Chapter 15
Lunch at the Bishop house was an event.
Gwen had forgotten this—or maybe she’d blocked it out. Her mother didn’t simply feed people. She interrogated them over homemade soup and fresh bread, extracting information with the precision of a surgeon and the warmth of a grandmother.
Forbes, to his credit, was holding up beautifully.
“So your parents are both academics,” Iris said, ladling butternut squash soup into his bowl. “Edinburgh, you said?”
“Aye. My father teaches medieval history. My mother specializes in archaeological methodology.”
“And they think your novels are...”
“A waste of my education.” Forbes’s voice was dry, but Gwen caught the flicker of old hurt underneath. “Though my father has started sending detailed critiques of my historical accuracy. I choose tae interpret that as progress.”
“Progress from what?” Gwen asked quietly.
Forbes was silent for a moment. “Three years of not really talking. We had a row when I decided tae write a third novel instead of going back to academia. Both too stubborn to apologize.” He shrugged, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“The footnotes are his way of... I don’t know.
Reaching out without having tae say anything. ”
Iris made a soft sound. “That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.” Forbes picked up his spoon. “But I’m learning that walls don’t have tae be permanent. Even the ones we build ourselves.”
His eyes found Gwen’s for just a moment. An understanding passed between them—one that went deeper than soup and parsnips.
“Parents can be complicated,” Iris said. “Gordon’s family thought I was a phase he’d grow out of.”
From his seat by the window, Gwen’s father looked up from his book. “To be fair, they weren’t entirely wrong. You did mellow considerably after the first decade.”
“I did not mellow. I simply learned to hide bodies more efficiently.”
Forbes choked on his soup.
“She’s joking,” Gwen said quickly. “Probably.”
“I’m definitely joking.” Iris patted Forbes’s shoulder as she passed. “The bodies are purely metaphorical.”
“Comforting,” Forbes managed.
Gwen watched him navigate her family’s particular brand of chaos with something like wonder. He asked her father about his teaching, complimented her mother’s cooking, and somehow survived the parsnip section with his dignity intact.
(The parsnip section was real. Iris had theories about root vegetables and personality compatibility.
Forbes nodded earnestly throughout, just as Gwen had instructed, and only shot her one mildly desperate look when Iris started explaining the spiritual significance of proper roasting temperatures.)
But underneath the warmth and the laughter, Gwen could feel tension building. Her mother kept glancing at the window. Her father’s attention drifted from his book more often than usual. And there was a charge in the air that had nothing to do with parental interrogation.
When the soup bowls were empty and the bread reduced to crumbs, Iris set down her napkin with an air of decision.
“All right,” she said. “We need to talk about Samhain.”
Gwen’s stomach tightened. She’d known this was coming. “Mom—”
“You’ve felt it,” Iris said. “The veil. The pressure building.”
“I’ve felt it.” Everyone had. Her magic had been surging for weeks—candles flaring, protection charms shattering, power spilling over with nowhere to go.
Forbes glanced between them. “Forgive me—I’m still catching up. The veil?”
“The barrier between worlds,” Gwen said quietly. “It thins at Samhain. Always has. And the Bishop women—” She gestured vaguely. “We reinforce it. Every year. It’s sort of a family tradition.”
“Sort of a family obligation,” Iris corrected. “Has been for seven generations.”
Forbes absorbed this. “And the name? Bishop?”
“Passes through the women,” Gwen said. “Always has. The men in the family hyphenate—Bishop-whatever. The women keep it pure.” She shrugged. “It’s a Salem thing. Old coven families do it differently than most.”
“Gordon Bishop-Marlowe,” her father said from his chair, not looking up from his book. “Took some getting used to, but I’ve grown fond of it.”
Forbes nodded slowly, absorbing this.
“The point,” Iris said, steering them back, “is that this year is different. The veil is weaker than it’s been in generations. You’ve felt your magic trying to rise to meet it.”
Gwen winced. The candles. The protection charms.
“I’ve felt it,” she admitted. “I just don’t know if I can actually—”
“You can.”
“I’ve failed at it my whole life.” The words came out sharper than she intended. “Every spell I try to control falls apart. Every working I attempt goes sideways. What if Samhain is the same? What if I can’t access it when it matters?”
The kitchen went quiet.
Iris reached across the table and took her hand. “That’s what we need to talk about.”
Forbes touched her knee lightly, grounding her.
“So what happens this year?” Gwen asked quietly. “What’s different?”
“It’s not because you’re doing anything wrong,” Iris continued. “It’s because your magic is trying to rise to meet the need. You just weren’t told what that need was.”
The lights flickered. Once. Twice. Then steadied.
The refrigerator shuddered into silence. In the stillness, Gwen could smell the rosemary from her mother’s garden—sharper than it should have been, almost electric.
They all looked at each other.
“That’s been happening more,” Gordon said quietly, finally setting down his book. “All week.”
“It’s getting closer.” Iris moved to the window. Outside, the grey October afternoon looked ordinary—trees swaying, leaves skittering across the lawn. But Gwen felt the pressure now. The wrongness. Like something vast was leaning against a door.
Gwen’s voice came out hoarse. “Can I do it?”
Iris turned back, and her expression softened into something Gwen hadn’t seen since childhood—pride, fierce and certain.
“You were born to, sweetheart. Not destined. Prepared. Every Bishop woman learns, one way or another. You’ll have us. You’ll have the coven. And—” Her gaze flicked to Forbes. “You’ll have support you didn’t have a week ago.”
Gwen swallowed and looked at him.
Forbes met her eyes, steady and full of quiet conviction. “I’m here,” he said. “Whatever this entails. Whatever ye need.”
“We’ll prepare together. And Gwen? There’s nothing wrong with you. There never has been. You simply have more power than most—and now the moment that needs it.”
A shiver moved through her—not fear, but something larger. Something that had been waiting her whole life to make sense.
For the first time in weeks, her magic didn’t feel like a burden.
It felt like inheritance.
Responsibility.
Belonging.
Forbes leaned closer, his voice quiet enough for only her. “Not a prophecy,” he murmured. “A legacy. And I’ve seen ye face far worse than an ancestral magical overflow.”
She laughed, shaky but real. “Like parsnips?”
He nodded solemnly. “Terrifying.”
She nudged him with her shoulder. “Thank you. For staying. For... this.”
“For you,” he said softly, “I’ll always stay.”
Outside, the wind picked up, sending leaves spiraling past the window in patterns that almost looked deliberate.
Something was coming.
And Gwen Bishop—who had spent her whole life brimming with power she couldn’t name—finally understood what it was for.