Page 32 of Strings Attached
I meet her eyes. “We’ve seen it happen across continents, across centuries. One town whispers about miracles, and the next week they’re burning witches or jailing anyone with magical affinity.” I pause, the words bitter on my tongue and tainted with the sting of mint-flavored memory magic. “We can’t risk exposure… even if it came from the person my sister was dating.”
Understanding dawns in her eyes. “They asked you to handle it?”
I swallow hard. Nod. “I was twenty and barely learning to control my power.” A bitter laugh escapes. “Sometimes I think I may never truly master it. I needed to use memory magic, but I… I cut too deep. Instead of erasing specific memories, I took years. Nell lost her entire circle of friends in one night. Because of me.”
“Dean.” She touches my cheek, her fingers impossibly gentle. “That wasn’t your fault. You were practically a kid, and others made those decisions. You did the best you could.”
I brush hair back from her forehead, marveling at how she can take a decade of guilt and make it feel lighter. “Maybe. But I broke my sister’s heart. I had migraines for weeks after using that much high-level magic. When I finally came out of the haze, I saw what I’d done to her. She didn’t just lose her boyfriend—she lost her entire world. Her friends didn’t recognize her anymore. How do you come back from that?”
She leans into my touch, starlight still gleaming in her eyes. “Maybe you start by forgiving yourself.”
The simple words hit harder than any magical act. I pull her closer, breathing in her sweet scent and press a kiss to the top of her head. I’d love to imagine a world that’s as simple and trusting as her words. It doesn’t exist, though. Nell made it clear the last time I saw her that the only road to healing for her was to never see me again.
“Playing the guitar is something you did with Nell?” she asks, whisper soft.
“Yes.” My voice has gone hoarse. She’s dredging up painful memories long buried, but I somehow know she’ll handle them with care.
“I didn’t realize what a gift you’d given me when you shared your playing, Dean. Thank you.” I look down at her and kiss her. She sighs before speaking again. “Maybe playing more could be the first step to forgiving yourself.”
“Maybe.”
She smiles, but it’s gentle. “Do you think you might play more, then?”
“Only for you.”
The words slip out raw, and honest, like everything about us has become. Maybe she has a point. Getting to know her has changed me—changed how I see myself. The rigid walls I’ve maintained, the isolation I’ve chosen, it all seems less necessary now.
Maybe I’m becoming something new. A caterpillar ready to wake with new wings.
Missy
The biscotto melts on my tongue, rich with almond and something else—something that makes the flavors brighter, more alive. I’ve noticed that about the food in Magnolia Cove today. Maybe it’s because I know about magic now, or maybe it’s just that everything tastes better when you’re happy.
I curl my fingers around my teacup and watch steam rise in lazy spirals. If I unfocus my eyes just right, and fight the urge to look away, I can almost see it—that slight shimmer in the air that Dean explained is magic. It’s like heat waves rising from summer pavement, but more deliberate somehow. More alive.
It’s everywhere in Magnolia Cove once you know to look for it. In the way the autumn leaves dance a little too perfectly, how every slice of pie tastes a bit like comfort, how even the simplest cup of tea seems to warm you from the inside out.
Dean.
The memory of him in the planetarium hits me fresh. Constellations dancing around us as he finally shared his truth. The raw vulnerability in his eyes as he waited for me to run screaming. As if I could ever be afraid of him. Even knowing what he can do now—stop other magical beings from accessingtheir powers, alter memories, and infuse magic into the wards that keep Magnolia Cove secret—it only makes me trust him more. Because he holds that power carefully, uses it only to protect.
I get why others find him intimidating. The stern expression, the rigid posture, the way he seems to see straight through pretense. But they don’t know how his eyes soften when he plays guitar, the lilt of his laughter when he really means it, or how gentle his hands can be when they’re mapping constellations across my skin.
Alex hums behind the counter, greeting regulars as the bell chimes their arrival. She’s really in her element here, in this cafe that somehow manages to be both sleek and cozy. I need to tell her tonight. On our walk home, I’ll explain about Dean. About how I know about magic now. About how I think I might be falling?—
No. Not thinking. Fallen. Completely, irrevocably fallen for the man everyone else tiptoes around.
I take another sip of tea, letting the warmth settle into my bones. It should terrify me, how much has changed. How different my future might look from the one I’d carefully orchestrated. A few months ago, I was Margaret Sinclair, cello prodigy, watching the future unfold like sheet music—each note precisely where it should be. Now I’m just Missy, sitting in my sister’s cafe, contemplating magic and watching leaves dance when they shouldn’t, and feeling more real than I ever did on stage. The only thing I feel is peace.
The bell chimes again.
“Maestro! Your audience awaits!”
That familiar voice cuts through my contentment like a bow shrieking across strings. Jules stands in the doorway, violin case slung over his shoulder, looking every inch the star performer in his tailored velvet blazer and hand stitched shoes. His wild grinflashes and his emerald eyes sparkle in the golden lights of the shop.
Jules, here? The realization hits me with the force of a missed entrance, setting my heart racing like a tempo marking I can’t quite follow. I must have ignored my inbox more thoroughly than I thought to have missed this—Jules Bouchard voluntarily coming to Magnolia Cove, the place he’d once described as ‘where careers go to die.’
My stomach drops as I think of the still unfinished compositions gathering dust in my room, the album deadlines I’ve dodged like water balloons. The life I’ve built here suddenly feels fragile, like a delicate crescendo about to shatter. I’ve been living in a different time signature entirely, losing myself in lighthouse melodies and magical moments while Jules has undoubtedly been crafting our future with his usual precision.
