Page 24 of Strings Attached
Tom, arms full with a storm-dampened oversized pumpkin that’s soaked his flannel, shoots me a pleading look. “A little help here?”
I take a slow sip of coffee, grateful it’s bitter enough to match my mood. “I distinctly recall suggesting we wait a few weeks to decorate.”
“Oh, hush.” Grammie Rae waves off my pragmatism with weathered hands. “The magic likes pretty things. Makes it feel appreciated.”
I glance at Tom, raising an eyebrow and offering a look that probably conveys:Sorry I have nothing to offer.He groans but dumps the pumpkin into a wheelbarrow, bows his head, and gets to it while grumbling, “I don’t know how I got roped into this.”
A sentiment I understand too well. I would normally let Cordelia or someone else from the council handle festival preparation or cleanup. I’m only out here because of the nexus and making sure the magic is stable. Otherwise I wouldn’t intentionally subject myself to Grammie Rae’s ramblings about magic being her pal.
Then again—I force another swallow of coffee—I’m realizing all my careful research hasn’t provided answers. More than a decade of studying magical theory, and nothing in my journals or notes or books explains what happens when Missy plays. It’s not just when she’s performing either. That kiss… something shifted when her lips met mine, as if the wards themselves held their breath. Magic isn’t supposed to respond to emotion. It’s equations, formulas, control.
But then why do I feel it pulse stronger whenever she?—
A loud cheer cuts through the air. The high school baseball team has arrived, half of them wearing their caps, a few with younger brothers tagging along. Tom high-fives the kids from his team then pats the older boys on their shoulders.
This is what Tom wanted when he spoke to me—easy camaraderie, shared laughter, the simple joy of belonging. Even after a decade here, I stand apart, more comfortable with ward lines than warm greetings. The Head Warlock isn’t meant tobe anyone’s friend. That distance serves a purpose. In towns like Magnolia Cove, where enchantments thread through every streetlamp and sidewalk crack, the role demands restraint. Detachment. Control.
Or at least, it did before Missy started making me question everything I thought I understood about magic. And about connection.
The teenagers’ arrival transforms the cleanup into something closer to organized chaos—hay bales become impromptu fortresses, leaves turn into ammunition.
Iris, who has spent the morning refreshing wilted flowers, ducks behind a display of chrysanthemums, giggling as Tom theatrically dodges her handful of maple leaves.
“Your aim is terrible!”
“Says the woman hiding behind flowers!”
I should probably stop them, insist on order and a good use of everyone’s time. But even Grammie Rae has resigned herself to chuckling and rolling her eyes. I smile behind my coffee cup then the expression drops just as quickly.
I’m getting soft. Letting sentiment cloud judgment. Exactly what I promised myself I wouldn’t do after?—
“Good morning!”
Familiar laughter that makes my pulse skip accompanies Rachel’s voice. Missy walks beside her and I’m not the only one who stopped by Ethan’s bakery this morning. They both hold whisk-stamped coffee cups that curl steam into the cool post-storm air. Morning light makes Missy’s hair gleam. The memory of how that hair felt twisted in my fingers during our storm-swept kiss sends electricity down my spine.
Rachel walks them closer to Tom and Iris, who are still laughing, a few leaves caught in their hair. Missy looks back. Catches my eye. Blushes so deeply the red spreads across hercheeks, reaching her ears. She shoots her attention back to the group but I’m frozen, unable to breathe.
“Well, well.” Grammie Rae appears at my elbow, a butcher-knife-wide smile pasted on. “A little Magnolia Cove magic in the air, eh, oh mighty Head Warlock?”
My fingers tighten on the half-empty cup. “What do you mean by that?”
She shrugs but looks over to Missy who is, most unfortunately, looking back at me again. Grammie Rae’s smile widens. “I told Ethan that the magic wanted her sister. It seems it’s not satisfied with just one of them, though, does it?”
“The Codex Arcanumsays nothing about magical preferences.”
“The Codex Arcanum”—she stretches the words out and makes her voice high and formal—“was written by dusty old men.” She elbows me, actually physically shoves her elbow into my ribs, which shocks me enough to hold back my retort. “The only thing they’ve ever kissed is their own asses. Unlike some people I could mention who were spotted kissing in the rain last night, eh?”
I choke on my coffee.
“Grammie Rae?—”
“Oh, don’t worry, honey. My lips are sealed.” She mimes locking her mouth and throwing away the key, then winks at me. “You can’t keep secrets from me, child, the magic tells me everything. And I have to say, it’s about time someone made our stern Head Warlock blush and come up short on words. A bit of humility looks good on you.”
Her words hit harder than her elbow. My coffee suddenly tastes bitter and filled with mint—with magic and the cost of it. The magic probably does tell her things. It’s moody and mercurial, difficult to manage. They’re practically a matched set. Nonetheless, I have a reputation to maintain here.
“I don’t know what you think you saw?—”
“Child,”—she cuts me off with another knowing smile—“I’ve lived with magic longer than you’ve been breathing. I know what it looks like when it finds something, or someone, it likes.” She glances meaningfully at Missy, who’s helping Emma tune her violin. “Just like I know what it looks like when someone’s fighting something inevitable.”
