Chapter 24
Gwen was halfway through her second pumpkin latte when the woman walked in.
She recognized her immediately—the sharp-dressed journalist who'd been circling Salem's magical community for weeks, camera always ready, questions always pointed. Jessica Platt. The name had become a warning passed between witches: Watch what you say. She's listening.
Gwen's pulse ticked. No recorder today, but trouble didn't always need a microphone.
Something was different, though. The professional armor was gone. No equipment. No notebook clutched like a weapon. Jessica stood in the doorway looking smaller somehow, younger—and like she hadn't slept properly in days. Her eyes scanned the room until they landed on Gwen.
She walked over without invitation, hesitated like she might lose her nerve, then slid into the opposite chair.
"I've been trying to have this conversation for three days," Jessica said. "I kept walking to the door of your shop and turning around."
"Third time's the charm?"
"Something like that." Jessica's laugh was exhausted. "I owe you an apology."
Of all the openings she'd expected, that wasn't one of them. "Do you?"
"I came to Salem to prove something. That the magic I remembered from childhood was fake. That I'd been fooled, or confused, or—hysterical." She held Gwen's gaze directly. "I've spent three weeks watching real witches do real magic, and I can't pretend anymore."
Gwen studied her—the tension in her shoulders, the dark circles under her eyes, the way her hands wrapped around her coffee cup like she needed something to hold onto.
Part of her wanted to accept the apology immediately.
But she remembered the fear that had rippled through the community when Jessica's investigation started.
The way Sydney had stopped doing public blessings because someone had been photographing her.
The article that had made her mother go quiet for two days.
Forgiveness was one thing. Forgetting was another.
"What did you see?" Gwen asked quietly. "When you were a kid?"
Jessica was silent for a long moment.
"Your mother," she finally said. "Teaching a group of us about protection wards. I was one of her students—did you know that? Before my family moved away."
Gwen's breath caught. "You were one of Mom's students?"
"Jessica Hartwell. That was my name then." A sad smile. "I changed it after we left. Wanted to be someone who didn't believe in impossible things."
The name clicked into place. Gwen had been seven or eight when the Hartwells left—she barely remembered them. But she remembered her mother being sad about a student who'd had to go.
Some of her wariness softened. Not all of it. But some.
"What happened?"
"There was an accident during a lesson. The room went cold—so cold my breath frosted. And I saw her." Jessica's voice went flat. "A woman in old clothes, reaching toward me with hands that weren't quite solid. I screamed so loud the neighbors called the police."
Gwen's throat tightened. She thought of spirits confused and reaching, lost between worlds. Jessica had been fifteen. Alone with something she couldn't understand.
"I told my parents everything," Jessica continued. "The lessons, the magic, all of it. They didn't react well. We were gone within the week."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. They were frightened. They did what they thought would protect me." Jessica set down her cup. "But I spent fifteen years convincing myself none of it was real. And I came back to prove it."
"Instead, you watched me seal an ancient entity."
"Instead, I watched you seal an ancient entity." Jessica nodded. "And I couldn't pretend anymore."
"So now you believe in magic," Gwen said slowly. "That's quite a pivot from 'lucrative witch tourism industry.'"
Jessica winced. "Your mother read that article out loud at dinner, didn't she?"
"She was not impressed."
"I deserve that." Jessica rubbed her face. "I was so determined to prove everyone wrong that I didn't stop to wonder if I was the one who was wrong."
The café bustled around them—the hiss of the espresso machine, the murmur of conversations, Salem slowly returning to normal after Halloween.
"What are you going to do?" Gwen asked. "With everything you've learned?"
"That's why I'm here. I still have a boss. He sent me to get a story." Jessica held her gaze honestly. "But I won't write about your community. Not the way I was planning to. I can't."
Gwen studied her for a long moment. The exhaustion was real. The conflict was real. And underneath it all, she could see the fifteen-year-old girl who'd been torn away from something she loved.
Before she could respond, her phone buzzed. A text from Forbes: Coming to meet you. Alan says I need to "stop brooding over journals and go find my lass." His words, not mine.
She smiled despite herself.
"Forbes is coming," she said. "You should stay. He might have ideas."
Jessica looked uncertain. "I don't want to ambush him—"
"You won't be. He told me about your conversation. The folder. The offer." It had been a quiet moment on the drive home from the séance—Forbes mentioning it almost casually, like it was old news. She offered me a way out. I didn't take it.
"He turned you down," Gwen said. "Chose us over his reputation. So, no—I don't think you showing up here will surprise him."
Jessica studied her. "He really does love you."
"Yes," Gwen said simply. "He does."
Forbes arrived ten minutes later, ducking through the café doorway with the particular hunch of very tall men who'd learned to check for low beams. His eyes found Gwen immediately—a quick check that she was okay—then moved to Jessica with careful neutrality.
"Miss Platt." He slid into the chair beside Gwen. "We meet again."
"Mr. MacLeod." Jessica's voice was measured. "You walked away from everything I offered. Most people wouldn't have."
"Most people haven't met Gwen."
Gwen felt heat rise in her cheeks. Forbes's hand found hers under the table, steady and warm.
"I still need a story," Jessica said. "But I won't do it by hurting people who don't deserve it."
Forbes studied her for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly: "Write about me, then."
Gwen stared at him.
"Bachelor novelist falls under the spell of a local tour guide. It's not the exposé your boss wanted, but it'll sell papers."
Jessica's eyes narrowed—not with interest. With calculation. "That won't work. You're too famous. 'Bestselling author loses his head over Halloween witch' makes her the center of attention, not you. Every entertainment blog would be digging into who she is within a day."
Forbes frowned. Gwen felt the same realization land cold. He'd meant to protect her—and would have done the opposite.
"Then what do ye suggest?"
"A different story. Scottish historian traces immigrant families to Salem—the diaspora angle." Jessica tapped her pen against the table. "You're the hook, but the story is the research. Human interest, not romance."
"And Gwen?"
"A local historian who assisted with the project. One line, maybe two. No name if she prefers."
Forbes glanced at Gwen. She saw the question in his eyes—Is this okay?
A story about Scottish immigration. Forbes's research. The families whose names he'd spent years preserving. It was actually true. And it kept the focus exactly where it should be.
"That could work," she said slowly.
"It's a good story," Jessica said. "Better than the one I came here to write." A wry smile. "Turns out 'man cares deeply about history' is more interesting than 'witch fools gullible tourists.'"
"I'd need interviews," she continued. "Access to some of your research. Quotes about why this work matters to you."
"You'll have them."
"Forbes." Gwen squeezed his hand. "You're sure?"
"Aye." His gaze was warm. "This is my work. My story tae tell. And if sharing it keeps attention off the people I care about? That's not a sacrifice. That's a privilege."
Jessica pulled out her notebook—paper, not a recorder.
"All right. I get the diaspora story—full access, real quotes. You get final approval on direct quotes."
"And Gwen's community?"
"Off limits. Permanently." Jessica held his gaze. "I give you my word."
"The same word ye gave fifteen years ago? When ye told Iris you'd never tell anyone what you saw?"
Jessica flinched. "I was fifteen. And scared." She pressed her lips together. "But I'm not fifteen anymore. This time, I mean it."
Forbes considered her. Then he extended his hand.
"Then we have an agreement, Miss Platt."
Jessica shook it firmly. "Call me Jessica." She clicked her pen. "Now. Tell me about the first family you reunited."
An hour later, she closed her notebook.
"This is going to be a good piece," she said quietly—not as a journalist calculating clicks, but as someone relieved to finally tell the truth. "Thank you. For giving me something real to write about."
She gathered her things and left. The café felt quieter in her absence.
Gwen slumped against the booth. "That was unexpected."
"Which part?"
"All of it." She looked at him. "You offered to make yourself a headline. For me."
"It wouldn't have worked. She was right."
"But you would have." Her voice was soft. "If it had."
Forbes didn't deny it. His hand found hers, warm and steady.
Forbes found Gwen in the sitting room that evening, curled up on the sofa with a cup of tea and a book she wasn't really reading.
"I saw Jessica again," he said as he settled beside her. "She was leaving town."
Gwen set her book aside. "How is she?"
"Lost her promotion. Her editor wanted the exposé she couldn't deliver." He pulled her gently against his side. "I offered to interview her for my book. The journalist who chose integrity over advancement."
"That was kind of you."
"It was strategic." His arms tightened around her. "When the book comes out, there'll be a chapter about what really happened here. Told properly. By someone who chose truth over career."
Gwen was quiet, thinking about Jessica Hartwell—the fifteen-year-old who'd seen a ghost and spent fifteen years trying to convince herself she hadn't. Who'd come to Salem hunting for fraud and found faith instead.
"Some people deserve second chances," Gwen whispered.
"They do." Forbes kissed the top of her head. "Speaking of which—ye had that look when I walked in. Which usually means you're thinking about something."
Gwen smiled. "I was thinking about what comes next. The sealing was huge, but it's over now. And I'm sitting here wondering what I'm supposed to do with all this power when I'm not fighting ancient entities."
"What do you want to do?" he asked softly.
"Teach, maybe. The way my mother taught me. Help witches who feel like their magic doesn't work the way it should." A small smile touched her lips. "People whose power is… bigger than they know what to do with. They shouldn't have to spend years feeling broken the way I did."
"That sounds important," he said.
"It feels important." She traced slow patterns on his arm, grounding herself in the solid warmth of him.
Forbes was quiet for a long moment, his thumb tracing slow circles on her shoulder.
"You'll be brilliant at it," he said finally. "Teaching. Helping people who feel broken discover they're actually extraordinary." His voice dropped. "I know something about that."
Gwen tilted her head to look at him. "Do you?"
"Aye. Someone taught me recently." His smile was soft, private. "Changed everything I thought I knew about myself. About what I wanted."
"Sounds like a wise person."
"Insufferably so. Also prone to setting things on fire."
She laughed and swatted his chest, and he caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.
The evening light had gone soft and golden. Outside, Salem was settling into November quiet—the Halloween frenzy finally faded, the town exhaling into something gentler. Inside the carriage house, warmth pooled around them like a held breath.
Forbes's free hand drifted to his coat pocket. A habit he'd developed lately—checking for something, reassuring himself it was still there.
Gwen noticed. She always noticed.
"What's in your pocket?"
"Hmm?" Too casual. "Nothing. Research notes."
"You keep research notes in your coat pocket?"
"I'm a deeply disorganized man."
"You alphabetize your tea collection."
"That's different. That's tea."
She narrowed her eyes, but he kissed her before she could interrogate further—slow, thorough, the kind of kiss that made her forget what she'd been asking.
When they finally pulled apart, he was smiling. That new smile, the one she'd only started seeing in the past few weeks. Like he had a secret he was enjoying keeping.
"Come on," he said, pulling her to her feet. "Lilith's making breakfast for dinner, and I promised Kinloch I'd tell him about Robert the Bruce."
"The whole story?"
"The historically accurate version. With primary sources."
"He's seven."
"He's intellectually curious. There's a difference."
Gwen let him pull her toward the door, still wondering about whatever was in his pocket.
She'd find out eventually. Forbes was terrible at keeping secrets from her.
What she didn't know was that eventually was coming sooner than she thought.