Chapter 17 #2
“I love my work,” he went on. “Teaching, researching, all of it. But the politics at the university, the pressure to publish, the constant hustle … it’s been wearing on me for years.
” His mouth twisted. “It’s not just my ex.
It’s the accumulation of everything. My life there feels brittle.
This”—he gestured around the room—“feels like possibility.”
The threads. I could feel them humming already, just beneath the surface of reality, like a kettle about to boil.
“And you want to know if you’re being impulsive,” I said softly. “Or if you’re meant to stay. Or go.”
“Yes.” His eyes met mine, vulnerable behind his glasses. “I don’t want to blow up my life on a whim. But I also don’t want to cling to something that’s already dead because I’m afraid of change.”
I took a breath, steadying myself. “Okay. Then let’s ask the chart.”
I clicked to overlay the current transits on his natal chart. The wheel realigned, symbols shifting, and—
There it was.
That shimmer.
My breath stuttered. It started as a faint glimmer along the aspect lines—Mercury trine Jupiter, Saturn nudging his Midheaven, the Node crossing the IC—and then, as I watched, the lines lifted.
Silver-gold threads rose gently from the laptop screen, weaving themselves into the air between us. They arched and looped, delicate and bright, forming a three-dimensional web that pulsed faintly with light.
Matthew’s eyes went huge behind his glasses. “Oh,” he whispered. “Oh, wow.”
“You can see them?” I almost dropped my laptop as I whirled to Matthew.
“Faintly, I can.” His eyes were huge in his face.
He could see them. Of course he could. Matthew’s chart practically shouted “open to woo.”
I reached out slowly, remembering Gran’s admonition on the crackling pages. Guide, don’t dictate. Weave where the soul already leans.
As my fingertips brushed the nearest strand, a ripple of sensation shot up my arm. Not painful, exactly, more like the zing of static electricity.
Images flooded my mind.
California first.
Matthew in his apartment, alone at a small table piled with notebooks.
His shoulders were hunched, blue light from his laptop washing his face.
Outside, horns sounded from traffic. He went to campus, out to dinners, smiled at colleagues, but there was a shadow behind his eyes.
There were good moments—students who got excited about his lectures, the satisfaction of finishing a chapter. But everything felt … strained.
I ran my hand along another thread as Matthew stayed silent, watching me.
Loren Brae.
Matthew sitting in this very library, laptop open, sunlight slanting across the table.
He was laughing at something Lottie said, gesturing wildly with a pen.
A noticeboard in the village showed a flyer with Local History Talk at MacAlpine Castle written across it.
Matthew helping Lachlan and Sophie set up museum displays in one of the castle’s unused wings.
Long walks in the hills with his breath fogging the air.
And then, softer, fuzzier, but there—a hand in his. Someone walking beside him, their face just out of focus, but the feeling of companionship was clear. Warmth. Love, built slowly and honestly, nothing like the fast-burning brittle relationships he’d had before.
The threads carrying that latter image pulsed brighter.
“Liora?” Matthew’s voice was soft, reverent. “What do you see?”
I swallowed, heart pounding. “Two main paths,” I said. “One where you go back to LA, slide back into the old life. It’s not … terrible. But there’s just this … heaviness there. I don’t know. Maybe not heaviness, but it’s strained. Tired, I guess? Everything feels like pushing a boulder uphill.”
His mouth tightened.
“And another,” I said gently, “where you stay here in Loren Brae. You cobble together a new kind of career—teaching part-time, consulting on projects, or maybe even starting your own thing. You’re surrounded by people who love you.
And … well, there might be someone here for you.
A partner. Someone who sees you for you. ”
He closed his eyes briefly, a line forming across his brow, as he opened them back up and looked at me.
“What if I’m romanticizing that second path?” Matthew asked. “What if I’m projecting because Sophie’s happy and everything feels like a Hallmark Christmas film and I’ve eaten too many of Hilda’s cookies?”
“That’s fair,” I said. The threads shimmered, waiting.
“But your chart backs it up. Look—your North Node is in the fourth house. Your soul’s growth is tied to home and chosen family.
You were never meant to be the eternal bachelor professor in the city high-rise.
And right now, transiting North Node is conjunct with that natal placement.
It’s like a cosmic highlighter saying ‘hey, over here, this way.’”
He leaned forward slightly, eyes following my hand as I gestured to the glowing web. “And the moving?”
“Ninth house,” I said. “Long-distance travel. That’s being activated too. But instead of the usual Sagittarius story of I will roam forever and never settle, your chart wants adventure that leads to belonging. Not endless running.”
He huffed out a shaky laugh. “I do run a lot.”
“That tracks, too.”
“Rude but true.”
I gave him a small smile and waited.
“So this partner? Does it really seem to say I’ll find love here? Or am I really a lost cause?”
I smiled, feeling the softness of it all the way through me.
“We always have the potential for love. But in your case…” I pointed to his Libra Moon.
“Your moon wants partnership. It’s wired for it.
And transiting Jupiter—the planet of expansion and luck—is moving into your seventh house over the next year.
That’s relationships. What you learn from them, what you attract.
It doesn’t promise a ring and a mortgage, but it does suggest that if you show up and open up, the potential for something real is extraordinarily strong.
Especially if you’re in a place where you feel more like yourself. ”
He looked at the threads again—the California path, fine and tight, and the Loren Brae path, brighter and wider.
“Can you…” He hesitated, swallowing. “Would it be possible for you to … nudge it? Just a little? The Loren Brae one.”
I held his gaze. “I can,” I said slowly, swallowing down my nerves. “But only if you’re already choosing it. I won’t override your free will and I can’t force what isn’t yours.”
“I know,” he said. “I’m not asking you to decide for me.
I think … I’ve already decided. That’s the terrifying part.
I want to be here. With Soph and Lachlan.
With all of you. I want to try a life that isn’t built solely around my job title.
But a part of me still clings to the old story.
The safe story. If you can help me … commit, I suppose.
It would be comforting. To know the universe is backing me up, even a little. ”
I felt that right down to my bones.
“All right,” I whispered. “Then yes. I can try.”
The threads brightened, as if they’d heard.
“Before I do,” I added, “a couple of ground rules. One, this doesn’t erase hard things.
If you stay, there will still be moments of homesickness, financial stress, all of that.
Two, you still have to do the practical bits.
Talk to your university. Sort out visas.
Figure out how many cardigans you need for Scottish winters.
Three, if at any point your gut says no, you listen to that over me, over the chart, over everything. Deal?”
“Deal,” he said immediately, a corner of his mouth twitching upward.
“And four,” I added, because Gran’s words rang in my head, “I am not a vending machine of destiny, okay? This is a co-creation. You and me and the stars. And possibly Sir Buster, who I suspect is some sort of minor god.”
We both glanced over. Sir Buster rolled onto his back with a groan, four little legs in the air.
Matthew smiled, eyes suspiciously bright. “Understood.”
I took another breath, centering myself. “All right then. Let’s see what the loom has in store.”
I reached for the golden thread that represented Loren Brae—thicker than the California one now, but still delicate. As my fingers brushed it, heat flared in my palm. Images spilled through me again, faster this time.
Matthew at the village pub, arguing animatedly with Agnes about the ethics of museums and stolen artifacts, everyone around them tossing in opinions.
Matthew in a small, bright kitchen, books crammed on every surface, a mug of tea steaming by his elbow as he typed.
Matthew laughing in the snow with the Scotties, Sophie pelting him with a snowball and immediately denying it.
Matthew standing at the front of a wee community hall, giving a talk about local legends to a packed audience, eyes alight.
And then—oh.
There.
A studio somewhere in the village, light pouring in, canvases leaning against the wall.
A person stood with their back to me, hands stained with paint or clay or something equally messy, listening as Matthew talked about some old artifact he was helping them reference.
I couldn’t see their face, but I felt the warmth between them.
The ease. The way their laughter curled around him.
Threads of color linked them, cocooning them in soft golds.
It was blurry. Unformed. Not set. But it was there.
My heart squeezed.
Gently, carefully, I tugged that thread, pulling it forward, tightening the weave.
The thread glowed brighter. The whole web shifted subtly, the California path still present but now distinctly less dominant, like the memory of an old road you no longer use.
Energy shot up through my arm, leaving my fingertips tingling, my chest buzzing. It was a softer feeling this time than with Greta. Less like shoving something into place and more like saying yes to a door that was already half open.
I let go.