Chapter 21 Dean
Dean
The string quartet knows their craft. Each note falls precise and pure, weaving magic through the melody in ways that make my teeth ache.
I stand at the edge of Nell’s wedding reception, systematically destroying a cocktail napkin while pretending to be fascinated by the table arrangements.
As if I care about centerpieces when every sweep of the cello bow feels like another strike against my carefully maintained control.
Some wounds cut deeper when they heal wrong.
Like scars that pulse with remembered pain, that tighten and pull when storms approach.
I’ve spent a decade maintaining a careful distance from my family, letting guilt be my compass.
Now watching Nell float through her reception in ivory lace, radiant with a joy I once stole from her, I wonder if distance was ever the answer.
The music shifts into something slower, more intimate.
The kind of piece Missy would play on quiet evenings at the lighthouse, when her guard was down and her soul spilled through her fingertips.
When she wasn’t trying to be perfect, just real.
God, even here, surrounded by family I haven’t seen in years, she haunts me like an unfinished bit of magic.
Just because a melody is beautiful, doesn't mean you can capture it forever. Her words haunt me now, the way her voice had cracked on ‘forever’ despite the perfect performer’s control.
She’d twisted her hands in her sweater as she’d said it, but I don’t think she noticed.
God, I’d wanted to reach for her then, to brush back that strand of hair falling across her cheek, to hold her one last time.
But I’d kept my hands in my pockets and maintained my distance.
Head Warlock Dean Markham, always so damn in control.
Later, I’d warded my cottage until the walls hummed with contained power.
Then I screamed. The magic had torn out of me like a storm, like grief given form.
Books flew off shelves, windows rattled in their frames, every piece of furniture shuddered with the force of my loss.
I gave in to my emotions and magic in a way I hadn’t since I was a teenager.
That’s my role, though, isn’t it? To be powerful.
To be contained. To let the weight of magic and duty and position push away anyone who might get close enough to matter.
To stand alone in rooms full of shattered things, pretending the broken pieces are only external.
“I was able to sneak up on the great Head Warlock, Dean Markham.” Nell's voice cuts through my spiral. She stands before me in her wedding dress, eyes sparkling despite the way she nervously taps her thumb against her thigh. That’s a gesture I haven’t seen in so long I thought I’d forgotten it.
But something within me remembers. She forces a smile.
“He must have something serious on his mind.”
“Forgive me.” I bow formally, then immediately feel ridiculous. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” Silence stretches between us like a ward line about to break. “Are you going to spend the entire night lurking?”
“I excel at lurking. It’s a professional requirement.”
Her lips twitch. “Some things never change.” I nod, but I’m not sure what to say. Everything has changed between us. We’d once been inseparable. Now I don’t even know how to speak to her. She shrugs like she’s trying to pull on a jacket that no longer fits. “Could I convince you to dance with me?”
The question catches me off guard. For a moment I’m frozen, caught between old guilt and new hope. But her hand is already extended, and some choices make themselves. “Of course.”
We sweep onto the dance floor, and it hits me how grown she looks.
She’s pulled her dark waves back into a sleek chignon at the nape of her neck, and her jewelry exudes sophistication rather than the playfulness of the pieces she wore the last time I saw her.
My little sister, the one I used to chase around with sparklers, now stands my height in heels.
The string quartet plays something achingly beautiful, and I’m drowning in memories of another musician, another dance, another person I let slip through my fingers.
“Head Warlock of Magnolia Cove by thirty.” Nell's voice carries that familiar teasing lilt. “Always the overachiever.”
“Leading researcher at Calthorne. Always the perfectionist. Plus I noticed half of who’s who in Willow Bay is here.” The words come easier than expected. “Always the popular one as well.”
She smiles, soft and real. “You attended.”
“Yes.”
“I wasn’t sure you received my invitation.”
I stop dancing. “Your invitation? I thought Mom sent it. I assumed you wouldn’t want me here.”
Dancers in evening dress whirl around us and the music swells. But Nell's attention remains on me, her brow furrowing. “Mom thought adding a note from her might help. I thought you wouldn’t want to come.”
“I didn’t.” She winces and I scramble to find my voice before bungling things between us again. “I mean, because my presence would remind you of how I hurt you.” The words scrape my throat. “You told me that you never wanted to see me again.”
She looks away but I see the shimmer in her eyes before she does.
“Dean, I was seventeen. That was a decade ago. I know I said terrible things to you, but I was young and stupid and hurt. I needed time to heal. And you were barely more than a kid, and you were doing your best.” She touches my arm, and the contact burns like truth. “When you wiped everyone’s memories...”
I shudder, mint-sharp regret flooding my mouth.
“...you were protecting everyone, and I was too young and hurt and foolish to understand that.”
“I destroyed your happiness.”
“I thought I’d destroyed yours.” A gasp spills out of me and I look at my sister, at the makeup smearing beneath her eyes.
She swallows. “Once I realized how selfish I’d been and processed the hurt, you were already established in Magnolia Cove.
I didn’t know what to say, and I didn’t want to destroy your chance at happiness.
” Her face loses color as she speaks and her voice is whisper-soft so I strain to hear her over the music.
“So I decided to say nothing. I thought coming back here would just remind you of all the time you’d lost because of my selfishness, so I kept my distance. ”
Ten years. I’ve spent ten years building my life around her absence, letting guilt shape every decision, every achievement.
Head Warlock of Magnolia Cove before thirty—not because I craved power, but because I needed purpose heavy enough to anchor me against the weight of what I’d done. Or what I thought I’d done.
The sharp taste of memory magic floods my mouth again, but this time it carries a different bitterness. Mom is right. Nell and I are both too damn stubborn.
I’ve crafted every bit of magic, reinforced every ward, maintained every barrier with the precision of someone who believes isolation is their penance.
Built my reputation on control and distance because I thought that’s what she needed—her brother, the one who destroyed her happiness, far enough away that she could heal.
And all this time, she’s carried the same guilt, thinking she’d driven me away.
She glances around the reception, at her new husband dancing with Mom, but also throwing her concerned looks. “Mom convinced me to invite you. But I didn’t want to guilt you and force you to attend, so I just sent the invitation.”
“Nell.” I gasp, unable to find words that can match my racing thoughts. “I ruined your life.”
“No, I ruined my life.” Her cheeks flush but she raises her chin.
“And it taught me some painful but valuable lessons. Sometimes the rules exist for good reason. But sometimes… you just know… sometimes love is worth the risk.” She swallows and bats more tears away and that’s when I realize I’m crying too.
She grabs my hand, tentatively and I accept the gesture.
“And I’m so glad you took the risk and came home. ”
The words hit like an echo of Missy’s goodbye. Of another choice made from love, another sacrifice offered to protect someone else’s happiness. I’ve been so focused on maintaining distance that I missed how bridges can be rebuilt, how some wounds need connection to heal properly.
Maybe it’s time to stop letting old scars dictate new choices.
“Have breakfast with me tomorrow?” Nell's question comes hesitantly, but her eyes are wide with hope. She wants to spend time with me. Wants to see me again.
“What about your new husband?”
“We have a three-week honeymoon in the Seychelles.” She grins, looking so much like the little sister I remember my chest aches. “I’ve had him for four years. I want a few hours with my brother. If he would want that with me.”
“Of course I would, Nell.”
The next moment shatters a decade of careful distance. We collide in a tangle of wedding dress and dark suit, tears and laughter mixing like conflicting spells. My magic sparks against her skin, recognizing family bonds that run deeper than duty or guilt.
She smells like gardenias and salty tears, and her grip is fierce enough to wrinkle my jacket beyond salvation. It’s one of the happiest moments I’ve had in years.
Morning finds us at an old favorite cafe, sunlight spilling across a table laden with pastries neither of us has touched.
Nell stirs her tea gracefully, and I catalog the changes in her—the confident set of her shoulders, the ease in her smile, the way she holds herself like someone who knows who she is.
This is a version of my sister I don’t know.