Chapter Twenty-Six
Celeste didn’t say it right away.
She lingered near the long table, fingers tracing the edge of a book she hadn’t actually been reading, her posture loose in that careful way that meant something was coming.
The sprites fluttered lazily, and I let myself enjoy this moment where we tucked into a quiet corner of a magical world that made sense in ways the outside never quite had.
But she cleared her throat. “Mom?”
I looked up from the book I’d been skimming through. “Yeah, honey?”
She didn’t meet my eyes at first. “I was thinking.”
The toad ribbited sharply from his perch on the table as if he objected to the concept on principle.
Celeste shot him a look. “I wasn’t talking to you.”
He ribbited again. Louder.
I sighed. “If you keep that up, you’re going to give yourself a heart attack. I don’t even know if that’s a thing for toads, but I don’t want to find out.”
He puffed up indignantly and went quiet, his eyes bulging in a way that suggested he was absolutely not done having opinions.
Celeste finally looked at me then, eyes steady, serious in a way that made my chest tighten before she even spoke the words.
“What if I stayed here?” she asked. “At the Academy.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“Instead of going back to college,” she added quickly. “At least for a while.”
The toad exploded into sound.
Ribbit. Ribbitribbitribbit.
“Oh my goodness,” I muttered. “He’s going to rupture something.”
Celeste winced. “Sorry, Dad.”
That only made it worse.
I held up a hand, with magic humming faintly through my fingers as the ribbiting finally tapered off into an aggrieved croak. The silence that followed felt heavier than the noise.
My first instinct was visceral, and a warm ache bloomed in my chest before I could stop it.
Of course, I wanted her close. Of course, I wanted her here, where I could see her every day, where I could keep her safe, where she could learn and grow and not be half a world away when the ground shifted beneath us.
But what if I couldn’t keep her safe because danger came here? At college, she was worlds away from the magic that spun its web so deeply in our village.
Sure, the Academy would welcome her. I knew it would. It already had.
“Celeste,” I said gently. “That’s… a big thing to ask.”
She nodded. “I know. I just—this feels important. My magic. Everything that’s happening. It feels wrong to leave in the middle of it.”
I reached for her hand, squeezing it lightly. “I understand that.”
“And,” she continued, voice quieter now, “I don’t feel like I fit back there the same way. I never have.”
That one hurt.
Because I recognized it. That sense of stepping back into a life that no longer quite fit, like putting on a coat that had shrunk while you weren’t looking. Kind of like my friendship with Skye.
“I know it feels like the Academy has answers,” I said carefully. “And it does. Sometimes. But it’s also not… safe right now.”
She frowned. “Is anywhere safe?”
“No,” I admitted. “But some places are safer than others.”
The toad let out a low, emphatic ribbit, like he was nodding along.
I shot him a look. “Don’t think this means I agree with you.”
He blinked.
“Magic likes to keep to itself and be unseen to most.”
Celeste’s gaze softened. “You think I’d be in danger here.”
“Yes,” I said immediately. “Not because you’re not capable. You are. But because things are moving, and when they move, they target what matters.”
Her mouth pressed into a thin line. “And I matter.”
“You matter more than anything,” I said, my voice catching despite my best efforts. “And that’s exactly why I can’t say yes.”
She was quiet for a long moment, absorbing that.
“What if I learned faster here?” she asked. “What if staying helps me protect myself?”
The question was earnest and logical… And it gutted me.
“It might,” I said honestly. “But it also puts you closer to people who would use you. Or hurt you. Or make you a symbol.”
The warmth at my hip pulsed faintly, like a reminder ticking beneath my skin.
“And I won’t risk that,” I added softly.
The toad ribbited again, sharp and satisfied.
I closed my eyes briefly. “I can’t believe I’m agreeing with a toad.”
Celeste let out a small laugh, even as her eyes glistened. “So, you really think I should go back?”
“Yes,” I said. “Back to college. Back to a place where your name doesn’t carry weight, where no one is watching you to see what you’ll become.”
“But what if something happens while I’m gone?” she asked.
My heart twisted. “Then we handle it. Together. From a distance, if we have to.”
She swallowed. “I don’t want to feel like I’m running away.”
“You’re not,” I said firmly.
I sighed and glanced at my ex. “Don’t look smug.”
He looked smug.
Celeste squeezed my hand. “I don’t want you to think I’m abandoning you.”
“I would never think that,” I said. “I want you to live a life that isn’t defined by the dangers circling Stonewick right now. I want your magic to stay pure as long as possible, where we can help you learn not because danger is nipping at your heels, but because you want to.”
She leaned forward then and wrapped her arms around me, holding on tight. I hugged her back just as fiercely, pressing my cheek to her hair, breathing her in like I was memorizing her.
“I hate this part of being a parent,” she murmured.
“So do I,” I replied. “But it doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”
We stayed like that for a moment longer, and I swore the library breathed quietly around us, and the sprites respectfully distant.
Even the toad was uncharacteristically quiet.
Eventually, Celeste pulled back and wiped at her eyes.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll go back and start the semester.”
Relief and grief tangled together in my chest.
“Thank you,” I said softly.
She smiled, brave and aching all at once. “You’re still coming to visit.”
“Oh, absolutely,” I said. “I’m going to be an embarrassment.”
As we stood there together, the decision settled into place, solid and necessary. I didn’t like it. I didn’t want it.
But loving someone had never been about keeping them close at all costs.
The toad chose that exact moment to hop directly onto my shoe.
I froze, staring down at him as he puffed up, clearly pleased with himself, his webbed feet planted like he had every right to be there. He’d been inserting himself into everything lately, meetings, hallways, and emotional conversations, and I’d reached the end of my patience.
“All right,” I said quietly. “That’s enough.”
He ribbited, unapologetic.
I bent down and gently but firmly nudged him back onto the table.
“You don’t get to hover anymore,” I told him. “Or hop. Or supervise. You’re no longer an active participant in my life.”
My ex blinked at me.
“I mean it,” I added. “You’ve seen too much, heard too much, and frankly, you’re enjoying this far more than is appropriate for someone who was once a fully grown man.”
He let out a softer ribbit, the sound almost… wounded.
I ignored it.
I straightened and drew a steady breath, feeling the weight of the decision settle into place.
Avoiding him hadn’t worked. Hoping the problem would solve itself hadn’t worked.
And as tempting as it was to leave him perched somewhere inconvenient until the universe sorted it out, with a few timely hawks circling, that wasn’t responsible.
Unfortunately.
“I’m dealing with you,” I muttered.
The library responded before I even finished the sentence.
The sprites stirred, a flutter of motion like pages caught in a breeze.
One zipped past my ear with a delighted chirp.
Another tugged at my sleeve insistently.
Before I could protest, three of them worked together to wrestle a book free from a nearby shelf, dragging it across the air with impressive determination.
The book landed on the table with a satisfied thump.
I stared at the title.
Hexing the Ex: A Practical Guide to Magical Closure.
I burst out laughing.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” I said, wiping at my eyes. “That already happened.”
The toad shifted uncomfortably.
“See?” I said, pointing at him. “Case in point.”
I flipped the book open anyway, because curiosity was one of my more dangerous traits. The pages were cheerfully organized, complete with tabs and marginal notes that suggested this book had been very well-loved over the centuries. Binding spells. Petty curses. Creative inconveniences.
I snorted. “Wow. Someone really worked through some feelings.”
The sprites hovered close, eager, one of them tapping insistently on the back section of the book.
“All right,” I said. “I see you.”
I flipped toward the end.
Reversal Spells.
My laughter faded.
I scanned the page slowly, reading each line with growing unease. The spells were specific. Detailed. And very clear about one thing.
The caster mattered.
In fact, the caster mattered more than the target.
“Oh,” I whispered.
I looked from the book to the toad to my daughter and back again.
“This wasn’t my spell,” I said quietly.
The sprites stilled, hovering midair as if waiting for me to finish the thought.
I swallowed. “It was Celeste’s.”
The realization landed gently but firmly. She’d done it, so she’d have to undo it.
It wasn’t done deliberately or with malice, but with emotion.
The book didn’t mince words. Spells born of emotional surges, especially first manifestations, couldn’t simply be undone by anyone else. Things tended to go wrong that couldn’t be reversed.
Reversals like this required the same magical signature…the same source.
The same heart.
I closed the book slowly and pressed my fingers to the cover.
The toad ribbited once, quietly.
I looked at him then, really looked at him, and felt the tangle of emotions twist in my chest. Anger. Resentment. A strange flicker of satisfaction I wasn’t proud of. And beneath it all, a reluctant sense of responsibility.
“You don’t get to stay like this forever,” I told him. “As tempting as that might be.”
He blinked.
“And I won’t force her to fix it until she’s ready,” I added. “Because that spell came from a place she didn’t even know she had yet.”
The sprites drifted closer, their presence soothing rather than insistent now.
“I should’ve known,” I murmured. “Magic like that doesn’t come out of nowhere.”
I imagined Celeste’s face when she’d realized what she’d done, the mix of horror and relief, and my chest tightened. Asking her to reverse it wasn’t just about fixing my ex-husband. It was about teaching her control. Responsibility. Choice.
And timing.
I sighed. “You’re going to have to wait.”
The toad croaked softly, clearly displeased.
“You can sulk,” I said. “You’re very good at that.”
I glanced back at the book one last time, committing the details to memory. Not the words. The intent. Reversal wasn’t about negating the magic. It was about releasing it and letting go of the emotion that had powered it in the first place.
Celeste wasn’t there yet.
And until she was, my ex-husband was going to remain exactly as he was… annoying, loud, and very much underfoot.
I closed the book and slid it gently back toward the sprites. “Thank you,” I told them.
They chirred happily and whisked it away, already pleased with themselves.
I turned back to the toad, hands on my hips.
“In the meantime,” I said, “you will stop inserting yourself into my life until I can find out a way to get you safely back to your creepy self.”
He hopped once.
“Stop.”
He hopped again.
I sighed. “Fine. But if you end up in a cauldron, that’s on you.”
As the library settled around us again, I felt the strange mix of resolve and exhaustion that had become my constant companion. One more problem was identified, and one more solution was waiting for the right moment.
And one very smug toad who was about to learn that patience, like magic, came with consequences.