Chapter 9
The Cauldron Café looked exactly like what tourists expected from a Salem witch hangout—exposed brick, hanging herbs, crystals catching candlelight from every surface, enough atmosphere to make even skeptics wonder if maybe, just maybe, magic was real.
What tourists didn’t know was that the real magic happened in the back room, where Salem’s actual magical community gathered for what they politely called “tea and conversation” and what everyone else would recognize as a coven meeting.
Or, depending on the week, group therapy with herbs.
Gwen settled into her usual chair, still feeling the ghost of Forbes’s cheek beneath her lips from earlier that evening.
The way he’d looked at her when she’d stepped back—slightly dazed, entirely focused, like she’d given him something precious instead of just a kiss-adjacent moment on a street corner.
She was still smiling about that.
“So,” Sydney Ramos said, dropping into the circle of mismatched chairs with her usual directness, “are we going to talk about Gwen’s Scottish historian, or are we going to pretend we haven’t all noticed she’s been glowing since she walked in?”
Gwen nearly choked on her chamomile tea. “I am not glowing.”
“Honey.” Tiffany Lane looked up from the tarot spread she was laying out. “You’re radiating so much energy right now that my cards are shuffling themselves. What happened?”
“Nothing happened. I had coffee with a colleague. That’s all.”
“A colleague,” Sydney repeated flatly.
“Who happens to be Scottish,” Abby Mulaney added dreamily. “And tall. And writes those wonderful books about Highland warriors.”
“And who made you do that with your face just now,” Courtney Fields finished, looking up from the protection charms she was crafting. “You went all soft around the eyes. It’s adorable and slightly concerning.”
“I don’t get soft around the eyes.”
Four women stared at her with identical expressions of disbelief.
“Fine.” Gwen set down her tea. “We had coffee earlier tonight. And it went... well.”
“Define ‘well,’” Sydney said.
“We talked for over an hour. About history. And family. And—” She hesitated. “I may have done magic in front of him. On purpose. And it actually worked.”
Silence.
Then Tiffany said: “Your magic worked? Smooth and controlled, not exploding-candle worked?”
“It glowed. The rosemary. Just a soft light.” Gwen couldn’t keep the wonder out of her voice. “Three pulses, then it faded. No misfires. No disasters.”
“That’s...” Abby blinked. “Gwen, that’s huge. What were you doing differently?”
“I don’t know. I was just... calm. Relaxed.” She thought about Forbes’s hand over hers. The way he’d said perhaps yer magic likes me. “Not trying to prove anything.”
“Interesting,” Courtney said slowly. “Very interesting.”
“What’s interesting is that Gwen’s been holding out on us,” Sydney interrupted. “Coffee, magic demonstrations, and that look on your face—what else happened?”
Gwen felt heat rise in her cheeks. “I may have... kissed him. A little.”
The back room erupted.
“You what?”
“Gwen Bishop!”
“A little? How do you kiss someone a little?”
“On the cheek,” Gwen clarified quickly, waving her hands. “Just the cheek. Corner of his mouth, technically, but—it wasn’t a real kiss. More of a... promise. Maybe. I don’t know.” She buried her face in her hands. “Lord, what am I doing?”
“Being adorable, apparently,” Tiffany said. “Was there tongue?”
“It was his cheek, Tiffany!”
“Cheeks have surfaces. I’m just asking questions.”
“There was no tongue. There was barely lip contact. It was very PG.”
“And how did he respond to this very PG cheek-adjacent lip contact?” Sydney asked, her tone shifting from teasing to more serious.
Gwen thought about Forbes’s expression afterward. The way he’d looked at her.
“He seemed... affected,” she admitted. “In a good way.”
“Affected in a good way,” Courtney repeated. “That’s either very promising or very dangerous.”
“Why dangerous?”
The mood in the room shifted. Sydney exchanged glances with the others, and Gwen’s stomach tightened.
“We need to talk about this,” Sydney said carefully. “About whether you’re being careful. With your heart. With the community’s trust. With—” She hesitated. “With whether this is Mason all over again.”
The name landed like a stone in Gwen’s chest.
“It’s not the same—”
“Isn’t it?” Tiffany set down her cards, her sarcasm replaced by genuine concern.
“Gwen, you knew Mason for six weeks. You showed him everything—the herbs, the recipes, the family stories. You let him see your magic because he made you believe he was falling for you. And then he published it all without asking and called it ‘performative folk belief.’”
Gwen flinched. She could still hear Mason’s voice—cool, professorial, as if he were explaining something to a slow student.
I know people think witchcraft is just superstition, but I can’t let my personal relationships compromise my academic integrity.
As if integrity meant betraying someone’s trust. As if objectivity required dismissing what she believed.
“Forbes is different,” she said, but even to her own ears, the words sounded uncertain.
“How?” Abby asked gently, her usual airiness replaced by something more grounded. “How do you know?”
Gwen opened her mouth to answer, then closed it again.
How did she know? Because he’d defended oral tradition to a skeptical tourist? Because he’d admitted to feeling something when her protection spell misfired? Because he’d looked at her magical disasters and called them extraordinary instead of embarrassing?
None of that proved he wouldn’t use her the same way Mason had.
“He’s been honest with me,” she said finally. “About his doubts, his career pressure, his parents’ expectations. About what he believes and what he’s not sure of. He’s not pretending to be something he’s not.”
“Mason was honest too,” Sydney pointed out. “Right up until he published that paper.”
“That’s not—”
“It’s realistic.” Courtney’s voice was warm but firm.
“Gwen, you have one of the biggest hearts of anyone I know. And one of the biggest magical signatures I’ve ever felt.
” She paused meaningfully. “Speaking of which—has anyone else noticed that Gwen’s been practically vibrating with power all evening? ”
The other women nodded.
Now that Courtney mentioned it, Gwen could feel it too—a low hum beneath her skin, warmth pooling in her fingertips like her magic was purring.
“I felt it when she walked in,” Abby said. “Like standing next to a bonfire. Your magic’s responding to something, Gwen.”
“Or someone,” Tiffany added, arching an eyebrow.
Gwen looked down at her hands, remembering how the rosemary had glowed when Forbes was beside her. How her magic had felt steady and controlled for the first time in months.
“It worked when I was with him,” she admitted quietly. “My magic. It just... worked. Like something clicked into place.”
“That’s either very good or very concerning,” Sydney said. “Magic responding to connection can be beautiful. But it can also mean you’re more vulnerable than usual. More open. More likely to trust when you shouldn’t.”
“Before we spiral into doom predictions,” Courtney interrupted, “can we talk about the fact that Samhain is three weeks away and the energy feels off this year? Because I’d rather address that before we interrogate Gwen’s love life any further.”
Gwen looked up, grateful for the subject change—and then registered what Courtney had said.
“Off how?”
“The energy.” Courtney set down her charm-work, frowning. “I’ve been doing protection magic for fifteen years, and this October is different. The wards I set last week keep... thinning. Like there’s pressure against them from the other side.”
“I’ve noticed it too,” Abby said, her dreamy voice troubled. “Cold spots where there shouldn’t be any. Electronics glitching during ritual. Mrs. Driskill at the bakery snapped at a customer yesterday—really viciously—and then five minutes later couldn’t remember why she was angry.”
“That could just be Mrs. Driskill,” Tiffany pointed out.
“She gave the woman a free scone and looked like she was going to cry. That’s not Mrs. Driskill.”
Sydney leaned forward. “I had a tourist on my tour last night ask if Salem always felt this heavy in October. Said the shadows seemed thicker than they should be.”
A chill ran down Gwen’s spine. She thought about the lights flickering at the café earlier. The way Forbes had joked about the electricity flirting with them.
“You think something’s wrong with the veil?” she asked.
“I think something’s changed,” Courtney said carefully. “Whether it’s wrong... I don’t know. But we should be paying attention.”
“Has anyone talked to the elder practitioners? My mother, or—”
“Iris called a meeting yesterday,” Sydney said, and something in her voice made Gwen’s stomach tighten. “Just the senior members. She asked us not to say anything until she’d had time to research, but...” She looked around the circle. “I think we’re past that now.”
“What kind of meeting?” Gwen asked.
Sydney exchanged glances with Courtney. Then: “She wanted to know if we’d been having dreams.”
The room went very still.
“What kind of dreams?” Tiffany’s voice had lost its usual edge.
“Voices,” Courtney said quietly. “Not words—not exactly. More like pressure. Like someone trying to speak through a wall. I wake up and I can’t remember what they said, but I know they were saying something.”
“Cold,” Abby added, wrapping her arms around herself. “In my dreams, it’s always cold. Even when I’m standing in sunlight. And I feel like—” She hesitated. “Like something finds that funny. Like it’s laughing at me for not understanding.”
Gwen’s skin prickled. She’d had those dreams. She’d written them off as anxiety about her misfiring magic, about Samhain, about everything.
“How long?” she asked.
“Three weeks for me,” Courtney said. “Maybe four.”
“Six weeks,” Abby whispered. “Since the equinox.”