Chapter 21
Chapter
Twenty-One
OKAY, I’M CALLING TIME OUT!
Okay. I’m calling time out.
Which is how I ended up on the floor of my living room, legs stretched out in a wide V, wearing an oversized jersey that definitely belongs to Maceo and a pair of gray track pants that have seen better days.
The elastic waistband has lost most of its fight, and there’s a small hole near the left knee that I keep meaning to mend but never quite get around to.
I’m staring down my Familiar like I’m about to win an argument with a cat, which, considering Sir’s track record, is a losing battle.
As with everything else going wrong in my life lately, I’m losing spectacularly.
Sir, one.
Keisha, a big fat zero.
“And this is precisely the problem.” He grumbles, tilting his head at me. Those bright golden eyes of his are practically rolling so hard I’m surprised they don’t fall out of his skull entirely.
I blink at him, shifting my weight on the floor. The late afternoon light streaming through the tall windows catches the dust motes dancing in the air between us. “Excuse me?”
His tail flicks once, sharp and unimpressed, the tip twitching like a metronome marking time for my failures. “You’re so focused on what’s happening outside these walls that you’ve forgotten what you’re actually here to do.”
I push up on my hands, the rug soft against my palms, narrowing my eyes as I lean forward. “I have not forgotten anything.” The words come out sharper than I intended, defensive and brittle.
“You closed your shop. You retreated to this manor like some tragic gothic heroine. You’re sitting on the floor arguing with me instead of doing the one thing that actually matters.
” His ears flatten slightly, and I swear if he could hold up his paws and tick off my mistakes on his little pink beans, he absolutely would.
“I am not arguing,” I snap out loud, my voice echoing slightly in the high-ceilinged room.
“You are stalling,” he replies with just as much bite, his whiskers twitching with annoyance.
I open my mouth to argue again, to defend myself, to list every single valid reason I have for needing a break from the whispers that follow me down Main Street, from the stares that linger too long when I pass the hardware store, from the quiet judgment that seems to seep from every doorway and storefront like fog rolling in from the mountains.
Nothing comes out except a frustrated exhale.
Because he is not wrong. The moment Councilman Montgomery left The Cackling Hen with his parting shots, I left the cafe.
I closed up my shop and made a very quick, very intentional walk back to the manor and stayed there.
It’s not lost on me what that break-in might mean.
The grimoires are here, exactly where they should be, and for once that’s one problem I don’t have to worry about.
“You have nothing to prove to them,” Sir continues, his voice quieter now, though no less sharp. “Not to Montgomery with his small mind and smaller magic. Not even to the locals who should know better but choose willful ignorance instead.”
My shoulders drop a fraction, some of the tension that’s been living there for days finally beginning to slip loose.
“But you do have something to claim.” He continues, padding closer until he’s within arm’s reach, then reaching out with one perfect paw to rest it on my knee, the contact warm and surprisingly grounding.
My gaze lifts back to his, my breath catching as something shifts in my chest. I’ve begun to expect that the little magic I can feel comes only when I’m experiencing extreme emotion, but this is different.
This feels controlled, intentional, like a door I’ve been pushing against finally beginning to crack open.
My hands press into the floor as I shift my sitting position. Something presses back against my palm, solid and cool to the touch, the wrongness of it has me pulling my hand up in alarm. My breath catches as I look down. Shock doesn’t begin to comprehend what I’m seeing.
With shaky fingers I pick up the silver ring, letting it rest in my outstretched hand. The same ring I know for a fact had been sitting in a glass case at Bits and Bobs.
The metal is warm against my skin, a pulse of recognition, the same insistent pull I felt when I first laid eyes on it in Lucien’s shop.
“Sir?” I look up at my Familiar, dumbstruck. “This ring belongs—
“To you,” he replies matter-of-factly. “It has answered your call.”
My eyebrows rise in question, “Call for what.”
“Your magic,” he says simply. “Put the ring on, Keisha.”
I glance back down at the ring resting on my palm. The enormity of this moment, something old and important and undeniably mine.
“Keisha, get out of your head and put it on,” Sir says insistently.
My fingers curl around the band before I lift it. Hesitating for a second, before shaking off my nerves.
“Okay,” I say, the word coming out smaller than I intended, the silence around us, thick with anticipation.
I slide the ring onto the middle finger of my right hand. I let out a little laugh of surprise as it fits perfectly. Like it was never meant to sit anywhere else.
As soon as the thought crosses my mind, the metal warms almost immediately, as if responding to something waking up changes inside of me. The faint magic I’ve been chasing sharpens into something clearer, reachable.
“You can feel it, can’t you?” Sir asks.
“More than I’ve ever felt before,” I say in awe.
“Good. Now, let’s find more.” Sir instructs.
I drag a hand down my face, exhaling slowly as I force myself to let go of everything else. The town, the rumors, my aunt, the broken wards, all of it gets pushed to the side whether I like it or not.
“Fine,” I mutter, adjusting my position on the floor, straightening my spine until it forms a proper line, shaking out my hands to release the nervous energy that’s been building under my skin.
“But if this doesn’t work, even with the ring and I end up sitting here like an idiot feeling nothing but carpet burn and disappointment, I am absolutely blaming you. ”
“It will work,” Sir replies without hesitation. “The ring is a mere conduit. You’re a Thorne, Keisha. The magic is there. It’s always been there.”
I roll my eyes, but I close them anyway, my eyelids fluttering shut as I try to find that quiet space inside myself that meditation is supposed to unlock.
“Slow your breathing,” Sir instructs, his voice taking on a different quality, more formal, like he’s channeling something ancient and purposeful.
In through my nose, slow and steady, counting to four. Hold for four. Out through my mouth, controlled and deliberate, another count of four. The rhythm is familiar now from all the meditation sessions with Lucien.
I do this again, and again, repeating the cycle until I’m hovering in that strange in-between space. I’m here, acutely aware of my surroundings, the rug beneath me, the late afternoon warmth streaming through the windows, Sir in front of me, but also somehow beyond it all.
The house is quiet around me as I let the rhythm take over, the tension in my shoulders easing inch by inch. The faint hum that always lives within the manor begins to surface, subtle at first, like something just out of reach.
“Good,” Sir murmurs, his voice seeming to come from both right beside me and somewhere far away. “Now feel. Don’t think, don’t analyze, don’t try to understand. Just feel.”
I let my awareness drift, not outward toward the town and its complications, not yet, but inward, sinking into the quiet space beneath my thoughts where something has been waiting patiently for me to notice it.
The manor responds almost immediately, as if it’s been holding its breath for this moment, waiting for me to finally pay attention.
Then I feel it.
The discovery hits me like a revelation, like finding a light switch in a room I’d been stumbling through in darkness.
A soft sense of recognition washes over me, surprise and satisfaction blending together as I find the thread of brilliant white magic.
It runs horizontal and vertical through the entire manor, warm and solid, these luminous lines of energy woven through the very bones of the house like a circulatory system designed by someone who understood that magic and architecture could be the same thing.
They stretch along the walls, beneath the floors I walk on every day, through the support beams and foundation stones, through the structure itself like veins carrying something ancient and alive and absolutely fundamental.
The magic isn’t loud or overwhelming. Instead, it’s constant, dependable, like a heartbeat that never falters, like breath that never stops.
My own breath catches and I want to laugh at the discovery, want to throw my head back and cackle with the pure joy of finally, finally finding what’s been right here all along.
My excitement bubbles up and comes out as a sharp gasp, but I keep my eyes squeezed shut for fear of losing these precious gains.
“I can feel it,” I whisper, my voice filled with wonder.
“Of course you can. This is yours, Keisha,” Sir replies, and there’s something like pride in his voice, warm and satisfied. “This house has been waiting for you for decades. Don’t stop there. Go deeper. Find what lies beyond these walls.”
Taking another deep breath, my renewed energy surging through me like caffeine in my bloodstream, I follow the threads, letting them guide me, letting them pull me beyond the safety of the manor and into something wider, something that makes my heart race with possibility.