rise and stretch then cross toward the box. Better to get it over with. At least Mom and Dad aren’t visiting this month. Her tears—always about how she wishes things could be fixed—are something I don’t have the fortitude for, even on my most focused days.
I untie the ribbon, letting it drop against the butcher block countertop. A tin sits on top and even before I get the lid fully off, the scent hits. Cinnamon—rich and slightly woody—blended with ginger’s bite and a faint touch of nutmeg, all wrapped together in sugar’s sweetness.
Mom’s autumn spice cookies.
Magic shimmers over them, preserving them. But Mom’s love preserves more. A memory comes to me unbidden.
Dean is taking the last cookie!Nell is maybe seven standing with fists propped on her hips.
She’s eaten more than me!I’m indignant. Ten and knowing I can do no wrong. Arrogant enough to truly believe that.
Mom, so much younger and less worried, only smiles and swipes her hand, slicing the cookie perfectly down the middle.There’s plenty to share. And we’ll make more later.
I put the lid back on the cookie tin and move it aside. Beneath, there’s a sweater, black as night and just as soft. Mom’s knitted protection charms into every stitch and they hum, as comforting as a whispered prayer. Some mothers send care packages. Mine sends armor disguised as comfort in a color she doesn’t prefer seeing on me, but knows it’s all I’ll wear.
The letter is last, of course. Mom’s elegant script flows across the page, filled with ordinary words—book club opinions, council gossip, wedding preparations. No mention of my absence. No guilt. Just the weight of everything left unsaid pressed between carefully chosen phrases.
The roses for the ceremony are coming along beautifully, though I sometimes wish we had your preservation abilities. Your father always said you handled temperamental magic with such ease.
I fold the letter without reading farther. I can only take so much of this—the gentle pressure, the expectations wrapped in kindness.
My sister’s face rises unbidden to my mind, her expression the last time I saw her—nose flaring, lips thin, tears spilling from unblinking eyes to streak down reddened cheeks.
I can’t undo what happened, can’t make things right. The clock chimes two, its sound echoing through my too-empty house. Time for Emma’s lesson. Time to watch Missy coax impossible things from ordinary moments. To stand alert for whatever she’s doing to make the magic… unpredictable. To pretend like that’s what draws me in, not the curve of her lips or the tenor of her laughter.
I leave the cookie tin unopened and step out, not bothering to lock the door. Even if someone dared to break into my house, thewards I’ve set in place would keep them out. Except, perhaps, for Missy.
That thought hangs on me as I begin the walk beneath a cloud-filled sky.
