Chapter 11
Chapter
Eleven
TAKE A HIKE, HE SAYS
Ideclare a magical timeout.
That is the official phrase I use when I shuffle down the stairs of Thorne Manor in pajama pants, fuzzy house slippers, my braids tossed up in a bun that has clearly lost its structural integrity sometime around dawn.
My brain feels like someone stuffed it with pages from three different grimoires and shook the whole thing like a snow globe.
Three straight days of magical study will do that to a woman. Three days of squinting at handwritten notes in Ruby Thorne’s grimoire, deciphering potion recipes that seem to have been written by someone who believed commas were a personal enemy.
The manor seems to agree with my decision. None of the cabinets slam open demanding organization. No mysterious books appear on the table begging to be studied. Even the kettle whistles exactly once, then goes quiet like a polite houseguest who understands the meaning of personal space.
For the first time in days, the house feels calm.
I’m calm, peaceful, blissfully human. My magic hasn’t made a stuttering appearance, content to rest after days of being stretched and prodded and coaxed into new shapes.
The familiar weight of exhaustion sinks into my bones, the good kind, like after a hard workout rather than the bone-deep weariness I’ve carried for years.
Sir stretches along the back of the sofa like a king draped across his throne, his silver-blue fur catching the morning light streaming through the tall windows.
His tail flicks while one eye opens just enough to study me as I cross the living room with my coffee, the hardwood floor creaking softly under my slippers.
“You look like someone who has abandoned dignity,” he says, his voice carrying that particular brand of disdain that only he can perfect.
I lean against the entrance to the kitchen and blow on my coffee before taking a careful sip. The warmth spreads through me, chasing away the last traces of morning fog from my brain. “I have abandoned everything.”
Sir’s whiskers twitch in what might be amusement or judgment. With Sir, the two emotions are often indistinguishable.
I lift my mug slightly in a tired toast. “Today I am a woman of leisure.”
Sir considers this declaration with deep suspicion, both eyes now open and fixed on me with the intensity of a judge weighing evidence.
“A dangerous development,” he says, resting his chin on his paws.
“I have spent three days reading magical cookbooks written by women who clearly hated punctuation,” I reply, taking another sip of coffee and savoring the way it makes my shoulders relax.
“Those were potion texts.”
“They were recipes for magical disasters waiting to happen.”
“You cannot approach magical study with such flippancy.”
“I absolutely can when my brain feels like scrambled eggs and my body feels like it’s been through a blender.” I gesture vaguely with my free hand. “Three days, Sir. Three days of trying to understand why Ruby Thorne thought ‘a pinch of moonlight’ was an acceptable measurement.”
Sir opens both eyes now, clearly preparing a lecture that will include the phrase ancient responsibility and possibly something about the sacred duties of the Thorne bloodline.
Before he can begin, a knock lands on the front door.
I freeze with my coffee halfway to my lips, steam curling up to fog my vision slightly.
Sir turns his head toward the foyer, ears pricked forward with sudden interest.
The knock comes again. Cheerful. Persistent. Entirely too energetic for someone seeking audience with a woman in pajama pants.
I lean back and stare through the living room into the foyer leading to the front door, as if I can somehow will the visitor away through sheer force of denial.
The door stares back, heavy and wooden and utterly unhelpful.
Sir looks at me with an expression that clearly says this is your problem to solve.
I look at Sir with an expression that clearly says I am not equipped for human interaction.
“I am not home,” I announce to the empty air.
Sir blinks slowly, the feline equivalent of an eye roll. “You are standing there in your pajamas holding a mug of coffee. Your presence is fairly well-established.”
The knock comes again, followed by the unmistakable sound of someone moving on the porch boards.
I sigh the sigh of a woman who knows peace has officially ended and magical timeouts are apparently not legally binding.
When I open the door, Maceo stands on the porch like he belongs there.
Of course he does.
He’s wearing dark jeans that fit him exactly right, worn boots that have clearly seen plenty of use, and a dark flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the intricate tribal tattoos that wind around his forearms. In one hand he holds a wicker picnic basket that looks suspiciously well-packed.
In the other he carries a thick wool blanket folded with military precision.
His smile is warm and entirely too confident for someone standing on my porch at nine in the morning while I look like I’ve been dragged backward through a hedge maze.
I narrow my eyes at the basket, then at the blanket, then back at his face.
“No.”
Maceo blinks once, his smile never wavering. “I have not even said anything yet.”
I lean against the doorframe and fold my arms across my chest, trying to look stern despite the fuzzy slippers. “You do not need to. I can see the basket. I can see the blanket. I can see that look on your face.”
His smile widens into something that borders on wicked.
“You are not kidnapping me into the wilderness,” I inform him, pointing one finger at his chest for emphasis.
“It is not kidnapping if you come willingly,” he says easily, shifting his weight like he has all day to wear down my resistance.
“I am not coming willingly.”
“You might.” His voice carries the kind of confidence that suggests he knows something I don’t.
“I will not.” I shift my weight, tightening my grip around my coffee cup.
“You will,” he insists.
I squint at him, studying the way his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners, the way he holds himself like he’s already won this argument. “You have come here with a plan.”
“I have come here with lunch.” He lifts the basket slightly, as if I might have missed it.
“And a blanket.” I point at the folded wool in his other hand.
“Picnics require blankets.”
“They also require bugs.” I let my face scrunch in disgust at the thought of mosquitoes and whatever other creatures lurk in the Massachusetts wilderness.
“Fresh air,” he counters.
“Mosquitoes,” I reply flatly.
“Not this time of year. October, mosquitoes are mostly dead. But there’s sunshine.” He gestures toward the clear blue sky visible above the porch roof.
I glance at the basket again despite myself, my traitorous stomach choosing that exact moment to remind me that coffee does not constitute a proper breakfast.
Maceo clocks it immediately, his grin sharpening with victory like a predator who’s just spotted movement in the underbrush.
“This is manipulation,” I say, throwing my hand up in exasperation and nearly sloshing coffee down the front of my pajama shirt.
“This is lunch,” he says, completely unrepentant.
Behind me, Sir hops down from the sofa with a soft thud and pads into the foyer with quiet measured steps, his claws clicking softly against the hardwood.
He sits beside the staircase banister and watches the entire exchange like a judge observing courtroom chaos, his tail curled neatly around his paws.
“You’re not coming?” I ask over my shoulder.
Sir lifts one paw and begins grooming it with elaborate attention to detail. “I am a cat today.”
I turn back toward him, abandoning my staring contest with Maceo for a moment. “You spent the last week reminding me you are not a cat.”
“And today I am embracing my feline identity.” He doesn’t look up from his paw. “Cats do not go on picnics. Cats stay inside where it is warm and there are no leaves to stick in their fur.”
What a little traitor.
Maceo rocks slightly on his heels, letting us go back and forth in silence, the basket swinging lightly from his hand like a pendulum counting down my resistance.
“You have five minutes to change,” he says.
“I did not agree to anything.” I turn my attention back to him, trying to summon what remains of my dignity.
“You will.”
“I will not.”
“You will,” he insists, devastating me with that damn smile. The one that suggests patience, confidence, and an irritating certainty about my future decisions that I’m beginning to suspect might be entirely accurate.
I sigh, a long exhale that carries the weight of defeat.
“Five minutes.”
Twenty minutes later I step outside wearing jeans that actually fit, a sturdy pair of hiking boots, and a burgundy sweater that has absolutely seen better decades but is soft and comfortable and makes me feel like myself.
I’ve managed to wrestle my braids into something resembling intentional style, and I’ve even found my good lip balm.
Maceo looks me over from head to toe with an expression that makes heat creep up my neck, then nods approvingly.
“See,” he says. “Already better.”
“I hate you.”
“You absolutely do not.”
He holds out the picnic basket. I take it and immediately regret it.
“Absolutely not,” I mutter, handing it straight back. “Be serious.”
He huffs in amusement and takes it without argument, sliding the blanket off his shoulder and passing it to me instead.
We leave the last row of houses behind and head toward the Ruby Spring, our footsteps echoing slightly on the quiet street.
The town feels sleepy and peaceful in the late morning light, most residents already settled into their Saturday routines.
The spring runs beside us as we walk, its red-tinted water catching the sunlight and throwing dancing reflections up onto the trees that line its banks.