Chapter Twenty-Eight
All I truly, desperately wanted was to get Celeste back to her college campus safe and sound.
Not tomorrow. Not after one more conversation or one more magical complication.
I wanted the neat finality of it: her backpack zipped, her classes waiting, the familiar normalcy of dorm halls and coffee shops and syllabi that didn’t involve ancient Wards or accidental transmutation.
I wanted her somewhere where the most dangerous thing she’d have to navigate was a pop quiz or a broken printer.
But Stonewick had never cared much for tidy endings, and neither, apparently, had magic.
Because no matter how satisfying it felt, deep down, in a small, uncharitable part of me, to watch my ex-husband hop around as a smug, opinionated amphibian, I knew he couldn’t stay that way forever.
Even if some days it felt like karmic poetry.
Even if the universe had rarely felt so aligned with my petty inner thoughts.
Someday, Celeste and I would laugh about it. About her first accidental spell. About how her father had briefly been reduced to a ribbit and a set of bulging eyes and belly. It would become a story softened by distance and humor, retold over wine or tea with incredulous headshakes and laughter.
But that day wasn’t today.
Today still felt fragile.
I moved quietly through the Academy, letting my steps slow as the building guided me, as it always seemed to do when I was too close to unraveling. The air warmed subtly as I approached the study off the foyer, the one with the low fire and the deep chairs that encouraged lingering.
And there she was.
Celeste lay curled on the rug near the fire, one knee tucked up, her hair falling loose over her shoulder as she read.
The book in her hands was thick and well-loved, its spine cracked in a way that suggested many hands had read it.
Magical, undoubtedly. The faint shimmer at the edges of the pages gave it away.
My heart clenched seeing her there. It would be so easy to let her stay.
She looked so at ease and so right, like she belonged here in a way that was both comforting and terrifying.
I lingered at the doorway longer than necessary, watching the firelight flicker across her face, memorizing the moment like I might need it later, before I crossed the room and sat beside her on the rug, close enough that our shoulders brushed.
She looked up and smiled. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I echoed.
She marked her place with a finger but didn’t close the book.
“I found this one tucked behind a shelf. It’s about early transmutation magic. The accidental kind. It’s sort of funny, actually.”
I snorted. “Of course it is.”
She grinned. “Apparently, turning someone into a goat was very popular for a while.”
“History is wild,” I said.
She laughed softly, then settled again, her expression warm and relaxed, too relaxed. And that was when I knew I couldn’t put it off any longer.
I opened my mouth to speak, but something cold and wet brushed my ankle.
I shrieked.
It wasn’t dignified. It wasn’t subtle. It was the kind of sound that came straight from the spine, bypassing reason entirely. I jumped to my feet so fast I nearly knocked over a chair, my heart slamming against my ribs.
“WHAT—”
The toad sat there, smug as ever, staring up at me with an expression that could only be described as pleased.
Ribbit.
I clutched my chest. “You cannot…do that.”
Ribbit.
Celeste burst out laughing.
It wasn’t a polite chuckle or a restrained snort. She full-on had shoulder shaking with laughter that echoed off the walls and startled a sprite somewhere near the ceiling. And I realized she’d planned it with him.
“Oh my word,” she gasped. “Mom, your face.”
“I nearly died,” I said weakly.
The toad hopped once, clearly unrepentant.
Celeste wiped at her eyes, still giggling. “I think he likes you. Maybe he feels bad.”
“That makes one of us,” I muttered.
She sat up and patted the rug beside her. The toad hopped obediently closer, settling between us.
I sighed and sank back down, rubbing my temples. “This is… unsustainable.”
Celeste tilted her head, amusement fading just a little. “I figured this was coming.”
I studied her face, the firelight catching in her eyes, the magic there quiet but present.
“I know this isn’t easy to talk about,” I said gently. “And I don’t want to rush you. But we need to start thinking about turning him back.”
Her gaze dropped to the toad. He blinked up at her, then ribbited softly, as if he were attempting innocence.
“I didn’t mean to do it,” she said quietly.
“I know,” I said immediately. “I know you didn’t.”
She swallowed. “Part of me doesn’t regret it.”
I hesitated and nodded. “That part makes sense, too.”
She let out a breath. “It felt… powerful. Like something snapped into place.”
“That’s why it worked,” I said softly. “And why undoing it needs care. I spoke with everyone about the timing of things and what’s ahead for us.”
She glanced at me. “Did Nova offer to help?”
“Yes.”
“And Bella? And Ardetia?”
“Yes,” I said again, smiling faintly. “You’re well supported.”
She nudged the toad gently with her finger. “He’s not… suffering. Is he?”
I considered the question honestly. “No. Not physically. But this isn’t who he is. Not fully, anyway.”
She snickered and nodded slowly. “I don’t want to be someone who leaves people like this.”
My chest ached with pride. “You won’t be.”
The fire crackled softly between us. My ex stretched a leg, then hopped into Celeste’s lap, curling there like a particularly ugly cat.
She sighed. “I’ll do it,” she said. “I’ll help reverse it before I go back.”
Relief flooded me so fast it made my eyes sting. “Thank you.”
“But,” she added, meeting my gaze, “I want guidance and someone to step in, if needed.”
“You’ll have both,” I promised.
She smiled, small but sure. “Okay.”
The toad ribbited again, quieter this time.
I leaned back, letting the moment settle, the fire warm and steady beside us. This wasn’t the ending I wanted, but it was a step toward one.
And for now, that was enough.
The fire had settled into a steady, comforting rhythm, while Celeste traced the edge of the rug with her finger.
A thoughtful crease between her brows had replaced her earlier laughter.
The toad sat squarely in her lap, his squat body surprisingly solid, his throat pulsing weakly as if he were gearing up to voice another opinion.
She didn’t look at me when she spoke.
“Will he remember any of this?”
I took a moment before answering, not because I didn’t know, but because I did.
“No,” I said gently. “Not if we do this the safest way. We will have to figure out a way to ensure he doesn’t.”
She finally glanced up, eyes searching my face. “Safest for who?”
“For you,” I said without hesitation. “And for everyone else.”
The toad ribbited.
I ignored him and continued. “Nova will need to do a memory spell. Just the parts connected to the Academy, the magic, Stonewick as it truly is. He’ll remember… leaving. He’ll remember normal things. But not this.”
Celeste’s fingers curled slightly in the rug. “That feels… big.”
“It is,” I admitted. “It’s not something we take lightly. Ardetia and Bella are both against it, but we don’t have another logical option.”
She nodded, quiet again, then frowned. “What if it changed him?”
I blinked. “Changed him how?”
She hesitated, clearly choosing her words. “What if seeing magic, real magic, did something to him? What if it made him… kinder?”
The word hit me harder than I expected.
Kinder.
I stared at her, as my chest tightened. “You think your father is unkind?”
Her eyes widened slightly, like she hadn’t realized what she’d revealed until it was already out in the open. “I mean… yeah?”
The toad ribbited loudly in protest, hopping once in her lap like he was staging a miniature tantrum.
Celeste shot him a look. “Don’t.”
She turned back to me, her expression earnest but edged with something intense. “Mom, sleeping with numerous women while you’re married isn’t exactly oozing sweetness.”
I winced, not because it wasn’t true, but because I hadn’t realized how plainly she’d seen it. I always thought I hid the reasons well…
“And,” she added, her voice tightening, “the way he talks about them. Like they’re disposable. Like they’re interchangeable. And women my age or a little bit older? It’s gross.”
The toad puffed up, throat ballooning, and let out a furious ribbit.
“Stop,” she said flatly. “You don’t get to argue this.”
I felt something shift inside me, a mix of anger and sorrow and a strange, belated clarity. I’d known Alex had hurt me. I hadn’t fully grasped how much of that harm Celeste had absorbed quietly, watching, learning, filing it away.
“You’re right,” I said softly. “You are.”
She let out a shaky breath. “I just… I lost it on him. I didn’t plan to. He started talking about some woman at his condo building, as if it were funny or made him seem impressive. And something in me snapped.”
“You didn’t just lose control,” I said carefully. “You reacted.”
She looked at me, eyes bright with worry. “That’s what scares me. What if I do it again?”
The question hung between us, fragile and raw.
“What if I’m back at school,” she continued, “and things get rocky, or someone pushes the wrong button, and I don’t even realize I’m doing it until it’s too late?”
The toad had gone still now, his earlier bluster gone, eyes wide and unblinking as if he, too, was listening more carefully than he’d intended.
I reached for Celeste’s hand and squeezed it. “You won’t be alone.”
“But you won’t be there,” she said quietly.
“Call us and we will. Plus, we’ll put safeguards in place.”
She looked skeptical. “Is that even possible?”
I hesitated.
The honest answer was complicated. Magic didn’t like cages, and it didn’t respond well to fear-based restrictions, but it did respond to intention. To grounding. To practice.
“I don’t know exactly what that looks like yet,” I admitted. “But Nova does. Ardetia does. Bella does. We’ll figure out ways for you to ground yourself. To recognize the surge before it takes over.”
“And if that doesn’t work?”
“Then we adjust,” I said. “Magic isn’t static, and neither are you.”
She leaned back against the chair, staring into the fire. “I don’t want to be afraid of myself.”
“You don’t have to be,” I said firmly. “Magic doesn’t make you dangerous. Not knowing yourself does.”
She was quiet for a long moment, then glanced down at the toad. “He really was awful, wasn’t he?”
“Yes,” I said without hesitation. “He was.”
The toad croaked, a low, wounded sound.
“And maybe,” she added slowly, “seeing all this did change him. But that doesn’t mean he deserves access to it.”
“No,” I said. “It doesn’t.”
She nodded, resolve settling in her posture. “Okay. Then we do it the right way. I’ll help reverse it. And Nova can do the memory spell.”
I felt a pang of something like grief for the simplicity we’d lost before magic, but pride also swelled.
“We’ll make sure it’s done with care.”
She smiled faintly. “And then someday, we’ll laugh about it.”
“Someday,” I agreed. “Just… maybe not today.”
Celeste looked at her dad, and then at me. “He really is going to be fine, right?”
“Yes,” I said. “He’ll go back to being exactly who he was.”
She made a face. “That’s… not reassuring.”
I laughed despite myself. “Fair enough.”
She leaned into me then, resting her head against my shoulder the way she used to when she was little, and I wrapped an arm around her without thinking.
“We’ll figure this out,” I murmured into her hair. “I promise.”
I didn’t know exactly how.
I didn’t know if safeguards were truly foolproof or if magic would always find ways to surprise us.
But I knew we weren’t ignoring the fear. We were naming it, just like with me, and that was the first real step toward control.