Chapter 9 #2
“Everyone at Iris’s meeting had them,” Sydney said.
“Every single person. Your mother’s been going through the old family records—the ones her grandmother kept.
She says there are references. Vague, but consistent.
Something that pushes against the seal every few generations. Something that tested Salem before.”
“Tested how?” Gwen’s voice came out hoarse.
Sydney didn’t answer immediately. When she did, her words were careful.
“The records mention dreams. Whispers. Neighbors turning against neighbors for reasons no one could explain afterward.” She met Gwen’s eyes. “Fear spreading like sickness. Suspicion. The feeling that something was wrong, even when nothing visible had changed.”
The back room had gone very quiet. Even the candles seemed to burn lower.
Gwen thought about 1692. About the trials. About how quickly a community could tear itself apart when fear took hold.
“You think that’s what this is,” she said. “Whatever caused... that.”
“Your mother thinks something is waking up,” Sydney said. “Something that’s been asleep for a very long time. Something that remembers what it did to this town.” She paused. “And wants to do it again.”
No one spoke.
Somewhere in the café, a glass fell and shattered. They all flinched.
“Well,” Tiffany said finally, her voice brittle. “That’s not terrifying at all.”
“It’s not necessarily—”
Gwen’s phone buzzed in her pocket.
She pulled it out, expecting a text from her mother about dinner.
Instead: I’ve been thinking about what ye said this evening—about the best truths being the ones that live between the documented lines. Ye may have ruined me for traditional research. —F
Gwen read it twice, warmth spreading through her.
“That’s a Scottish-historian face,” Sydney announced. “That’s definitely a Scottish-historian face.”
“It’s nothing. Just a question about research.”
“Research,” Tiffany repeated skeptically. “At eleven o’clock at night. Let me see.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Gwen.”
“It’s private.”
“It’s a text. Hand it over or I’m reading your tea leaves, and you know how invasive that gets.”
Gwen sighed and held up the phone.
Four women leaned in to read. A moment of silence.
“‘Ruined me for traditional research,’” Abby read aloud, her voice dreamy again. “Oh, that’s romantic.”
“It’s about research—”
“Honey,” Tiffany said, “when a man says you’ve ruined him for anything, he’s not talking about bibliography formats.”
“And he signed it with his initial,” Courtney added. “That’s very... reserved. Proper. Almost like he’s being careful not to come on too strong.”
“Or like he’s Scottish,” Sydney said dryly. “Which he is. What are you going to say back?”
Gwen looked at the text again. Ye may have ruined me for traditional research.
Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard.
“Something witty,” Tiffany suggested. “Men like witty.”
“Something sincere,” Abby countered. “He was being vulnerable.”
“Something that doesn’t reveal all our secrets,” Sydney added, her protective edge returning. “Remember what we talked about.”
Gwen thought for a moment. Then she typed: Ruined you? That seems dramatic. I prefer to think I’ve expanded your methodology.
She hit send before she could second-guess herself.
The response came almost immediately: Expanded is generous. Exploded might be more accurate. My neat categories are in shambles.
Gwen smiled despite herself. Then: Is that a complaint?
No. It’s a thank you. Though I reserve the right to blame you when my next book makes no sense.
Your next book, she typed back, will probably be your best one. All the most interesting histories happened between the documented lines.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
I’m beginning to think you might be right about that. Among other things.
“What’s he saying?” Tiffany demanded. “You’re making faces.”
“He says I might be right about things.”
“Things plural?” Sydney asked. “What things?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t specify.”
“Ask him.”
“I’m not going to ask him—”
Her phone buzzed again: Sleep well, Gwen. I find myself looking forward to Friday more than is probably advisable.
And then, a moment later: You’re extraordinary, by the way. In case I haven’t mentioned that recently enough.
Gwen stared at the screen, her pulse fluttering.
“What?” Sydney demanded. “What did he say?”
“He said I’m extraordinary.”
Silence.
Then Abby sighed dreamily: “Oh, that’s lovely.”
“It’s a word,” Sydney said, but her voice had softened. “Just a word.”
“It’s not just a word.” Courtney was studying Gwen’s face. “Not the way she’s looking at her phone right now. That’s a word that means something.”
“It’s too soon,” Sydney insisted, but she sounded less certain. “You’ve known him just over a week.”
“Magic doesn’t care about timelines,” Abby said quietly. “Neither does the heart.”
Gwen thought about the rosemary glowing in her palm. About Forbes’s expression when he’d said maybe ye’re figuring out what ye’re meant for. About the way her magic had recognized him before her brain could catch up.
“I know you’re worried,” she said, looking around at her coven—her friends, her sisters in everything but blood. “I know Mason hurt me, and I know Forbes could too. But this feels different. Not just attraction. Connection. Like my magic knows something I don’t.”
“Magic can be wrong,” Sydney said.
“Can it?” Gwen asked. “Really?”
No one answered.
Finally, Courtney said: “Just be careful, Gwen. That’s all we’re asking. Protect yourself—and the community—until you’re sure he’s earned your trust.”
“I will.” Gwen slipped her phone back in her pocket, Forbes’s words still warm against her heart. “I promise.”
But as she walked home through Salem’s darkening streets—past jack-o’-lanterns flickering on doorsteps and shops already decorated for Halloween—she couldn’t quite convince herself that careful was what she wanted to be.
Not when Forbes MacLeod looked at her like she was something special.
Not when her magic sang in his presence.
Not when Friday felt like both a promise and an eternity away.
The veil was thinning. This Samhain felt different. Her coven was worried, and maybe they should be.
But standing on a Salem street corner with autumn leaves swirling around her feet and the phone warm in her pocket and Forbes’s voice still in her head, Gwen couldn’t bring herself to regret a single thing.
Some truths couldn’t be documented at all.
Maybe love was one of them.