Page 7 of Strings Attached
A flicker of a smile ghosts across his face, gone almost as quickly as it appears. “Unauthorized flower-watching isn’t typically a punishable offense.” His gaze flicks briefly to Giuseppe, then back to me. “Though, I’ll admit, I’ve never had a cello act as someone’s legal counsel before. I guess that makes you… unique.”
“The uniquest.” I offer him the smile I’ve used to charm grumpy conductors, skeptical donors, and the occasional overzealous critic. His expression doesn’t shift—much—but there’s a sparkle to his eye that tells me another story. “Actually, maybe you can help me?” I shift Giuseppe’s weight and fish out the wrinkled paper I’d scribbled Alex’s directions onto earlier. “Maybe you could point me in the right direction. I’m supposed to talk with someone named Dean Markham?”
His posture, already straight, somehow becomes even straighter. “You already are.”
“Oh.” I look him over again—the authority, the all-black outfit, the careful control. Of course he’s the bureaucrat Alex warned me about. “Well, that’s… efficient.”
“Indeed. Margaret Sinclair, I presume. You can come with me.”
I groan but fall in step beside him, dragging Giuseppe along like a reluctant accomplice. Of course I’d sneeze in the face of the person who has to approve my residency permit.
Dean
Alex Sinclair’s sharp heels announce her arrival before she bursts through my door, all pressed angles and indignation. Her sister turns toward her and offers a wave. They resemble each other in some ways—the gold-streaked hair and high cheekbones. But Margaret stands out with her warm curves, soft curls, and golden eyes that sparkle with humor. It’s a striking contrast to Alex’s sharp, no-nonsense journalistic demeanor. While Alex is all edges and focus, Margaret seems to invite the world in with a tilt of her head. The woman who sneezed in my face not twenty minutes ago. Who felt like possibilities when I caught her. Who named her cello Giuseppe.
I’m no stranger to desire; the occasional trysts at The National Council of Witches and Warlocks biennial meetings serve their purpose. Discreet encounters with people who understand the value of distance. But this… this feels different.
I shift my fingers, brushing the edge of the medallion in my pocket. The envelope presses against it, a silent weight reminding me exactly why I don’t do this. Don’t let myself feel this electric awareness of another person. Especially when that other person is a non-magical human.
“Did you detain my sister at the ferry?” Alex slams her fists against her hips and glares. She doesn’t even realize she has the ability to do this—to remind everyone that she once worked in Manhattan boardrooms and fears nothing.
I’m still tasting mint and regret from the memory magic I had to perform on the tourist crowd. My sinuses burn, my head pounds, and now this complication walks into my office.
I rest my elbows on my desk and press my fingers together. “I’m just following the procedure for extended-stay visitors, Ms. Sinclair. You know this.”
“Then why didn’t you inform me first and?—”
“Actually, the ferry arrived early.” Her sister’s voice is soft, musical even in speech. “I thought I’d walk down and meet you. Mr. Markham was kind enough to escort me here.”
“Dean,” I correct automatically, then immediately regret giving her that familiarity. The smile that curves her lip suggests she plans to use it against me—like I just handed her a secret and she can’t wait to see how far she can push it.
“Dean, I mean.” Her gaze stays locked on mine for two heartbeats too long. It’s electric, so powerful it overrides the magic-induced headache. She turns back to her sister and grasps her hands. “Everything’s fine. I’ll meet you at your restaurant when I’m done?”
“Well…” Alex’s sharp glance fixes back on me before returning to Margaret. “I can stay for the interview if you’d like.”
“I’m fine.” She shrugs. “What do I have to hide?”
Alex tenses, her fingers tightening around Margaret’s. At least she’s aware of the issue.Shemay have nothing to hide, butwedo. Decades of careful magical concealment wrapped in small town charm and council regulations.
I tap my fingers together, the motion reflecting in my desk’s polished mahogany. “I believe, Ms. Sinclair, I’ve given you reason for faith in the past.”
Alex’s lips thin. She holds my stare like her sister did, but it feels completely different. Like a challenge. Magic rises unbidden beneath my skin, an instinctive response to confrontation—one I’ve spent years learning to control.
Emma’s defiant jut of her jaw from this morning comes to mind—how she clutched her violin case like a shield even as raw power hummed over her skin. I recognize that brand of magic. The kind that doesn’t ask for permission or wait for convenient moments. The kind that builds like a storm until it breaks through every barrier you try to construct.
Of course, I never longed to leave the magical community as she does. Never wanted to leave home.
I swear the envelope is stabbing me in the ribs.
Some lessons carve themselves into bone. You learn to contain magic, or it contains you. You master control, or you lose everything that matters.
And that’s why, despite the power, it’s easy to swallow the magic down and give Alex a terse smile.
“Fine,” she mutters, then turns to her sister and embraces her before kissing her cheek.
When the door clicks shut, Margaret doesn’t take a seat like a normal person. Instead, she flashes that dangerous grin at me once more before casually strolling around the office. She lifts her face at the expanse of the bookshelf, grazes a finger over one book’s spine, then pauses atThe Codex Arcanum, disguised as a mundane legal text.
My magic prickles beneath my skin as her fingers drift closer to its spelled binding. Every protective instinct I possess wants to stop her, to preserve the careful order I’ve built here, but something about her deliberate exploration holds me silent.
