5. Leire #3
Two bored-looking servers appear with what seems like a practiced collection of containers, positioning them around the table to catch the various precipitation. Anouk hasn’t moved. Her umbrella is somehow staying perfectly dry despite the chaos.
“Steadying breaths.” I reach across the table and grab Sakura’s hand. Her skin is cool, slightly damp, trembling. “Hey. Look at me. Slow breaths. Think calming thoughts.”
“I’m trying—”
“What’s the most boring thing you can imagine?”
“I don’t—” She meets my eyes, panic flickering. “Filing? Administrative paperwork?”
“Perfect. Think about filing. Alphabetizing. Very dull. Very organized. Nothing emotional about filing.”
The cloud sputters. Shrinks. The snow turns back to drizzle, then mist, then nothing.
Sakura slumps in her chair.
“Thank you.” Her voice is small. “It’s been getting worse. I don’t know why.”
“You’re unanchored.” Anouk’s tone is gentler, the coven leader giving way to a warmer woman. “We all are, in different ways. The magic looks for outlets when it can’t find stability.”
The table goes quiet.
Unanchored. The word settles between us, heavy with meaning.
Four witches, and not one of us anchored the way we’re supposed to be.
Anouk, who lost Corwin to death six months ago.
Me, whose familiar betrayed her. Sakura, whose magic runs too wild for any familiar to match—I’ve watched her do it twice now.
And Zeph, who’s never bonded with one at all, chaos witch that she is, too much of a live wire for most familiars to want the job.
“Being a witch without a familiar is difficult.” Anouk’s voice is measured, careful. “The instability. The loneliness. The feeling that you’re missing an essential piece of yourself. I know because I’ve lived it for six months now.”
Six months. Corwin, the owl. I remember the whispers when I first arrived—the coven leader’s familiar died, a fifteen-year bond shattered.
“But”—she meets each of our eyes in turn—“you are not alone. None of us are. That’s the point of nights like this.
To remind ourselves that isolation is a choice, not a requirement. ”
Zeph’s usual manic energy has softened. Sakura is still clutching my hand. I find I don’t want to let go.
“That was almost inspirational.” I manage. “Very coven-leader of you.”
“I have my moments.” The ghost of a smile crosses Anouk’s face. “Now. I believe Zeph promised us non-sentient drinks. Shall we start over?”
The next two hours pass in a blur of conversation, laughter, and carefully chosen beverages that don’t cause precipitation.
We talk about magic. About Mistvale. About the upcoming Harvest Convergence and Zeph’s determination to finally beat Grandmother Peach in the dessert competition.
(“It’s been forty-seven years. Forty-seven. I have a plan this time.”)
We talk about the men in our lives—assigned protectors who are definitely just professional obligations and absolutely not anything else, thank you very much.
We don’t talk about dead birds or mysterious symbols or the feeling of being hunted.
For one night, I let myself pretend everything is normal.
The walk home is quiet.
Sakura went back to her studio an hour ago, supported by an umbrella Anouk conjured and strict instructions to practice her breathing exercises. Zeph closed the bar with promises of “round two next week, you’re all legally required to come.”
My steps echo on the cobblestones, slightly unsteady from two Starlight Specials and a “Witch’s Brew” that Zeph swore was non-magical.
She lied. I can see my own breath in colors.
Moonthread Square opens before me, the Whisper Oak standing sentinel at its center. My shop is dark, wards humming their familiar pattern, everything exactly as I left it.
I stop at the fountain.
“I know you’re there.”
Movement in the shadows. Aslan steps forward, just enough to catch the lamplight. He’s exactly where he was when I left—different position, same watchfulness. Same intensity.
“You didn’t bail.” His voice is low, almost soft.
“Disappointed?”
“No.” He watches me. Something in his expression does that almost-asking thing. “Did you have a good time?”
The question is awkward. Coming from him, that’s oddly endearing.
“It rained inside the brewery. Accidentally. Because Sakura got emotional and I got swept up in it, and then there was weather.”
That almost-smile I’m starting to recognize reappears.
“Sounds eventful.”
“That’s one word for it.” I wrap my arms around myself. The night is cool, the mist damp against my skin. “The beer there is sentient, by the way. In case that’s relevant to your threat assessment.”
“Good to know.”
“You’re taking notes on me?”
“I notice things.” He moves closer. One step. Two. My magic starts doing that traitorous pulsing thing again. “The Registry symbol. Elio found a reference in the archives.”
My heart stops. “What kind of reference?”
“Old. Fragmented. But it’s a start.” His jaw tightens. “We’re going to figure out who’s doing this. I promise.”
He means it. I can see that in every line of his body, hear it in the rough edge of his voice. He made me a promise and he intends to keep it, whether I trust him or not.
Warmth unfurls in my chest. Dangerous.
“Thank you.” The words come out softer than I intended. “For... being here. Watching. Even though I’ve been nothing but difficult about it.”
“You’ve been cautious.” He’s close enough that I could touch him if I reached out. I don’t. “Caution isn’t the same as difficult.”
“Tell that to my reputation.”
“Your reputation is that you talk to crystals and make protection charms that actually work.” The amber of his eyes catches the lamplight. “The rest is just survival.”
I don’t know what to say to that. To the understanding in his voice, the recognition in his expression. Like he knows exactly what it is to build walls because the alternative is destruction.
“Goodnight, Tiger.” I step back, breaking whatever was building between us.
I’m halfway to my door when his voice stops me.
“Leire.”
I turn.
He’s still standing by the fountain, half-swallowed by mist and shadow. For a moment, just a moment, a flash of longing fills his eyes.
“Goodnight.”
I don’t wave sarcastically this time. I just nod and go inside.
But I feel his attention on my window long after I’ve climbed the stairs and turned off the lights.