Chapter 4
TALKING CAT. SASSY BFF. SPARKLY DISASTER
The fire was out.
Margaret had accomplished this with the casual efficiency of someone who'd extinguished magical fires many times before—a quick chant, a handful of herbs thrown at the flames, and a look of profound disappointment directed at Cassie that made her feel like she was twelve and had just been caught stealing cookies.
Now they sat in the kitchen—Cassie, Liam, Margaret, and Luna, who had claimed the chair that technically belonged to Liam and refused to move.
The dish towel was a casualty. The paper towels were martyrs. But the house itself had survived, which Cassie was choosing to count as a win.
"I need you to understand something," Margaret said, setting a large casserole dish on the counter.
Lasagna, by the smell of it. Because apparently magical mentors came bearing comfort food and judgment in equal measure.
"What you did today—layering spells without understanding how they interact—that's how witches get hurt. Or worse, how they hurt other people."
"I know," Cassie said quietly. "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking—"
"You were thinking. That's the problem. You were thinking about work, about feeling visible, about being enough.
" Margaret's expression softened. "But magic doesn't care about your intentions.
It cares about your focus. And right now, your focus is scattered across about seventeen different anxieties. "
"Eighteen," Luna offered from her stolen chair. "You forgot the one about whether the gnomes are plotting something."
Cassie glared at her cat. "Whose side are you on?"
"Reality's side. It's a lonely place, but someone has to live there."
"I like this cat," Margaret said. "She's honest."
"She's a menace."
"I'm both," Luna agreed, beginning to groom her paw with the air of someone who'd won an argument they hadn't been having.
The doorbell rang.
Cassie closed her eyes. "If that's Marjorie, I'm leaving the country."
"It's not Marjorie," Liam said, peering through the window. "It's... someone in a very orange jacket. Very enthusiastic hair. Currently taking a selfie with your garden gnomes."
"Oh God. That's Diane."
Cassie's best friend burst through the door approximately four seconds later, because Diane had never met a boundary she couldn't ignore.
"CASSIE MARIE MORGAN." Diane stood in the kitchen doorway, hands on hips, looking like a chaos goddess in athleisure wear.
"Marjorie just posted on the neighborhood Facebook that you've been 'harboring an unauthorized resident' and 'practicing dark arts' and I quote, 'corrupting the local flora with unnatural influences. ' I have QUESTIONS."
She spotted Liam. Froze. Her eyes went very wide.
"Holy shit. You hired a handyman?" Diane's voice dropped to a stage whisper that was somehow louder than her normal speaking voice. "Like, a special handyman?"
"It's not like that—"
"Because if you're paying someone to look like that while fixing your sink, I need the website. Immediately. For research purposes."
Liam, to his credit, just sighed and went back to examining the scorch marks on the counter.
"He's not—I didn't hire—this is so much more complicated than—" Cassie gestured helplessly at the kitchen, at Liam, at the universe in general.
"She summoned him," Luna said. "Accidentally.
With a spell. He's magically bound to the property and can't leave.
Her garden exploded, the gnomes grew three feet, bees spelled her name in the sky, and she's been making the walls change color every time she looks at him.
" The cat paused. "Oh, and there was a small fire situation with the dish towels. Twice."
Diane blinked. Once. Twice.
Then she grinned like someone had just told her Christmas was happening early this year.
"I'm sorry, did the cat just talk?"
"Yes," everyone said in unison.
"And you—" Diane pointed at Cassie. "—have magic?"
"Apparently."
"And you—" She pointed at Liam. "—are trapped here?"
"Unfortunately."
"And Marjorie has no idea what's actually happening, she just thinks you're being 'inappropriate with an unknown man'?"
"That's the gist, yes."
Diane pulled out a chair, sat down, and folded her hands on the table like a woman settling in for her favorite show.
"This," she announced, "is the best thing that has happened to me in five years. I'm obsessed. I'm invested. I'm here for all of it. Also—" She looked at Margaret. "—who are you and are you single?"
"I'm Margaret. I'm seventy-three and widowed. And you're going to need to calm down if you want to be helpful."
"I can be calm. Look how calm I am." Diane vibrated with suppressed enthusiasm. "I'm practically a statue of calmness."
"You're making the salt shaker nervous," Luna observed.
Indeed, the salt shaker was inching away from Diane across the table. Cassie grabbed it before it could make a break for freedom.
"So let me get this straight," Diane said, her eyes sparkling with unholy glee. "You accidentally became a witch, summoned a hot Scottish handyman who can't leave, turned Derek's midlife crisis mobile into a Barbie car, nearly burned down the kitchen, and Marjorie thinks you're just being slutty?"
"That's... reductive, but essentially accurate."
"And you didn't CALL ME?" Diane's voice rose. "I'm your BEST FRIEND. This is AMAZING. You're living my fanfiction."
"Your what?"
"Never mind. Point is—I'm helping. Whatever you need. Spell research, cover stories for Marjorie, emergency wine delivery—I'm your girl." She looked at Liam critically. "You. Scottish. Are you single?"
"Divorced," he said warily.
"Recent?"
"Three years."
"Good. She's been alone too long and she needs someone who doesn't think cargo shorts are acceptable evening wear." Diane turned back to Cassie. "I approve. Carry on with your magical chaos. I'll be the supportive best friend who brings snacks and asks invasive questions."
"I haven't—we're not—he's trapped here, Diane."
"Sure. Trapped." Diane made air quotes. "With those eyes and that jawline. Must be terrible."
"I'm right here," Liam said.
"I know. It's great." Diane winked at him. He looked to Margaret as if pleading for rescue.
Margaret just smiled and started unpacking her herb basket. "You'll get used to her. Or you won't. Either way, she's not leaving."
"Damn right I'm not." Diane leaned forward conspiratorially. "So. Magic. On a scale of Sabrina the Teenage Witch to Doctor Strange, where are we?"
Luna jumped onto the table—which she absolutely knew she wasn't allowed to do—and fixed Diane with an assessing stare.
"I like you," the cat pronounced. "You're ridiculous but honest. We're keeping you."
"The cat likes me! I'm officially part of the magic circle!" Diane pulled out her phone. "We need a group chat. What should we call it? 'Witches and Bitches'? 'Hex and the City'? 'The Spell Check Squad'?"
"How about 'please stop making this harder'?" Cassie suggested weakly.
"That's a terrible name. No flair." Diane started typing. "I'm going with 'Hot Flashes and Hexes.' It's perfect. Captures the chaos and the menopause."
"I hate you."
"You love me. I'm delightful." Diane's phone dinged. "There. You're all added. Margaret, I'm assuming you have a phone even though you look like you communicate primarily through tea leaves and meaningful silences?"
Margaret held up a smartphone in a battered case. "I'm seventy-three, dear, not dead."
"Excellent. Luna—do you need a phone, or do you just judge us telepathically?"
"I judge out loud now," Luna said. "It's much more satisfying."
Cassie looked at Liam. He looked back. Both of them wore expressions of people whose lives had just been overtaken by a force of nature in a neon orange jacket.
"Welcome to the team," Margaret said, cutting slices of lasagna with the calm of someone who'd seen this exact scenario play out before. "We're all stuck with each other now."
"I'm not stuck," Diane corrected. "I'm choosing this chaos. There's a difference."
The lasagna, at least, was incredible.
After Diane finally left—promising to return tomorrow with "supplies and moral support"—the house settled into an uneasy quiet.
Margaret had given Cassie a reading list. Actual books, not just the grimoire, with titles like "Fundamentals of Energy Work" and "Grounding for the Chronically Anxious." She'd also left strict instructions: no casting anything unsupervised for at least a week.
"I mean it," Margaret had said, fixing Cassie with a look that suggested she'd know immediately if Cassie broke that rule. "You need to learn to walk before you can run. Right now, you're trying to sprint while juggling fire."
"I wasn't trying to juggle—"
"The metaphor stands."
Now it was evening. Liam had retreated to the guest room to shower and change into whatever unfortunate item from Derek's wardrobe was next in the rotation.
Cassie sat in the living room, surrounded by books, trying to find anything about breaking magical bindings that didn't require "three virgin hairs from a white stallion" or "the light of a harvest moon reflected in blessed spring water. "
The house, at least, seemed to want to help.
Books floated down from shelves she hadn't even known she had. One particularly enthusiastic volume about "Unbinding and Release Work" literally flew across the room and landed in her lap with an emphatic thump.
"Okay, okay," she muttered to the house. "I get it. You're trying."
The walls flickered a pleased shade of amber.
Cassie had noticed the color changes getting more frequent. The walls cycled through shades like a mood ring attached to her emotional state—soft blue when she was calm, agitated yellow when she was anxious, a deep gray when she was sad.
And pink. The walls went pink a lot. Usually when Liam was in the room.
She was studiously ignoring that data point.
"Find anything useful?"