Chapter 2
Gwen yanked a stubborn weed from her herb plot with more force than necessary.
The roots tore free with a satisfying snap.
“Pompous, condescending—”
Another weed. Another snap.
She believed in giving people the benefit of the doubt. It was practically a family motto—right up there with never leave a candle unattended and always keep fresh sage on hand.
But Forbes MacLeod had just proved he didn’t deserve the benefit.
How authentic.
Of course. He was one of those men. The kind who smiled at you like you mattered, then made it clear you were entertainment at best. Academic curiosity at worst.
She’d met them before. She’d dated one, actually, and look how that had turned out.
The worst part—the truly infuriating part—was that for those three seconds when he’d steadied her, she’d thought… well. It didn’t matter what she’d thought.
It was ridiculous to care. Truly ridiculous. But her cheeks still burned remembering the way she’d practically beamed at him. Gushing about his books like a starstruck teenager. Your female characters actually have agency. She’d said that. Out loud. To his face.
And he’d looked at her like she’d handed him something precious.
Right before he’d made it clear she wasn’t worth basic respect.
Another weed. Snap.
Except it did matter. Because when he touched her, she’d felt it.
Her magic had flared.
Not the faint sputters she’d grown used to—the kind that made candles gutter at the wrong moment or sent her keys flying off the counter when she was running late.
Not the tricky misfires that made her mother sigh and her coven sisters exchange worried looks.
No—when Forbes MacLeod’s hand closed around her arm, her power had surged like a tide rushing in, sudden and strong and completely beyond her control.
The herbs had shimmered. She’d felt it. The air had gone thick and electric, and for one dizzying heartbeat, she’d felt like she could do anything.
Then he’d opened his mouth and ruined it completely.
Atmospheric entertainment.
She’d remember that phrase for a long time.
The magic still didn’t make sense either.
Her power had been unreliable for years—too big for small tasks, her mother said, like trying to thread a needle with a firehose.
Gwen had accepted the frustration, the constant feeling of vastness trapped beneath her skin that refused to answer when she called.
So why had it responded to him? To a dismissive, condescending novelist who thought her life’s work was atmospheric entertainment?
The universe had a terrible sense of humor.
“Talking to the plants again?”
Gwen looked up to find Kinloch watching her with those solemn gray eyes that always seemed a little too knowing for a seven-year-old.
“Sometimes they’re better listeners than people.” She brushed soil from her hands. “Sorry, sweetheart. It’s been a frustrating afternoon.”
Kinloch considered this, head tilted. “Da says the book man is sad about something. Maybe that’s why he said the mean thing.”
Out of the mouths of babes. “Your da’s very wise.”
“But he was nice first,” Kinloch added thoughtfully. “Before he got scared.”
Gwen paused. “Scared?”
“The colors changed. They went all spiky when Olivia said ghost tours.” He shrugged. “Like he got surprised and didn’t like it.”
Huh. She didn’t know what to do with that.
They worked in companionable silence, the afternoon light turning everything golden. Salem always felt prettiest at this hour—less like a tourist destination and more like the place her family had rooted themselves for generations.
“Gwen?” Kinloch’s voice had shifted to that careful neutrality he used when he was about to say something important. “The book man has colors around him. Sad ones, but not bad ones.”
Gwen paused. The MacBean kids sometimes noticed things others didn’t—colors, moods, truths adults trained themselves to ignore. She’d learned not to dismiss it.
“What kind of colors?”
“Gray, mostly. Like storm clouds.” He handed her another lavender sprig. “But there’s gold underneath. Like when the sun’s trying to come through.”
Storm clouds with gold underneath.
She filed it away, even if she pretended she didn’t.
The back door opened and Lilith stepped out with a tea tray, trailed by Andrina and Sinclair. Olivia followed, settling onto the bench with her twelve-year-old air of mild authority.
“The book man has a computer that opens like a book,” Andrina announced, flinging herself into Gwen’s arms. “And he’s going to write about Highland people like us!”
“Is he now?” Gwen kept her tone pleasant.
Lilith poured, and Gwen accepted a cup gratefully.
“Da showed him the library,” Olivia said. “He got really excited about the genealogy records. Asking about families who kept traditional practices—storytelling, spiritual traditions.”
Gwen’s teacup clinked faintly against the saucer. In Salem, “spiritual traditions” could mean anything from Sunday service to Samhain celebrations. And Samhain was coming quickly.
“I hope Alan didn’t mention—”
“He was careful,” Olivia cut in. “Just general Highland culture.”
Gwen exhaled, relieved. The MacBean family history was… complicated. A skeptical visitor would probably have strong opinions about stories that couldn’t be found in university archives.
“Mr. MacLeod said he’s hoping to interview local families about their heritage,” Lilith added. “I told him you might recommend some people.”
“Me?” Gwen blinked. “Why would I help someone who thinks my work is a joke?”
“You know everyone,” Andrina said matter-of-factly. “And you’re good at explaining things to people who don’t understand yet.”
“Also,” Olivia added, far too casually, “you two seemed to have a moment.”
Heat rose up Gwen’s neck. “That was not a moment. That was me nearly falling on my face, and him deciding I wasn’t worth basic courtesy.”
And her magic going haywire for no reason whatsoever. Which she was absolutely not thinking about.
“But he caught you really gently,” Andrina pointed out. “And he looked at you like you were magic.”
“That doesn’t erase the rest.”
“No,” Lilith agreed. “But it might complicate it.”
Gwen set down her teacup with more force than necessary. “I’m not doing Mason again. I’m not being someone’s research project.”
A beat of silence. Lilith knew the whole story—everyone here did, more or less.
The way Gwen had believed she’d found someone who understood her, only to discover she’d been material.
Data. Anthropologically fascinating, Mason had called her beliefs, in that article she’d found six months into their relationship.
The one where he’d described her family’s traditions with clinical detachment and called her “a compelling case study in modern folk belief systems.”
He’d never even told her he was writing it.
“Forbes isn’t Mason,” Lilith said quietly.
“He’s an academic who came to Salem to study ‘unusual traditions.’ How is that any different?”
“Because Mason never looked at you the way Forbes did when he caught you.”
Gwen opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again.
“And Mason was never conflicted,” Olivia added. “Mr. MacLeod looked like he was fighting with himself the whole time.”
Storm clouds with gold underneath.
A sudden breeze stirred the herbs, sending lavender and chamomile swirling lightly around them. For a moment, the air shimmered—that familiar tingle rising at the base of her neck.
The warning.
The one that meant a choice mattered.
It had stirred the first time she walked up the MacBeans’ steps. It had stirred when she decided to come home after college.
She felt it now. And she didn’t trust it one bit.
Sinclair looked up from his toy warrior and pointed toward the house. “The book man’s watching.”
Gwen’s stomach dipped. She followed his gaze to one of the upstairs windows.
Forbes MacLeod stood there, notebook in hand—but he wasn’t writing. He was watching the garden.
Watching her.
Their eyes met across the distance.
He didn’t look away.
His expression wasn’t the cool dismissal from earlier. It was… searching. Almost vulnerable. Like a man who’d built walls so tall he’d forgotten what it felt like to lower them, even for a moment.
Then his jaw tightened, and the shutters came down. Whatever had flickered through him vanished behind that careful control—but not before she’d seen it.
“He’s been at that window for ten minutes,” Lilith murmured.
“Storm clouds,” Kinloch said softly.
“But with pretty gold,” Andrina added.
Forbes stepped back, swallowed by the library’s shadows.
Gwen let out a slow breath.
It doesn’t matter, she told herself. He’s rude and dismissive, and nice eyes don’t change that.
Except he’d been warm first. Genuinely warm. Before something made him snap shut like a trap.
Except he looked at you like you terrified him.
Except your magic—your wild, broken, impossible magic—answered him like it had been waiting.
Walking home through Salem’s familiar streets—past pumpkins on porches and paper ghosts in windows—she couldn’t shake what she’d seen in that split-second before his walls rose.
Not the dismissal. Not the cruelty.
The gold underneath.
The way he’d looked at her like she was the most terrifying thing that had happened to him in years.
Her arm still felt warm where he’d caught her. Which was impossible. It had been over an hour. Skin didn’t work that way.
But magic did.
And that wild, too-big power of hers hummed quietly beneath her skin.
Patient. Persistent.
As if it recognized something she wasn’t ready to name.