Chapter Eight Lyra
By the time the dragons finished their fire-breathing light show, my cheeks hurt from smiling.
They’d come in from the north, black shapes against the stars, wings spanning what felt like half the sky. The town had collectively gasped, every head tilting back, the murmurs and chatter dimming to nothing.
One by one, the dragons had circled the clearing, hovering far enough away not to set us alight, close enough that we could see the ripple of muscles under scales.
Fire streamed from their mouths in spiraling arcs, weaving patterns of light through the dark, like galaxies briefly birthed in the Briarhaven sky.
My dragon-scale pendant had pulsed in time with their roars, warmth flaring every time a jet of flame painted the air. It had been like standing under a sky full of living fireworks, only these fireworks were intelligent, temperamental, and very particular about sparkly gifts.
When the final dragon swooped low and let loose a curtain of shimmering sparks that fell like golden rain around the clearing—harmless sparks, that is, dissolving before they hit the ground—the entire town had erupted into cheers.
Now, hours later, the festival had slid into that soft, fuzzy stage where people either danced like they’d never have to get up early again or slumped happily by smaller fires with mugs of mulled wine.
I’d danced until my feet ached, until my skirt was dusty with pine needles and my curls were coming loose. By the time I finally let Nova drag me away, my throat was scratchy from laughing and singing.
We caught one of the last vans back to town, Ruth tucked in the crook of my arm, her little body warm against mine. Through the window, I watched the dark outline of the woods recede, occasional flickers of light marking the last of the festival fires.
“I’ll get the gifts inside,” Knox’s driver said when we pulled up outside the cottage.
The back of the van was piled with covered trays, leftover pastries, and a handful of small, wrapped parcels people had shoved into my arms as they said good night.
Mabon was a time of giving, and I’d been surprised with how many people had brought me a small token of thanks for helping with the food for the festival.
“Thank you,” I said, meaning it. I stepped inside, leaving the front door open for the driver.
“Let’s get you upstairs so I can get you out of that dress, and then I’m going face-first into my pillow,” Nova muttered, rubbing at her eyes. Her winged eyeliner had smeared, but somehow she still managed to look effortlessly edgy, like she’d meant to create smudged smoky-eye makeup.
“Agreed.” Though I wasn’t nearly ready for sleep. I was too keyed up after the night I’d had, excitement still thrumming through my veins along with my magick and the echo of dragon roars.
Nova quickly helped me out of my dress, both of us laughing as we peeled me out of the layers like some kind of glamorous onion. I left my hair and makeup mostly intact, pulling on a soft jogger set instead. The moment the fabric hit my skin, my body sighed in relief.
Joggers, my new magickal necklace, and residual dragon glitter on my shoulders. It was giving peak witch.
Nova trudged off to bed. I scrambled back downstairs to wave the driver away and lock the front door. Popping my head in Broca’s room, I saw she was long asleep, having returned home far earlier in the evening than Nova and me.
With a soft sigh of contentment, I lit a few candles around the room for ambience, and the cottage filled with warm, flickering light, shadows puddling in the corners. I put the kettle on for a wee cup of tea, the familiar ritual settling me.
Did you have fun?
I turned to see Ruth sitting on the edge of the counter, her wee feet dangling over the side. Her wings drooped slightly with tiredness, sword resting beside her.
“I had the best time, Ruth. I truly felt like a princess in a spooky forest fairy tale. That dragon show? To die for. Did you see all the patterns they made? The peony might have been my favorite.”
You should have seen it from above, she said smugly. All florals and crystals and twinkling lights and teeny excitable humans. Really, really stunning. You looked happy.
“I am.”
Are you? She tapped a paw on her wee chest and studied my face. I get the sense there is a strain of sorts. Do we need to talk about the hedgehog?
“It’s just…” I exhaled. “Old hurts. A boy I’d once thought would be my future is now a man who makes me sad about my past.”
But you want to know him again?
It was almost three in the morning, a time for truths that couldn’t be spoken during the day, and I pursed my lips as I poured steaming water into my mug.
“I… I don’t know. He pulls at me, Ruth. Maybe that’s just the way of first loves. They carve themselves in your heart, you ken?” I hated to admit it, having kept the walls around that old hurt particularly high.
Or maybe you still love him? she said gently.
“How?” I turned and laughed, shaking my head. “I was just a teenager. Who’s to say what was real then is real now?”
This makes you sad, Ruth observed.
“Aye, a bit. It’s not easy getting lost in the ghosts of your past, I guess.”
I know what will cheer you up. Ruth stood and pointed toward the pile of parcels and little boxes now sitting on the dining table. The driver had stacked them neatly. Let’s open some of your Mabon offerings.
My wee familiar wasn’t wrong. I did so love a good prezzie. Plus, for the first time—if we could continue to keep the curse at bay, that is—I might be able to keep the gifts without thinking how I could travel with them.
“That’s a grand idea.” I took my mug and followed her, Ruth fluttering ahead like a tiny, bossy lantern.
“I’ve never really been to a festival where people brought me things,” I admitted as I sat. “This is nice, isn’t it? Like maybe they’re saying they want me to belong?”
The pile was a hodgepodge of packages, with some parcels wrapped in brown paper with string, some in bright tissue, a couple in repurposed tea tins.
Locals had handed them to me throughout the evening with murmured thanks for my baking and muttered comments about their hopes that for the MacGregor lasses, may this year be kinder than the last.
Has it been hard? This curse of yours? Ruth asked, settling on the table with her knees tucked up, wings draped.
“It’s not been great,” I said, picking up a slim package wrapped in silver paper with a card tucked under the ribbon.
“Briarhaven was the longest we’d ever been able to stay in one spot.
Turns out, the Charms had been helping keep the worst of the curse away from Mum so she could raise us here.
But even when they were at their most powerful, they couldn’t stop it from hurting the town.
It didn’t help that my mum wasn’t much interested in helping them. She’s what I would call a chaos demon.”
A chaos demon? Ruth brought her paws to her nose in shock.
“Not a real demon. Just that… she bred chaos. Thrived in it. The type of person who liked to break things just to hear them shatter.”
Ah. Sounds… toxic?
“Quite.” I smiled wryly and slid my finger under the ribbon, unwrapping the silver paper to reveal a gilded book, each page a recipe card meant to be filled. A sweet note from Raven was written on the inside cover.
“Isn’t this lovely? It’s a recipe book.”
Very pretty. Ruth nodded.
I picked up another package that looked book-shaped, this one wrapped in plain brown kitchen paper with twine. No note was attached, just my name scrawled messily across the front.
“But then Broca had a vision and called us to come home,” I continued.
“So here we are, back where we started, and with that comes having to run into my first love in the woods like a tragic ballad.” I unwrapped the paper to reveal a book with a pretty blue cover that shimmered softly in the candlelight.
Something niggled at the back of my brain, a memory I couldn’t quite pull free, and it slipped away before I could grasp it.
You’ve had no other loves? Ruth asked. No other men, or women, since Rab?
I laughed at my progressive wee familiar and set the book aside.
“I’ve dated quite a bit. Men, as that’s where my particular taste runs.
But it’s hard to establish a lasting connection when you know you’ll have to leave town in a matter of months.
Instead, I guess I threw myself into every relationship with the enthusiasm of a backpacker taking their gap-year trip.
Love as if every day counts because you know you’ll be leaving soon.
” I smiled, thinking back on the past men in my life.
They’d all been wonderful, if fleeting, connections.
But none were willing to come with you? Ruth asked.
I stopped, struck by the question. The steam from my tea curled up between us.
Rab had been the only one who’d offered to come with me. Or at least, that’s what I’d thought he’d been offering. The only one who’d looked at the chaos of my life and said, I’ll figure it out if it means being with you.
“No,” I said quietly, shaking my head. “Most knew the score. Many of these men were quite worldly. Neither of us were looking for long term, just to live in the now. It suited me at the time.”
I reached for another parcel wrapped in ruby-red paper. Pulling the ribbon apart, I unwrapped it to find a twin set of gold hair combs with tiny butterflies encased in crystals.
“Aren’t these pretty?” I held the combs up for Ruth’s inspection.
They’ll look gorgeous in your hair, she said, stifling a yawn.
“Should we save the rest for tomorrow? I think I’m finally starting to wind down,” I said.
Just one more, she pleaded, tiny paws clasped.
“Okay, one more. What about you, Ruth? Any love for you? Family?”
My family are mostly with their witches now, she said. We’re trained from a young age to take on the role of familiar. It’s a great honor, you ken?
“But what about love? Do you need it? Or seek it?”
Not particularly, she said after considering. I find great satisfaction in finally being able to fulfill my life’s goal, which was meeting you and becoming your familiar. I’m not sure I’ll ever need or want love. At least not in the sense you crave it.
“Maybe that’s for the better,” I murmured, and paused when I saw the name on the card of the package I held.
Rab.
He’d gotten me a gift.
My stomach swooped.
I unwrapped the package, my hands suddenly shaky, to find a pair of knit socks with cupcakes all over them.
My mouth dropped open.
It was a silly gift.
But he’d remembered.
As a teenager, I’d had a favorite pair of socks I’d worn endlessly, covered in ridiculous pastel cupcakes.
They’d snagged on a nail in the old barn we’d once spent all our time in.
I’d tried to mend them, but over time the hole had grown too large, and the socks hadn’t survived our next move. I’d mourned them for weeks.
The memory hit me like a soft punch. Rab sitting cross-legged in the barn, carefully trying to darn the sock for me while pretending he wasn’t terrible at it. The two of us laughing when the mending turned the pattern into something that looked more like an abstract crime scene.
More confused than ever, I held the new socks to my heart, unsure what the gift meant.
You’re pleased, Ruth said, standing with her paws on her hips, head tilted in concern. But sad?
“Aye.” I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “That pretty much sums up my relationship with Rab too. I think it’s time for bed,” I said, my heart shaky.
Be well, sweet Lyra, Ruth said softly as she fluttered up to my shoulder. Mabon is a time of balance and new beginnings. Your new life starts now.
I carried my tea upstairs, the socks clutched in one hand, the dragon-scale pendant warm against my chest, wondering how I would ever fall asleep.
But I did.
Cupcake socks warming my feet and dragons’ fire still painting my dreams, for the first time in ages, I slept dreamlessly through the night.