Chapter 4 #2
I was halfway through the pie—perfectly sweet, with a crust that flaked apart in my mouth—when someone slid into the booth across from me.
She was my age, maybe younger, with hair the color of campfire smoke and eyes that sparkled like she was always one step from starting a commotion.
She grinned wide and unapologetic, and propped her chin on her fists.
“You smell like rosemary and trouble,” she said.
I blinked, thrown by the greeting. “Excuse me?”
She leaned in, voice lowered but playful. “That’s not a bad thing. I’m just saying. You’re new, and you smell like you don’t quite belong yet, but you’re trying really hard to pretend you do. I respect that.” She offered her hand. “Maddie.”
I took it, and her grip was strong, warm, a little reckless. “Aspen. I…uh…just opened the bakery on Main.”
She snapped her fingers. “I knew it! I had a cookie from there at lunch. Best cookie I’ve eaten since I can’t remember when.” She paused, tilting her head. “Hear you’re from Georgia. Is that right, or did Pearl get her wires crossed?”
“It’s true,” I said, the words heavier than I meant them. “I came here to start over. Or maybe just to start.”
Maddie looked at me for a long time, like she could see the cracks under the surface. Then she smiled again, all mischief and understanding. “Well, whatever you’re doing, it’s working. You got half the ladies at the salon talking about you. And the men, too. Well, you got the men lookin’ anyways.”
I laughed, surprised by the sound. It was the first real laugh I’d managed since leaving Verdant Hollow. Maddie noticed and looked pleased with herself.
“So, what do you do?” I asked, desperate to change the subject.
She shrugged. “Work at my brother Bronc’s motorcycle shop; sometimes I help my Ma here. I basically do what I want.” She leaned in closer, conspiratorial. “I’m really trying to find Mr. Right, have a few pups, you know, live the life.”
I know my eyes had to be as big as saucers. I’d never met anyone so honest.
“Wow. You getting close to finding him?”
“Not yet. But you never know. He could come walking through my door when I least expect it.” She beamed.
I immediately thought of Big Papa, then smiled and nodded.
Before I knew it, an hour had passed. Pearl came by with a to-go box and the check. She squeezed my shoulder. “You call if you need anything. Anything at all.”
I promised I would, and she nodded, satisfied.
As Maddie slid out of the booth, she caught my gaze and grinned. “I’m coming by tomorrow morning for a cinnamon roll. Don’t you dare sell out before I get there.”
“Deal,” I said, feeling lighter than I had in months.
We said our goodbyes at the door, Maddie disappearing into the night with a wave. I lingered a moment, watching the empty street, the way the yellow paint of my bakery caught the moonlight from across the square.
As I was about to walk out, Pearl called after me, “Aspen! Hold up!”
I turned, surprised.
She hustled over, her steps quick for someone her age. She stopped just short of hugging me again, and her eyes shone with a kindness I wanted to believe in.
“I nearly forgot. I need a chocolate cake. For the diner. By the slice. You think you can swing that by tomorrow afternoon?”
I nodded, swallowing the sudden lump in my throat. “Yes, ma’am.”
She smiled, satisfied. “Knew you could. And Aspen? Don’t be afraid to rest. You’re safe here. Understand?”
It was such a simple thing, but the words nearly undid me.
“Yes, ma’am,” I whispered.
She watched me a moment longer, then turned back to the diner.
I started the walk home, the winter air biting at my cheeks and my heart aching in a way I couldn’t quite explain. I was still haunted, still uncertain. But for the first time since I’d lost Mama, I felt the edge of hope, sharp and bright as the stars overhead.
I toed off my boots, peeled out of my coat, and put my takeout box in the small fridge.
For a second, I just stood there, staring at my little living space.
The tiny couch that I’d traded for the pitiful thing that was there when I’d first arrived sat in the center of the room.
I’d added cute pillows and a soft throw.
The kitchenette was on the left and the bedroom to the right.
The space was perfectly functional. I’d add plants soon in the hopes it would eventually feel like home.
For now, all I wanted was to scrub the day off my skin, so I grabbed a towel and headed straight for the shower.
The water came out hotter than I meant to set it, stinging my scalp and shoulders, but I let it burn.
Sometimes the only way to feel clean is to scorch the nerves right off.
I closed my eyes and braced my hands against the tile, letting the steam fill my lungs until the mirror was a blank fog.
Tiredness clung to me, bone-deep, the kind that seeps into your marrow and makes it impossible to think in straight lines.
I lingered until the water ran cold, then wrung out my hair and stepped out and wrapped myself in the towel.
I pulled on some warm pajamas and then brushed and started the arduous task of drying my waist-length hair.
Thankfully, I only had to do this part once a week.
I crawled into my new queen-size bed—the tag still on the frame.
I didn’t care that the bed was way too big for the room.
The mattress was like sleeping on a cloud, so it was worth the cramped space.
Beneath the quilt, I pulled my knees tight to my chest. I lay there a while, shivering and exhausted, staring at the ceiling as Pearl’s words replayed in my head on a loop:
Don’t be afraid to rest. You’re safe here.
The phrase echoed in the silence, bouncing off the bare walls and the lamp-lit corners, until I almost believed it.
For a second, I could even hear Mama’s voice layered over Pearl’s, that gentle hush she used whenever I worked myself into a panic.
“It’s okay, baby. Just let it go. Let the world turn without you for a night. ”
I let my eyes close, but the calm didn’t last. Out of nowhere, grief hit me in the gut—sharp and sudden and mean. I sat up, teeth clenched, and grabbed the battered duffel from the end of the bed. Inside wrapped in a dish towel was Mama’s grimoire.
The book was heavier than it looked; the leather warped and cracked; the edges stained with years of handling and spilled coffee.
The sigil on the cover—three willow branches circled tight, dots at the center—looked different in the dim light.
More ominous somehow, like it was warning me not to try.
I didn’t listen. I held the book in my lap and let the tears come, hot and silent, sliding down my cheeks to splatter on the worn leather.
I turned it in my hands, fingers tracing the pattern over and over, looking for a weak point.
The clasp was as stubborn as ever; the lock refused to give even when I pressed hard enough to leave a crescent-shaped dent in my thumb.
The defeat was nothing new, but tonight it tasted even more bitter.
Like the book was keeping secrets on purpose, just to spite me.
I wiped my nose on my wrist, then let out a half-laugh, half-sob. “You’d think,” I said out loud, “that you’d have a chapter on starting over.” The words sounded pathetic in the empty room, but it made me feel a little better, talking to the book like it could actually hear.
I slid it under my pillow, feeling the hard edge dig into my neck, and killed the light. The darkness swept in fast, smothering every thought except the hope that tomorrow might be as good as today was. Maybe even better.
I fell asleep in less than a minute, dead to the world, the grimoire pressed close like it might actually keep me safe.
I woke up with a start, heart hammering so loud I could hear it in my ears.
Sunlight poured through the thin white curtains, making strange patterns on the ceiling and painting my skin in pale gold.
For a second, I didn’t know where I was—Georgia, maybe, or in that dream that was scraping the edges of my mind.
But then the sounds of Dairyville crept in: a distant train whistle, a truck downshifting on Main, and the dull, steady tick of the wall clock over my bed.
It was morning, real and raw, and I was alone in my bakery apartment, the quilt tangled around my legs and my pajamas plastered to my back with sweat.
I shoved myself upright, trying to shake off the weight of the dream. It clung to me like cobwebs, sticky and persistent. I rubbed my eyes, then reached under my pillow for the grimoire—half expecting it to be gone, or changed, or maybe still thrumming with that light.
It was still there. But the second my fingers closed over it, I yanked my hand back in surprise.
The leather was warm. Not just warm, but almost hot, like the book had been lying in a sunbeam all night.
My heart hiccuped, and for a moment I just stared at the thing, waiting for it to move or speak or burst into flames.
Nothing happened. But when I finally picked it up and cradled it in my lap, I saw that the sigil on the cover wasn’t the same as last night.
The willow branches had twisted, reshaping themselves into a tighter knot, and the dots in the center—three, like always—had drifted a little, forming a triangle where before they’d been in a line.
I traced the new pattern with my thumb, and something cold and electric zipped up my arm. I gasped and dropped the book, but it only bounced once on the quilt before sliding to the floor. My right hand tingled all the way to the wrist.
That’s when I noticed it. A mark on the back of my hand—faint, silvery, like it had been drawn with the world’s tiniest paintbrush. It was the same as the new sigil on the grimoire, willow branches and all, only instead of dots it shimmered with a little pulse of light, as if it were breathing.
I stared at it, holding my breath, half convinced I was still asleep. But the rest of me said, No, this is real, this is happening, don’t you dare flinch.
The mark glowed for maybe a minute, the light barely visible in the morning sun. Then, slowly, it faded, seeping into my skin until only the faintest outline remained. I touched it, expecting it to hurt or at least feel weird, but it was smooth as ever, warm to the touch.
I picked up the grimoire again, feeling the heat now more as a comfort than a threat. The book was still locked, the clasp still stubborn, but I didn’t try to force it. For the first time, I thought maybe the thing wasn’t refusing me out of spite. Maybe it was just… waiting.
I flexed my fingers, watching the skin stretch where the mark had been. I didn’t know whether to be scared or grateful. But I knew one thing for certain: nothing in my life would ever be the same.
I got dressed, braided my hair back, and went to the kitchen to start the day.
The whole time, I couldn’t stop glancing at my hand, or at the grimoire that I’d brought downstairs and set on a table in the kitchen.
Even the light seemed different—brighter, richer, like the air itself was filled with new possibility.
Maybe that’s what hope was. Not a promise that everything would be okay, but a way to keep moving even when you had no idea what came next.
I rolled up my sleeves, scrubbed my hands, and went to work.
The coffeepot had just started to gurgle, letting me know it had completed its brew.
“You might want to rethink the cinnamon ratio in that crumble topping. Bit heavy-handed, if I may.”
I froze, one hand halfway to the flour canister, and stared at the empty kitchen.
“Over-spicing is a very common error among witches trying to distract themselves. Happens all the time. Emotional baking is highly unpredictable.”
The voice—dry, crisp, and unmistakably British—wasn’t in the room. It was in my head.
I spun around anyway. “Hello?”
Nothing. No one. Just the quiet hiss of the kettle and the faint creak of the wooden floorboards.
“Over here, darling.”
I looked behind me.
And there, sitting on the back counter with his tiny paws folded like some kind of rodent librarian, was a prairie dog. Tawny fur, beady little eyes, wearing a navy blue jacket, plaid vest, and an expression that could only be described as judgmental.
He blinked slowly. “Took you long enough.”
I stumbled back, almost knocking over the canister. “What the actual hell—?”
“Language,” he said primly. “Honestly. Is this how your mother raised you?”
“You’re a talking prairie dog,” I snapped.
He gave a short sigh and appeared on the counter next to me in an instant. “Technically, I’m your familiar. Though I’ll admit I’ve had better introductions.”
“Familiar?” I repeated, because clearly the universe had decided I hadn’t had enough weird for one morning. “I don’t recall my mother having a familiar.”
“Yes, I’m your familiar. And your mother didn’t need one—absolute powerhouse, that one—but you, my dear, clearly require some… assistance.”
I stared. “You’re in my head.”
“Yes, well. I prefer it to shouting. I find vocal cords so… primitive.”
He sniffed, then sat down like he owned the place.
“You may call me Oscar B. Wilde, or just Oscar, if you like.”
I blinked.
“What, were you expecting Whiskers or Buttons or some such nonsense? Absolutely not. I have standards.”
I leaned against the counter, not sure if I was losing my mind or if this was just Tuesday now.
“So let me get this straight. You just… showed up?”
“Well,” he said, grooming a paw, “the book called me. Or rather, your mark did. You activated it, and here I am.”
“And what exactly are you here for?”
“Guidance. Insight. Occasional insults if you insist on poor magical form.” He paused. “Also snacks. I do like a good scone.”
I stared for a long second, then reached for a lemon scone from the tray.
He took it delicately, sniffed, and gave a satisfied nod. “Excellent. You and I are going to get along famously.”
I just shook my head and got back to baking. What else was I supposed to do? I was a witch, and some witches had familiars. Although it was generally witches with significant power, but I wouldn’t look a gift gopher in the mouth.
“Prairie dog, if you please.”
“Shit, sorry. Wait! I didn’t realize you could hear everything I was thinking.”
“Well, I can. And we’ll work on making it so I can’t unless you want me to. It might come in handy someday.”