Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
MEDITATION IS FOR SUCKERS
Two weeks in Ruby Springs feels like two days and two decades at the same time.
The days stack up in neat little rows like the books Sir keeps piling on every available surface in Thorne Curiosities.
I blink and it’s morning again, and I’m unlocking a shop that technically still isn’t open, stepping into the familiar hush of polished floors and hanging herbs, trying not to let my nerves chew a hole through my stomach before I even make it to the back room.
The morning light filters through the front windows differently now, softer somehow, as if the glass itself has learned to be gentle with me.
The scent of dried sage and something floral I can’t quite identify wraps around me like an embrace.
I have routines now. That’s the wild part. That’s the part that catches me off guard every single day.
I wake up to coffee that tastes like the house brewed it with love and mild judgment, the rich aroma somehow perfectly balanced between comfort and expectation.
I walk into town like I’ve been doing it my whole life, my feet knowing the uneven spots in the cobblestones, my body automatically adjusting to the gentle incline that leads toward the Spring.
The red-tinted water catches the morning light and throws it back in ways that make my chest tighten with something I’m not ready to name.
I spend the better part of my day learning how to be a Thorne without actually knowing how to do the one thing a Thorne is supposed to do.
Yeah, that small thing called Magic.
Sir calls it instruction, his tone carrying centuries of patience I don’t think I deserve.
Ezra calls it theory, his methodical mind breaking down complex magical structures into digestible pieces that still somehow feel too big for my brain.
Lucien calls it alignment, as if my entire existence has been slightly off-center and we’re simply adjusting the angle.
I call it a slow descent into madness with occasional breaks for pastries.
The thing is, I am not alone through any of it, and that fact lands on me in strange moments like a surprise I keep forgetting I’ve received.
Ezra will quietly appear with another stack of books, his dark eyes thoughtful behind his black-rimmed glasses, and spend an hour walking me through magical theory as if my brain is a puzzle he intends to solve with careful precision.
He speaks in low, measured tones, his long fingers tracing diagrams that look like architectural blueprints for reality itself.
Sometimes I catch him watching me with the same intensity he brings to examining ward structures, as if he’s trying to map the invisible forces that keep my magic locked away.
Lucien drifts through the connecting doorway from his shop next door with the air of someone who has never rushed a day in his life and gently insists that breathing is apparently the key to unlocking thirty-five years of suppressed magic.
His eyes hold depths I can’t fathom, and when he speaks about energy and flow and finding the rhythm of my own power, his voice carries the weight of centuries spent watching magic move through the world.
He wears his suits like armor made of elegance, every line perfect, every detail considered, and somehow makes meditation sound like the most natural thing in the world.
Toni drops by in the mornings with plants and strong opinions, her pink pixie cut bright as a beacon against the autumn gloom.
She tells me to stop thinking and start feeling the energy in the herbs while she arranges potted rosemary and lavender around the shop like she’s conducting an orchestra of growing things.
Her punk rock aesthetic should clash with the Victorian charm of Thorne Curiosities, but instead it creates this perfect harmony that makes me think maybe different pieces can fit together better than anyone expects.
Lin greets me every morning at The Cackling Hen by tapping my third eye with one finger, her blue eyes twinkling with mischief and knowledge behind the ridiculous pince-nez she definitely doesn’t need.
I don’t know what it means, but it always leaves me feeling slightly more awake, like she’s physically nudging something inside my skull that had been sleeping.
Her rainbow dresses flutter around her as she moves, and she has this way of looking at me like she sees exactly who I’m supposed to become, even when I have no idea myself.
Even Maceo has found his way into the rhythm of my days, slipping into the spaces between my frustrations like he was always meant to be there.
He shows up with a grin that could power the town’s lights and a purpose that usually involves stealing me away from whatever mental spiral I’ve worked myself into.
Somehow he convinces me that walking along the Ruby Spring while talking about absolutely nothing important is exactly what my body needs.
His presence is warm and solid and uncomplicated in a way that makes my brain quiet down just long enough for me to remember how to breathe.
It is overwhelming in a way I don’t quite know how to process.
I haven’t seen my aunt up close since that confrontation outside the manor. A few distant glimpses across town or at the edge of a crowd, but nothing direct. It never feels accidental, and I can’t tell if the distance is for my sake or hers.
Maybe that’s part of it. Maybe it’s why I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Because kindness like this has never been free for me before.
Outside the wards, attention comes with strings attached like price tags I can never quite read until it’s time to pay up.
Compliments come with expectations that settle on my shoulders like invisible weights.
Support comes with the quiet understanding that you will eventually have to pay something back, usually with interest, usually when you can least afford it.
In Ruby Springs, it is simply given. No invoices. No hidden costs. No fine print that explains what I’ll owe later. Besides my parents, I’ve never had such kindness bestowed on me without wondering when the bill will arrive.
It should feel like relief, and some days it does.
Other days it feels like standing in the center of a cheering crowd while your feet remain stubbornly glued to the floor, everyone celebrating something you can’t quite see or touch or believe belongs to you.
Today is one of those days.
I am behind the shop in the small courtyard that sits between Thorne Curiosities and the tree line beyond it, where the carefully tended garden space gives way to wild woodland.
The air has that crisp October bite now, cool enough to tint my cheeks pink and carry the scent of turning leaves, maple and oak and something sharper that might be pine.
The sunlight is warm and gentle, the kind of warmth that suggests sweaters rather than t-shirts.
I am sitting cross-legged on an old woven rug that smells faintly of lavender and dust. The pattern is faded with intricate Celtic knots and spirals that seem to shift slightly when I’m not looking directly at them.
My palms rest on my knees because Lucien insists posture matters, that the way I hold my body affects the way energy moves through it.
My eyes are closed because Lucien insists distraction is the enemy, though I’m starting to suspect my own brain is the real problem.
My jaw is clenched because patience is apparently a requirement and patience has never been my strongest trait, especially when I’m supposed to be communing with forces I can’t see, feel, or convince to cooperate.
Lucien sits across from me, also cross-legged, and the fact that he is meditating in a perfectly tailored three-piece suit should not be as distracting as it is.
The deep burgundy fabric catches the filtered sunlight, and somehow he manages to look both completely relaxed and absolutely pristine.
His breathing is so controlled it’s almost hypnotic, each inhale and exhale measured and intentional, like he’s conducting a symphony only he can hear.
Sir lounges nearby on a low stone ledge that probably used to hold potted plants, tail wrapped neatly around his paws, looking every bit like a small aristocrat supervising a disappointing student.
His fur gleams in the autumn light, and his green eyes hold that particular brand of feline judgment that suggests I am failing to meet expectations.
“Breathe in, Sweetness,” Lucien says calmly, his voice barely above a whisper.
I breathe in, pulling air deep into my lungs, trying to taste whatever magical essence everyone keeps insisting surrounds me.
“Breathe out.”
I breathe out, letting the air carry my frustrations with it. Or at least, that’s the theory.
“Now allow your mind to settle,” he says so softly, I feel like I’m listening to an ASMR video designed specifically for magically constipated Witches.
“My mind has never settled a single day in its life,” I mutter, because it’s true. My brain operates at the speed of anxiety with occasional breaks for panic.
“Your humor is a defense mechanism,” Sir says, his mental voice carrying that particular tone of disapproval he reserves for when I’m being especially difficult.
“You are not helping,” I reply automatically, not bothering to open my eyes.
Lucien’s eyes open slowly as he studies me. “I assume Sir has offered commentary.”
“Rude commentary,” I clarify, shooting a mental glare in the cat’s direction.
Lucien exhales softly, the ghost of a smile touching his mouth, and somehow even his amusement looks elegant. “I’ll take that as confirmation.”
I close my eyes again and try to follow directions like a responsible adult who definitely did not move to a magical town only to spend her afternoons sitting on a rug attempting outdoor enlightenment with a fashion-forward Fae and a judgmental Familiar.