Magical Maelstrom (Stonewick Magical Midlife Witch Academy #11)

Chapter One

“One more try, darn it,” I muttered under my breath as Twobble chuckled behind me in the cottage’s kitchen.

I had bowls, jars, and baggies of recently dried herbs from the cottage’s garden.

It was the last harvest of the fall. Frost sparkled in the morning sunlight where fresh dew once settled.

All the comforting signs that fall had arrived wafted from the forest, but very few things felt cozy since we’d encountered the Priestess in the woods.

Just the thought made my scar tingle and my birthmark burn.

“You’ve got this, Maeve,” Twobble said, waddling up behind me. “If you can battle shadows and diminish women who’re set on world domination, you can figure out an easy pastry spell.”

“Ha, that’s where you’re wrong, my little friend.” I chuckled and clutched my wand as I pinched a sprinkle of lavender and tossed it on the mat before reading the spell’s introduction.

“Lavender spice so nice in a pastry spelled by me. Perfect for friends, so now we must share the recipe.” I shook out my hand with the wand and readied myself.

“Combinan, stiro, foldensia, rise, bake, and brown. Start the process when I give a little sound.” I dabbed my wand on each ingredient and smiled. “Boop.”

If I didn’t know better, I felt Twobble roll his eyes behind me.

“Boop? That’s your sound?”

I ignored him and held my breath, watching the lavender settle into the dough as if it belonged there. No sparks. No puff of smoke. No suspicious bubbling.

That alone felt like a small miracle.

“Okay,” I said slowly, lowering my wand just a fraction. “That’s new.”

“You mean the fact that it doesn’t look like it’s about to explode?” Twobble leaned in beside me, peering at the mat with exaggerated seriousness, his ears twitching.

I gave a quick nod. “Precisely that.”

“It’s not glowing,” he added, giving me a sideways glance.

I laughed, staring at the dough.

“It usually glows,” he insisted. “Whenever you try a baking spell, the result is usually explosions, melting, or screaming from the dough.”

“The dough screamed one time,” I said. “And it wasn’t a scream, it was the dough poofing the air out. It was more of a holler.”

“It screamed twice.” His brows lifted in defiance as I pressed my lips together, not bothering to respond.

I lifted my wand again and tapped the edge of the dough.

“Rise gently,” I whispered, trying to keep my voice calm like Stella when she poured tea and pretended everything in the world wasn’t one spilled potion away from chaos.

The dough gave a small, polite puff, and I blinked.

And then Twobble blinked.

To my amazement, it… stayed a puff.

There was no explosion or collapse, just… a puff.

“Oh,” I said, very quietly.

Twobble leaned closer.

“Oh,” he echoed, just as softly.

I straightened a little, my heart doing that hopeful flutter I’d been trying not to let loose too often lately.

“Okay. Okay, we’re doing this. We’re actually doing this.” I grinned at Twobble. “So, maybe I’m not a complete kitchen-witch failure.”

“Whoa, one step at a time, lady.” He waved his hand slowly.

I ignored him and reached for the small bowl of cream cheese I’d whipped earlier, the scent of vanilla and honey curling softly in the air.

The kitchen still smelled like herbs and woodsmoke and something faintly sweet, and for the first time in days, it didn’t feel like the calm before something terrible.

It just felt like a kitchen in my cozy cottage because I’d nearly mastered compartmentalizing in my midlife.

“Fill,” I said, giving a gentle flick of my wand.

The cream cheese lifted in the air and folded itself neatly into the center of the dough.

Twobble made a small, strangled noise.

“Are you okay?” I asked without looking at him.

“I don’t trust it,” he said immediately.

“That sounds like a you problem.” I grinned wider. “Not a me problem.”

He wiggled his green finger next to me. “I’ve been burned before. Not physically, metaphorically.”

“Actually, if memory serves, you’ve been burned because you stuck your face in the oven.”

“I was inspecting!” He frowned and whipped his slender hands to his tiny hips. Today, he wore nothing more than a too-long shirt and a patchwork vest.

“You were eating directly from the oven.”

“I was tasting for quality!” He shrugged. “Why take it out if it’s not ready?”

I snorted despite myself and waved my wand again. “Foldensia.”

The edges of the dough curled inward, sealing the cream cheese inside like a proper pastry. It even gave a little twist at the top, like it was proud of itself.

I stared at it.

“You see that?” I whispered.

Twobble leaned so close that his nose nearly touched it.

“I see it,” he whispered back. “And I don’t believe it.”

“It looks… right.”

He nodded, flashing a grin. “It looks suspiciously right.”

I didn’t even care. I lifted my wand with a grin that felt a little too big for my face. “Bake.”

A soft warmth spread across the mat in a steady, golden glow, wrapping around the pastry like sunlight.

Seconds passed.

Then more seconds.

We watched the pastry rise slowly, as it turned a light golden color. My stomach rumbled at the sight.

The lavender scent deepened, blending with the cream cheese and honey until the whole kitchen smelled like Stella’s tea shop.

I lowered my wand, eyes wide. “Twobble.”

“I’m looking,” he said, just as wide-eyed.

“It’s not exploding. It’s not even threatening to explode.”

“It’s just… baking.” Twobble looked on approvingly.

The pastry gave one last soft rise and settled.

Done.

“Now, you just need to replicate it twenty more times.”

I let out a breath and laughed, the sound bubbling up before I could stop it.

“I did it,” I said, half-disbelieving. “I actually did it.”

Twobble blinked at me, then at the pastry, then back at me.

“You did it,” he said. “Now, maybe I should try it out.”

I grabbed his little hands and twirled Twobble around. “It didn’t explode!”

“It didn’t explode!” he repeated, eyeing it.

“I made a real pastry!”

“You made a real—” He stopped suddenly, his grin freezing on his face as he looked over my shoulder.

I was still smiling in all of my euphoria.

“I made a real pastry with lavender and cream cheese and—what?”

Twobble didn’t answer, but his eyes widened, and he just stared over my shoulder. It almost looked like his eyes were about to fall out and roll away.

“Twobble,” I said slowly. “Why are you making that face?”

He pointed behind me, and I turned very slowly.

At first, I didn’t see it.

The pastry sat there on the counter, golden and perfect, looking exactly like something displayed in a bakery window.

But as I narrowed my eyes, a tiny flicker appeared faintly at the top of the crust.

“Uh-oh.” Twobble grimaced as another flicker bounded to life.

“Oh, no.” And with that, a small, cheerful flame popped up like it had been waiting for its moment.

“This isn’t good.”

The flame grew.

“No, it’s not,” I said, reaching for anything to snuff it out.

The pastry, my beautiful, perfect, unexploded pastry, was now very much on fire.

The flame wavered gently at the top of the pastry, not wild or frantic, just… present, as if it had every right to be there.

I stared at it, wand still raised, trying to decide if this counted as success or a delayed disaster.

“Well,” Twobble said slowly, rocking back on his heels as he squinted at it. “It’s not exploding.”

“That’s the bar now?” I asked, not taking my eyes off the flame.

“It’s a very reasonable bar given your history.”

I let out a small laugh despite myself and stepped closer to the counter, lowering my wand just a little as I circled the pastry like it might suddenly grow legs and make a run for it.

“Maybe it’s decorative,” I said, more to convince myself than anything else.

If I squinted, it was more like a lit birthday candle than a pastry fire.

Twobble made a doubtful noise. “Decorative fire is still fire.”

“It’s not spreading,” I offered.

“That’s what it wants you to think,” he hissed.

I leaned in just a bit, watching the way the flame danced, small and contained, like a candle that refused to admit it wasn’t supposed to exist.

I waved my wand and gave a little tap on top.

“Extinguish,” I said softly, tapping the edge of the counter with my wand as if a gentler approach might persuade it.

The flame dimmed for half a second, but it flared back up with quiet determination.

Twobble crossed his arms. “It heard you and chose not to listen.”

“I noticed.”

I straightened, pressing my lips together as I thought it through, because the last thing I needed was to set the entire cottage on fire over breakfast.

“Okay,” I murmured, glancing around at the scattered jars and herbs and half-used bowls. “What did I do differently to make it catch fire?”

I poured a cup of water on the pastry, and the flame dimmed… not at all.

“Maybe it’s reacting to the lavender,” I said slowly. “Or the honey. Or the way I sealed it.”

“Or,” Twobble said, pointing at it again, “since it’s connected to you, it just likes being dramatic.”

I snorted. “Everything in this town likes being dramatic.”

Twobble opened his mouth to respond, but a knock sounded at the door.

I froze, my heart giving a small, unexpected jump as I glanced toward the front room.

“That’s not subtle,” I said under my breath.

Twobble leaned to the side, trying to see past me. “Maybe if we don’t answer, they’ll go away.”

I chuckled and shook my head. “People don’t just go away in Stonewick,” I reminded him. “They merely get more curious.”

The flame on the pastry gave a tiny crackle, and I realized it wasn’t getting any bigger.

I pointed my wand at it again.

“Stay,” I said, as if I were talking to a particularly stubborn pet. “Do not grow. Do not spread. Do not—”

The flame flickered once, then settled back into its neat little dance.

The knock came again, followed by a familiar voice drifting faintly through the door.

“Maeve?”

I closed my eyes for a brief second and smiled. “Of course it’s him.”

Twobble perked up immediately. “Keegan?”

“Yes, Keegan,” I said, already moving toward the door, smoothing my hands down the front of my sweater like that would somehow make this situation less ridiculous. “Because why wouldn’t he show up the one time my baking is out of control?”

“It’s just… mildly on fire.”

“You’re such a good cheerleader,” I said, smiling.

I reached the door and paused for a half-second, glancing back toward the kitchen where the pastry sat on the counter, golden and perfect and absolutely not behaving the way normal pastries should.

The flame flickered again, small and stubborn.

“Don’t do anything,” I warned it.

“Me or the pastry?”

I pulled open the door, letting the cool morning air slip inside. The scent of frost and fallen leaves wrapped around me, followed by something that made my skin prickle.

Keegan stood on the step, one hand still lifted like he’d been about to knock again, his expression easing the moment he saw me.

“Morning,” he said, his gaze flicking briefly over my shoulder as if he could already sense the chaos waiting inside. “Is something on fire?”

He sniffed a few times.

“Define fire,” Twobble joked behind me.

“Morning,” I replied, trying for casual and landing somewhere closer to suspiciously cheerful.

His eyes narrowed just slightly. “You’ve been up a while.”

“I’ve been experimenting,” I said.

“That’s never a sentence that ends well,” Keegan muttered, sweeping a gentle kiss along my cheek.

“Rude.”

Twobble popped up beside me. “She made a pastry.”

Keegan’s brow lifted. “A pastry?”

“A very impressive pastry,” I added quickly.

“With a fiery finish,” Twobble said.

I shot him a look.

Keegan’s gaze shifted past me again, curiosity winning out as he leaned just enough to catch a glimpse into the kitchen.

For a brief, quiet moment, everything held before his eyes landed on the counter.

On the pastry.

On the small, cheerful flame dancing at the top of it.

He went very still.

I winced. “It’s not supposed to be doing that.”

Twobble folded his arms.

“You don’t say.” Keegan looked back at me, something caught between disbelief and amusement settling across his face as he stepped fully inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

“I’m almost afraid to ask,” he said slowly, “but is it safe?”

I glanced toward the kitchen.

“Mostly,” I said. “So, what’s up?”

“Gideon left the inn.”