Chapter 23 #2
And just like that, Ramona was talking. About the lending library she’d always wanted to create.
About translation services for practitioners who couldn’t read the original texts.
About workshops on linguistic theory in spellwork, about hosting visiting scholars, about creating actual community space for witches who didn’t have coven connections or Thornwood access.
“There’s no space for witches anymore,” Ramona said.
“Not real space. Thornwood is elitist. The apothecaries are intimidating and few and far between. The online shops can scam you easily. The covens are insular. If you’re not part of the right families, if you don’t have the right connections, you’re just… alone.”
“So you’d create that space,” Zara said.
“I’d try.” The words were coming faster now. “It’d be more community focused than The Grimalkin, but the same welcoming feeling, you know?” She stopped, face heating. “This is stupid. It’s not like I could actually—”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t have money. Or credibility. Or—” Ramona gestured at herself. “I’m the witch who got expelled from Thornwood for nearly killing the High Priestess. Who’s going to trust me to run a magical community space?”
“People who understand,” Zara said. “People who need what you’re offering. People who are also tired of elitist magical institutions that gatekeep knowledge.”
“It doesn’t matter anyway,” Ramona said. “This isn’t my shop. And it never will be.”
“Write it down anyway.” Zara’s voice was gentle but firm.
“What?”
“Everything you just said. The lending library, the translation services, the workshops. Write it all down.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to see it. On paper. Concrete.” Zara’s hand found hers under the counter. “Not just an idea you’re dismissing before you’ve even thought it through.”
Ramona stared at her. “Zara—”
“Please, Mortal.” There was something in Zara’s voice that made it impossible to refuse. “Just write it down. What you’d do if you had your own shop. If money and credibility weren’t obstacles. If you could build exactly what you wanted.”
Ramona looked at the laptop. At Zara’s hand warm on hers. At the quiet hope in Zara’s expression that made something in her chest ache.
“Okay,” she said quietly. “Okay.”
She opened a new document. Stared at it for a long moment.
An hour later, Ramona had three pages.
Three pages of ideas she’d been carrying for two years without letting herself acknowledge them.
She even had ideas about the physical space — the layout, the lighting, the way books would be organized not by marketing categories but by magical tradition and historical period.
A proper workspace in the back for translation projects. A small classroom area for workshops.
It was detailed. Specific. Real in a way that made her chest tight.
“Can I see?” Zara asked during a lull between customers.
Ramona turned the laptop toward her, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s just… thoughts. Nothing serious.”
Zara read in silence. Her expression was impossible to read — that corporate focus she got when analyzing data, running numbers, optimizing systems.
“This is good,” Zara said finally. “Really good.”
“It’s a fantasy.”
“It’s the start of a business plan.” Zara pulled the laptop closer, scrolling through. “Or it could be. You have services, target demographics, space requirements. You’re missing financials — startup costs, projected revenue, operating expenses — but the foundation is here.”
“I’m not… I’m not actually going to do this.” A small part of her panicked at the realness of what Zara was talking about, the concreteness of funding and operating this venture.
“Why not?”
“Because…” Ramona gestured helplessly. “Because I don’t have collateral for a business loan. Because I have terrible credit. Because no bank is going to lend to someone with my history.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do.”
Zara was quiet for a moment, still reading. Then she pulled out her HellBerry, started typing.
“What are you doing?” Ramona asked.
“Making notes.” Zara’s fingers flew across the screen.
“Revenue projections. Cost analysis. Market research data — Fernwick’s magical community is underserved, which means there’s demand.
You’d need to quantify that, but preliminary numbers suggest—” She kept typing.
“Startup costs would be significant. Commercial space, inventory, renovation if needed. But if you structured it correctly, phased the expansion, kept overhead low initially—”
“Zara.”
“—the translation services could provide steady income while you build the community space aspect. Workshops would be supplemental at first, but as reputation builds—”
“Zara.” Ramona reached out, putting her hand over Zara’s to stop her typing. “What are you doing?”
Zara looked up. Her expression was serious. Intense. “Building you a business proposal. So when you’re ready — when you’re ready, don’t look at me like that, Mortal — you’ll have something to present to a lender.”
Ramona’s throat was tight. “I’m not going to be ready.”
“You don’t know that.” Zara’s hand turned under hers, interlacing their fingers.
“A year ago, you thought you’d never do magic again.
Two weeks ago, you thought the severance ritual would work and I’d go back to Hell.
Last week, you let Posey put a possibly carnivorous fern in your room.
” She squeezed Ramona’s hand. “Things change. You change. And when you’re ready, I want you to have this.
A real plan. Numbers that work. Something you can actually use. ”
“Why?” Ramona’s voice came out barely above a whisper.
“Because after I’m… you know. Well, you deserve to have options.
” Zara said it simply. Like it was obvious.
Like Ramona’s worth wasn’t something that needed to be proven or earned.
“Because you’re brilliant and you shouldn’t be wasting that brilliance selling crystals to people who think Mercury is in retrograde.
Because—” She stopped. Started again. “Because I want you to have a future that’s bigger than just surviving. ”
Ramona felt tears prick at her eyes. “No one’s ever—” She had to stop, swallow. “No one’s ever taken me so seriously before.”
“Then everyone else is a fool.” Zara’s voice was firm. “Now. Tell me more about your target demographics. Who exactly are you serving with this space?”
They spent the next hour going through details. Zara asked questions — sharp, specific, the kind of questions someone who’d spent centuries managing Hell’s bureaucracy would know to ask. Ramona answered, and with each answer, the fantasy on the screen became a little more real.
Revenue projections. Expense categories. Competitive analysis. Market positioning.
A business plan.
An actual, viable business plan for something Ramona had thought would never be more than a daydream.
“I’m sending this to you,” Zara said finally, typing on her HellBerry. “As a draft. You can add to it, revise it, completely rewrite it. Or you can just save it and never look at it again. But at least you’ll have it.”
Ramona’s phone buzzed. She opened the email, scanned the document Zara had created.
It was professional. Detailed. The kind of thing you could actually show to a bank. The kind of thing that said this person knows what they’re doing instead of this person is desperate and broke and has no idea what they want.
“I don’t know what to say,” Ramona whispered.
“You don’t have to say anything.” Zara stood, checking the time. “We should close up soon. And tonight—” She paused. “Tonight we should talk to the others. About Thornwood. About whether breaking into the restricted archives is actually something we’re willing to do.”
“We are definitely not doing that.”
“I think we need that grimoire. And I think waiting for someone to give us permission to access it isn’t an option.” Zara’s expression was serious. “But it’s not just my decision. We all need to be on board.”
Ramona looked at her laptop — at the business plan on one window, the useless research notes on the other. Two impossible things. Two futures that felt equally unreachable.
But sitting there in Mystic Moon, watching Zara check inventory with patient competence, thinking about convergence points that needed cleansing and grimoires that needed stealing and shops that could be something more—
Maybe impossible wasn’t the same as unreachable.
“Let’s talk to them,” Ramona said. “Tonight. See what Kashvi found. Figure out if this is actually something we can do.”
“Good.” Zara started turning off lights, the practiced movements of someone who’d been working here long enough to know the closing routine. “And Ramona?”
“Yeah?”
“Keep thinking. Keep planning. Keep letting yourself want something for your future.” Zara’s smile was small but genuine.
Ramona could feel a mix of pride and melancholy through the tether, like Zara believed in her but knew she’d never see the finished store.
Like she wanted Ramona to pursue this future, no matter what happened with the tether severance. “Promise me.”
“I promise,” Ramona whispered around the ball of emotion lodging in her throat.