7. Leire #2
“Unreasonable.” Aslan sounds personally wronged, staring at his bowl with an expression of pure betrayal. “This is unreasonable cobbler.”
“Family recipe.” Grandmother Peach settles into her chair with a serene smile. “Seven generations. Patience and love.” She sets down her spoon. “Also a touch of magic. Don’t tell anyone.”
We eat in silence. The cobbler makes everything feel softer. Warmer. Less terrifying.
When the bowls are empty, she produces an ancient iron key.
“Now then. The archives. Follow me, stay close, and don’t touch anything that glows red. The red things bite.”
“Bite?” I push back my chair. “What do you mean, bite?”
She’s already disappearing through a door I didn’t notice before. Aslan catches my eye, shrugs, and follows.
The Registry archives are a labyrinth that smells like old paper and regret.
Narrow corridors wind between shelving units that stretch toward a ceiling I can’t see. The light pulses as we move. Grandmother Peach’s voice floats back to us—the organization system being “interpretive” now—and then she’s gone, vanished around a corner that leads to a dead end.
“Helpful,” Aslan says.
“Incredibly.” I scan the shelves. “So we just... start pulling books?”
“There’s a system.” He moves closer, examining labels. His shoulder brushes mine in the narrow space. “Dates in the upper right. Symbols below.”
“You’ve been here before.”
He pauses. Sadness flickers across his face.
“Once. A long time ago.”
I don’t push. Everyone has histories they don’t want to discuss.
Glowing red catches my eye on a nearby shelf.
“Is that—”
“Don’t touch it.”
“I wasn’t going to touch it. I was going to observe it. From a safe distance. Like a sensible person who values her fingers.”
The red thing—which appears to be a book—pulses ominously.
“Right. Moving on.”
We work in silence, pulling volumes based on dates and symbol categories. The space between shelving units is barely wide enough for two people, which means every reach for a book brings us closer. His arm extends past my shoulder. My hand brushes his as we grab the same spine.
“Sorry—”
“You take it—”
We’re both frozen there. Him behind me. I feel heat radiating off his body. My pulse kicks.
He inhales sharply. He felt that.
The red book pulses again. Hungrily.
“The next section.” Something’s gone tight in his voice. “I’ll check the next section.”
He steps back. Cool air rushes in.
An hour passes. Then two. I get bonked on the head by a falling volume that I’m ninety percent sure threw itself at me on purpose. Aslan gets into a brief standoff with a shelf that refuses to let him access its contents until he says “please.”
“Did you just have a politeness negotiation with furniture?” I ask.
“The archives have standards.”
“The archives are unhinged.”
“That too.”
The breakthrough comes in a book so damaged, I almost set it aside—but there, in faded ink, is the symbol. The exact pattern. And beneath it—words barely legible, ink faded to near-nothing:
...those who carry the old potential must not be permitted to anchor... the Severing holds only so long as the pairings do not... each claiming weakens the working by degrees... should a true bond form, the whole of what was built...
The surrounding text is half-destroyed, as if someone deliberately scraped the pages clean. The page ends there. Torn away deliberately.
The amethyst in my coat pocket gives one sharp, indignant pulse—the way it does when it recognizes something old and wrong. I press my palm flat against the fabric.
“The Severing.” Aslan’s voice is quiet. “That word keeps appearing. No one knows what it means.”
“Someone does.” I trace the torn edge. “Someone who didn’t want this found.”
We photograph everything legible and make our way back through the labyrinth. Grandmother Peach is waiting with more cobbler.
“Did you find what you were looking for?”
“Pieces.” Aslan accepts a second bowl without argument. Even stoic tiger shifters can’t resist her baking.
“The Preservers.” Her voice is light, conversational. “A very old faction. Very dedicated. They believe certain things should remain separate.” She serves me with practiced elegance. “Witches and shifters, for instance.”
“You knew about them.”
“I know many things.” Her smile hasn’t changed, but there’s a sharpness behind it. “If they’re active again... perhaps the world is changing.”
“They targeted Leire specifically.” Aslan’s tone has gone hard. “Why her?”
“That, I cannot tell you. But I suspect it has to do with what Miss Firesinger is. Not what she’s done.”
“What I am?” The words come out sharp. “I’m a charm witch. Nothing special.”
Grandmother Peach meets my eyes and holds.
“Everyone is special, dear. Some people just haven’t discovered that yet.”
She ushers us toward the door before I can demand clarification.
“Come back anytime. And Mr. Nexis—” She opens the entrance door. “The lavender bath salts. Very wise choice.”
Aslan goes completely still. “I don’t—how did you—”
“I hear things.” Her smile is serene. “Now run along. You have work to do, and I have a cobbler competition to prepare for. Sunny Clearwater will not best me this year.”
The door closes, and we’re standing on the Registry’s front step, blinking in afternoon light.
He walks beside me back to Moonthread Square, and despite everything—the terrifying information, the cryptic warnings, the very real possibility that an ancient faction is trying to kill me—I’m fighting back a smile.
We stop at my door. The moment stretches.
“Thank you.” The words feel inadequate. “For the coffee. The research. Taking this seriously.”
“I take everything seriously.”
“I’ve noticed.” I look him over. “It’s kind of your thing.”
Something shifts in his expression—a fraction of tension releasing along his jaw, his eyes holding mine a half-second longer than his usual watchfulness allows.
He turns back at the door. “Don’t see Iskra Sable alone. If she comes in, call me.”
“Is that an order?”
“A strong suggestion. From someone who’s invested in your continued existence.”
The word wraps around my heart.
“I should go inside.” I gesture toward my shop. “Process. Possibly interrogate my crystals about their security protocols.”
“Probably wise.”
Neither of us moves.
The doorway is narrow. I’m standing half in, half out, and he’s right there, close enough that I can see individual striations in his amber eyes. His hand rises. Hovers near my face.
My magic sparks. Reaches.
“Oh, there you are.”
Grandmother Peach materializes approximately three feet away, holding a covered dish, smiling with the serenity of someone who absolutely knew what she was interrupting.
“I made extra cobbler. Forgot to give it to you earlier.” She presses the dish into my hands. “For sustenance.”
Aslan has taken two steps back. His expression has shuttered to neutral, but there’s definitely a flush along his cheekbones.
“Thank you.” My voice sounds strangled. “That’s very... thoughtful.”
“I’m a thoughtful person.” She pats my arm. “Sleep well, dear. Tomorrow will be busy.”
She vanishes around the corner like she was never there.
We stand in awkward silence for approximately three centuries.
“I should go,” Aslan says finally.
“Yes. Probably. Good idea.”
“Early start tomorrow.”
“Research. Important.”
“Goodnight.” I step inside, clutching my cobbler like a shield. “Try not to brood too dramatically.”
“Goodnight, Leire.”
He waits until I’ve closed the door before he moves. I know because I watch from my window, and he’s still there at the edge of the square when I look—a shadow watching my shop, watching me.
I eat the cobbler alone at my small table, thinking about ancient factions and cryptic warnings and the way his hand almost touched my face.
The Preservers are hunting me. An enemy I didn’t know existed, for reasons I don’t understand.