Chapter 22 #2
“I know,” she said. “That could’ve gone a lot worse. Which is saying something, because it already went pretty damn badly.”
She sank onto the low stone wall bordering the herb beds, elbows on her knees. Her fingers still smelled like mint, eucalyptus, and the metallic tang of overworked iron.
Potion #6 had been so close. Close to controllable. Close to brilliant. But what next? If she wasn’t careful, she’d turn them all into smiling, overcomplimenting cult members who might have walked into traffic while praising each other’s hair.
“Great job, Magda,” she muttered. “Next, you’ll invent weaponized niceness.”
Wally hopped into her lap and flopped sideways, his little paws pressed to her stomach like he was trying to hold her together.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she whispered, nudging his ear. “I’m allowed to sulk for five minutes.”
The side door creaked.
Magda straightened automatically, wiping at her cheeks in case her eyes had decided to be assholes about any of this.
Sebastian stepped out, blinking into the fading light.
He’d shed his lab coat somewhere along the way, leaving himself in a rumpled button-down and jeans that were damp up to his knees.
His hair was still wet from earlier, and a single curl stuck stubbornly to his forehead, refusing to behave.
It tracked with the rest of his life right about now.
“I thought you’d gone inside,” she said.
“I did,” he replied. “Then I realized I’d left my emotional support botanist in the yard.”
Despite herself, a tiny smile twitched at her mouth. “I’m not sure I qualify as emotional support after all that.”
He crossed the grass and stopped in front of her, hands tucked into his pockets like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to reach for her yet. “You qualify,” he said. “We just need to remember we’re running an experiment, not staging a miracle on demand.”
Magda stared at the damp ground between them. “I keep telling myself that. But they trust me with their hearts, Sebastian. Their actual hearts. I don’t want to keep screwing up in bigger, weirder ways.”
“You’re not screwing up,” he said gently. “You’re discovering limits.”
She huffed. “Theirs or mine?”
“Both,” he admitted. “But limits are good. Limits mean you’re paying attention.”
He sat beside her on the stone wall, leaving several careful inches of space. Wally immediately colonized that space, sprawling across both their thighs like a furry bridge.
“Look,” Sebastian said, patting Wally. “If today proved anything, it’s that brute-forcing our way to a perfect potion isn’t working. So, we stop brute-forcing.”
Magda glanced at him. “Are you saying this as a scientist or as a guy who’s been cryo-misted, emotionally hijacked, and truth-bombed in less than a month?”
“Both,” he said dryly. “Scientist-me says we break it down. One variable at a time. Smaller batches. Controlled conditions. No more all-coven taste tests until we’re sure nobody’s going to wander into traffic, praising the pretty cars.”
Magda cleared her throat. “Hypothetically. As a concept. Moving on.”
His mouth curved, slow and warm, before he looked back out over the lawn. “Guy-who-survived-the-month me says… I trust you. And I’m willing to be the idiot in the lab again. But only if you’re not critiquing yourself.”
Her chest squeezed. “I’m not trying to critique myself. I’m trying to make sure I deserve the faith they keep giving me.”
“Magda,” he said quietly, “Rayna doesn’t hand out trust lightly. Neither does Joell. Or me.”
That last part landed like a small, steady weight in her ribs, comforting and terrifying at once. She exhaled slowly.
“Dig into the old grimoires. Cross-reference whatever passes for peer-reviewed witchcraft.” His smile went crooked. “When you’re ready to try again, we won’t call it a do-over. We’ll call it the next iteration.”
“Less personal failure, more… data point?” she asked.
“Exactly. Love Potion #7: now with fewer unintended side effects.”
She snorted. “That’s an optimistic label.”
“Scientists are secretly optimists,” he said. “Don’t tell anyone; it’ll ruin our reputation.”
He rose. Wally slid off both their laps with an indignant squeak. Sebastian hesitated. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad it’s you,” he added. “If anyone’s going to figure this out, it’s the witch who refuses to quit after six near-disasters.”
“‘Near’ is not the word I would have chosen,” she said.
He kissed her on the cheek. “Get some rest.”
He headed back toward the mansion, hands in his pockets, shoulders a little less weighed down than before.
Magda watched him go, her heart doing that annoying fluttery thing that had nothing to do with adrenaline or misaligned molecules.
Wally climbed back onto the bench beside her. “Mrrrp,” he said decisively.
“I know,” she sighed. “I’m not done.”
She tipped her head back, studying the darkening sky above the roofline. Somewhere up there, the Goddess was probably raising an eyebrow and taking bets with the Olympians.
“Okay,” Magda murmured. “One more attempt. But we do it right this time.”
Whatever came next, it wouldn’t be an accident. It would be intentional, careful, and—Goddess willing—safe enough to hand to the people she loved.
Magda slid off the wall and headed for the mansion door, Wally hopping at her heels.
Somewhere in her bones, past the embarrassment and exhaustion, a tiny spark of excitement flickered to life again, quiet but undeniable.
Love Potion #8 was coming.