CH. 38 When Witches Try to Be Fairy Godmothers （And Kind of Succeed）
The first thing I notice is the silence.
Then the smell — damp moss, lavender, and slightly burnt bread.
Home.
The crooked beams of my cottage sag the same way they always have, like they’re gossiping about my life choices. A thin stream of sunlight filters through the dusty window, catching on potion bottles, cracked scrolls, and one very judgmental baby axolotl.
Leonardo floats lazily in his tiny tank, gills fluttering like banners of disapproval.
“You’re staring,” I tell him.
“You almost died again,” he says, voice tiny but unimpressed. “Do you enjoy giving me heart attacks? I’m an infant, Drew.”
“You’re an axolotl.”
“An infant axolotl. My stress levels are not built for your lifestyle.”
I sigh and tap the glass. “I missed you too, Leo.”
He blows a bubble. “Liar.”
Before I can reply, I hear faint scratching from the rafters.
Five familiar fuzzy faces peek over the edge — Vivi, Gigi, Lili, Mimi, and Bibi — the Coven of Mildly Concerning Arachnids.
“About time,” Vivi says, descending first. “We thought you’d turned into soup.”
“Or ash,” Gigi adds helpfully.
“Or worse,” Mimi gasps, “you found a boyfriend.”
All five hiss in synchronized horror.
“Relax,” I mutter, dropping my satchel onto the floor. “No one wants to date a witch with questionable ethics and pet tarantulas.”
Bibi clicks her fangs. “Speak for yourself. I’ve had suitors.”
“They were flies, Bibi,” Lili says flatly.
“Still counts.”
Leonardo makes a gurgling sound suspiciously close to laughter.
“Alright, alright!” I hold up my hands. “Before you all stage an intervention, I brought gifts.”
That gets their attention.
I pull out a small jar and shake it gently. “Imported beetles. From Gazaar’s royal gardens. Probably illegal. Definitely crunchy.”
All five spiders freeze.
Then chaos.
Bibi body-slams Lili. Mimi snatches two at once and sprints up the wall. Vivi, the eldest and most dramatic, sits on my head, waving her beetle leg like a scepter.
Leonardo snorts. “Every reunion in this house ends in a crime scene.”
“Home,” I declare, sweeping an arm at the glorious pandemonium. “Loud, ridiculous, and absolutely perfect.”
Technically, I wasn't supposed to be here.
After the Trial of Spirit, Hegar had sighed that long-suffering sigh of his and muttered:
"Fine. Take a break. But if I find the forest on fire, I'll know who to blame."
I'd smiled sweetly. "You flatter me. I'd burn the kingdom, not the forest."
So here I am — unburned, unbothered, and trying very hard not to think about the fire still sleeping in my veins.
While sweeping the floor (and by sweeping, I mean pushing dust into a dignified pile and pretending that counts as effort), I trip over something hard near my bed.
A chest.
Mother's chest.
It's been there for years, half-buried under books and bad life decisions.
My pulse quickens as I kneel and open it. The hinges sigh like they've been waiting.
Inside: dried flowers, old potion bottles, a few sketches of moons and herbs — and a folded gown.
It's faded, patched, humble. But when the sunlight touches it, the threads glimmer faintly gold.
Magic hums beneath the fabric — quiet and old.
My throat tightens.
"Hi, Mom," I whisper. "You had nice taste."
A knock rattles the door.
I freeze.
No one knocks here.
Not humans.
Definitely not witches — they just barge in.
I murmur Aunt Agitha's charm, the one that should make the cottage vanish from unwanted eyes.
Nothing happens.
The air stays heavy.
The door creaks open.
An old woman stands there, smiling like she knows my every secret. Her cloak shimmers faintly, black fading to deep violet — the kind of magic that makes the air feel like it's bowing.
A Supreme.
Every instinct I have screams danger.
"Wards should've fried you to ashes," I hiss.
"They didn't," she says calmly, stepping inside, "because I came with no ill will."
"That's what ill will always says right before the stabbing."
She chuckles — low and rasping, the kind of laugh that carries centuries.
"Child, if I wanted you dead, I'd have sent a letter."
That... actually sounds plausible.
I cross my arms. "So, what do you want?"
"To help."
I squint. "I'm not buying anything."
Her sharp gaze drops to the gown still clutched in my arms. "That belonged to your mother, didn't it?"
The air leaves my lungs. "How do you—"
"I knew her," she says softly. "And your Aunt Agitha. Powerful women. Reckless women." Her eyes glint. "You take after them both."
My heart skips. "So you're here to what? Recruit me for your coven of all-knowing, smug elders?"
"Maybe," she hums. "Or maybe I'm here because the Trials have made you visible to every creature with ambition. And I don't like seeing untrained witches get eaten by politics."
I narrow my eyes. "That sounded suspiciously like concern."
She grins, revealing too many teeth. "Don't get used to it. Now come with me. We have work to do."
"Work?"
She nods toward the gown. "That rag needs to breathe again. And you'll need more than sarcasm to survive the next ball."
I blink. "You've been watching the Trials?"
"Of course. Witches love reality shows with stakes."
I should say no.
Every rational part of me knows following a powerful stranger into the woods at night is how horror stories begin.
But then again, I am the horror story.
"Fine," I mutter. "But if this ends with me as a frog, I'm haunting you."
"Promises, promises," she says, grinning.
The Dark Forest hums under our feet. Lanterns of violet flame sway from branches, casting strange constellations on the moss. We walk until the trees open to reveal a circle of witches — young and old, cloaked and wild, laughter curling in the air like smoke.
A coven.
The Supreme raises her hand. The circle quiets instantly.
"Sisters," she calls, "we welcome the blood of Agitha's line."
A murmur ripples through them. "The wild witch's kin," one whispers. "The flame-blooded girl."
"Stop flattering me," I say. "You'll make me blush and combust."
They laugh — sharp, knowing laughter. The good kind.
The Supreme gestures, and the gown lifts from my arms, unraveling midair into a thousand golden threads. They swirl around me, glowing, reforming — silk, violet, starlit, reborn.
When it settles back against my skin, it feels like power itself is breathing through the seams.
I gape. "Okay. You might actually be fairy godmothers. Slightly evil ones, but still."
The old woman smirks. "We prefer the term 'responsible women with flair.'"
When I return to my cottage, the moon is high.
The gown glows faintly against my arm, like it remembers being alive once.
Vivi crawls up my arm, tapping the fabric as if inspecting it.
"Well?" I ask. "Do I look like I belong at a royal ball?"
Leonardo wiggles in his tank, unimpressed.
I grin. "Fine. But I'm going anyway."
I glance at the moon and whisper, "If Mother could see me now..."
Then, louder: "She'd probably say my hair's a mess."
I laugh.
And for the first time in a long time, it feels good.