Chapter 10 #2
His focus shifts then, and I watch his expression transform as excitement takes over his features, lighting him up from within.
It’s like watching the sun emerge from behind clouds.
“Actually, I didn’t come to assign more reading.
I came to show you something. Something incredibly important.
” He holds out the stack of books to me almost reverently, like he’s presenting me with the Crown Jewels.
My heartbeat quickens, and I feel that familiar flutter of hope and terror that’s become my constant companion since arriving in Ruby Springs. “What are these, Ez?”
“The Thorne Family grimoires.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. My eyes widen in shock as I stare at the weathered volumes in his hands.
“That’s impossible. The estate lawyers told me they were stolen years ago, despite the will explicitly stating they were to be given to me after my grandmother’s passing.
I wanted to ask Lenora about them, but without any concrete evidence of their existence, I didn’t dare start that particular battle. ”
“That’s exactly what she wanted the town to believe,” Ezra says, his voice taking on that measured tone he gets when he’s working through a particularly complex magical problem.
“She couldn’t let everyone know that the rightful Anchor didn’t have possession of something that should have transferred to her automatically upon your grandmother’s death.
It would have raised too many questions about her legitimacy as interim keeper of the wards.
” He pauses, adjusting his glasses. “But I honestly believe these books were spelled to hide themselves, to remain concealed until they were meant to be found. They appeared in exactly the place they needed to be, at exactly the right moment.”
I move toward him, drawn by curiosity stronger than my lingering embarrassment, my bare feet silent on the wooden floor.
The books look impossibly old beyond measure, their leather spines cracked with age like dried riverbeds, their pages yellowed, edges worn by decades of handling.
One of them bears a symbol I recognize instantly, carved deep into the leather and inlaid with what looks like silver that’s tarnished to a deep gray, the Thorne family crest. A crescent moon cradled tenderly between cupped hands.
Ruby’s hands. The same symbol that’s hung around my neck since childhood, that decorates the letterhead of the inheritance documents, that’s carved above the fireplace in Thorne Manor. The symbol of my family, my bloodline, my heritage.
“Where did you find these?” I reach toward the books, my hand hovering inches above their weathered surfaces as if they might burn me, or worse, reject me entirely.
He sets the grimoires on the counter between us with careful reverence, like he’s handling something priceless.
“A sealed section of the town archives,” he says. “Most people don’t even know it exists, and fewer still have the clearance to access it.”
“But you do,” I observe, not really a question. “Because you help maintain the town’s magic.”
“Because I maintain everything this town pretends it doesn’t need,” he corrects, a slight edge to his voice that speaks of years of being taken for granted.
“Not the major wards, those are Anchor territory, but everything else. The smaller protections, the everyday enchantments that keep the mundane world from noticing what we really are, the delicate networks that hold it all together.” He pushes his glasses back into place, a gesture that’s becoming endearingly familiar.
“Including, apparently, the things people would rather keep hidden.”
He pauses, glancing down at the books. “I’ve searched there before,” he says. “These weren’t there.” His eyes lift to mine. “Not until today.”
I run my fingertips over the cover of the topmost grimoire, feeling the worn leather beneath my touch, smooth in some places, rough in others where time and use have left their marks.
This is my birthright. My grandmother’s life’s work and the accumulated wisdom of every Thorne ancestor who came before her.
The knowledge that should have been mine two years ago, the moment my grandmother’s spirit left this world.
“It won’t work for me,” I say, frustration creeping in as I pull my hand back like the book has already rejected me.
“Even if this is real, if these are the actual grimoires my aunt has been searching for since my grandmother died, even if they hold every secret of our family’s magic.
Mine shows up when it feels like it and disappears just as fast. It’s unreliable at best.” I shake my head.
“What am I supposed to do with a grimoire full of spells I may never be able to use?”
He’s quiet for a long moment, and I can practically hear the gears turning in that brilliant mind of his. Then he reaches out and covers my retreating hand with his own, enveloping my fingers in warmth and callused strength.
His palm is warm, surprisingly rough from years of working with tools and warding stones and the delicate, dangerous magic that keeps Ruby Springs functioning within its protective boundaries.
I can feel every line, every small scar, the evidence of a man who works with his hands as much as his mind.
The contrast between his gentleness and that hidden strength makes something flutter deep inside me, and I have to fight the urge to shiver under his touch.
“Keisha.” The way he says my name is different from how everyone else pronounces it. Softer, more careful, like he’s testing the weight and texture of each syllable on his tongue. “When I walked into this shop, you were glowing.”
I blink at him in confusion. “I was dancing. Exercise makes people. . .glow, I guess?”
“You were literally illuminated,” he insists, and there’s no humor in his voice, no attempt to soften what he’s saying to make me feel better.
“Your magic is bleeding through whatever’s been suppressing it.
I can see it in the air around you like an aura.
Golden light, warm and rich, like sunlight streaming through honey. ”
“That’s not possible.” I shake my head, but even as I deny it, there has been moments, brief flashes, the diner with Maceo, times during meditation with Lucien, when Sir looked at me with something like approval, when the herbs in the shop seemed to respond to my touch, when I felt something stirring deep inside me like a sleeping giant beginning to wake.
“My magic is broken, Ezra. It’s been broken my entire life. ”
“It’s not broken,” he says with absolute certainty, squeezing my hand once before reluctantly letting it go.
“It’s been suppressed, deliberately and skillfully hidden.
There’s a profound difference. With everything we’ve been doing these past weeks, the exercises, the meditation, the gradual exposure to magical energy, something is definitely working. The suppression is weakening.”
Something is working. I’ve seen evidence of it in bits and pieces that I’ve been too afraid to trust. Hearing Ezra say it, hearing it from someone who can actually see magic the way other people see light and shadow, that changes everything.
“I think Lenora did this to me,” I say quietly, the suspicion I’ve been carrying for weeks finally breaking free into words.
The question that’s been circling in my mind like a vulture, growing stronger with each passing day.
“She was there when I was born, wasn’t she?
She helped deliver me. She would have had access, opportunity, the knowledge to cast something that sophisticated on an infant.
” I meet his eyes, looking for confirmation of what I already know in my heart.
“Why would my own aunt suppress my magic?”
I stop speaking because suddenly the answer is right there, crystal clear and terrible, waiting for me to acknowledge it.
“You’re the Anchor,” Ezra says simply, gesturing toward the grimoire between us like a loaded weapon.
“The ancestral magic that maintains the town’s protective wards passed to you when your grandmother died.
It’s usually automatic, though no one fully understands how it chooses.
Something interfered. More than one variable is at play here.
” He pauses, clearly working through the implications.
“These books aren’t just family history, Keisha.
They’re proof of your claim to the Anchor line.
Not political maneuvering, not town council votes, not whatever games Lenora’s been playing with municipal authority.
This grimoire responding to your presence, appearing now when you need it most, that’s the magic itself recognizing its rightful keeper. ”
My heart pounds against my ribs so hard I’m surprised he can’t hear it echoing through the shop.
“She’s been searching for these books,” I breathe, understanding flooding through me like ice water. “She can’t fully control the wards without the accumulated knowledge in these pages.”
“Of course, she has and you’re correct,” Ezra confirms, pushing his glasses up again in that nervous gesture that tells me he’s been thinking about this for much longer than he’s let on.
“I’ve suspected something wasn’t right for months now.
At first, I thought the instability in the town’s magical infrastructure was simply because she lacked the grimoire’s specialized knowledge.
I’ve been cross-referencing the ward signatures against historical records, tracking the fluctuations and fractures in Ruby Springs’ protective barriers.
Something wasn’t adding up. The pattern was wrong, inconsistent with what should happen when an Anchor line transfers naturally. ”
“You knew,” I whisper, pieces of a puzzle I didn’t even know I was solving falling into place with sickening clarity. “You knew something wasn’t right,” I whisper. “With her claim to be the Anchor.”