Chapter 20 #2
Bracken held up his paws and made a little square motion like he was framing a picture. Despite myself, I chuckled.
“Aye. Instead of ‘I’ve ruined everything,’ try ‘I’m allowed to take a breath while I figure out how to show up fully for the people I love.
’” She lifted a shoulder. “And maybe, when you’re ready, you sit Zara down and say to her that you’re not shutting her out because you don’t trust her.
It’s just that you’re trying to learn your own voice too.
And you sit Torin down and tell him that you’re terrified but trying and ask him to be patient.
Knowing him, he’ll build you a log cabin with his bare hands as a gesture of support. ”
A watery laugh escaped me. “He would, wouldn’t he?”
“He would,” she agreed. “He also looks like he might cry if I tell him one more time that you’re fine. So do me a solid and talk to him sooner rather than later, hmm?”
“I will,” I said, resolve filling me. I was glad I’d decided to accept her invitation. This was the kind of stern but loving talking to that I needed to get my head on straight.
“Right,” Agnes said, turning back to me. “That’s enough emotional excavation for the moment. I did actually invite you here for a reason.”
“Giving out free therapy wasn’t the reason?”
“That’s just a bonus.” She leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “I want a reading.”
I blinked. “From … me?”
“No, from the squirrel,” she said. “Of course from you. You’re the chartweaver. I want to see what the threads say.”
A mix of pride and panic fluttered in my chest. “Are you sure? Chartweaving isn’t exactly … simple.”
“Nothing worth doing is simple,” she said calmly. “And if you’re going to be meddling with fate, better you practice on someone who knows what they’re in for.”
“What do you mean by that?” I asked, tilting my head at her.
For a moment, Agnes’s eyes grew sad as she looked across the room, and out the front window.
“I already know a lot of my fate. This will be a good test to see if you see the same.”
“But how?” I asked, but Agnes just shook her head.
“Best not to get into it. Plus, I want to see what you see without any information leading you one way or the other.”
“That’s fair,” I said, bending over and pulling my laptop from my bag. “All right. Birth details, then. I don’t suppose you know your exact time?”
“Of course I do.” She rattled off the date, time, and place. “You can’t live around all these witches and not know some of your astrology.”
The chart wheel spun onto the screen, familiar and yet … not. Because even before the threads rose, even before the magick, I could feel the density of it.
As I stared, the now-familiar shimmer started.
Lines glowed, lifting off the screen, weaving themselves into a silvery web between us. Bracken scampered up to my shoulder.
“Here we go,” he whispered.
Agnes squinted. “I can’t see what you’re seeing, can I?”
“No,” I said softly. “Maybe. I don’t know. You might feel it. Matthew could see it faintly. Greta couldn’t at all.”
The threads vibrated gently, like a harp string plucked in a distant room. I reached out, letting my fingers hover just above them, grounding myself in the way Gran’s book had advised to—breathe, anchor, remember you’re a guide, not a god.
“Okay,” I said, slipping into the comfort of astrologer mode. “Agnes, you’re a Virgo Sun, Capricorn Rising, Pisces Moon.”
“Right, that doesn’t sound too bad, does it?”
“It’s not,” I agreed. “Virgo Sun means you’re here to be of service, to refine, to analyze, to make things better than you found them. You’re detail-oriented, practical in your own way, but you also hold ridiculous amounts of information in your head.”
“And the Capricorn?”
“Cap Rising is how you move through the world. Serious and responsible. People look at you and think, ‘She knows what she’s doing, I’ll follow her into battle.’”
“Och, aye? That’s a fine compliment.” Agnes patted her own shoulder.
“And then,” I continued, smiling, “Pisces Moon. All squishy feelings and intuition and art. That’s your inner world. The creative. The historian who doesn’t just catalog facts but feels the stories behind them.”
Her lips twitched. “Truth.”
“That mix—earth and water—makes you this fascinating blend of practical and dreamy. You build containers for other people’s feelings. Book clubs. This shop. The Order.”
She shifted, looking oddly uncomfortable. “All right. Don’t get too complimentary. I’ll break out in hives.”
I laughed, then sobered as one of the threads pulsed more brightly. It ran from her Moon in Pisces in the third house—communication, stories—to her seventh house of partnership, where Venus was snuggled up close to Saturn.
“Ah,” I murmured. “Here we are.”
“What?”
“You’ve got Venus and Saturn conjunct in your seventh house,” I said. “Partnership is … serious business for you. You don’t do casual. When you commit, you commit.”
“No half measures,” she said quietly.
“Exactly. Saturn there can mean … delays. Lessons. Sometimes relationships that feel fated but blocked, or that require a lot of work. Venus wants warmth and affection and romance, and Saturn wants structure and long-term commitment. Put them together and you get soulmate energy, but with obstacles.”
She swallowed. “That sounds … about right.”
The thread connecting those points shimmered gold and charcoal by turns, like it couldn’t decide whether to be a blessing or a burden.
Curiosity tugged at me. I let my fingers brush it—just lightly, a feather touch.
Images flickered.
Agnes in this very shop, closing up, the light from the street spilling across the worn wood floors.
A man leaning in the doorway, watching her. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Tattoo peeking from under a rolled-up sleeve.
Graham.
Of course.
He stepped in, took a mug from her hands, their fingers brushing. The air between them hummed with something old and familiar and electrifying.
Another flash. Agnes and Graham at the loch’s edge, arguing fiercely, faces inches apart, rain pouring down. The kind of fight you only have with someone you love enough to be that honest with.
Another. Agnes alone in her pottery studio, working late, clay up to her elbows, an ache in her chest like something was missing.
My heart squeezed.
The thread pulsed harder, drawing my attention down its length. And there—like a knot in the weave—was something else.
A darker strand twined around the gold, barbed and glinting.
I focused—and saw, just for a second, the reason.
Oh.
Oh no.
My breath caught.
That—
That changed everything.
“Lass?” Bracken’s voice was sharp. “Don’t pull that.”
I hadn’t realized my fingers had curled, tugging at the knot. The threads shivered, the entire web ringing with a low, warning hum.
“Shite,” I whispered, snatching my hand back like I’d been burned.
“What?” Agnes demanded, eyes narrowed. “What did you see?”
“I…” My heart hammered. How was I supposed to tell her that she and Graham were written into each other’s stars and yet …
“Liora.” Agnes’s voice softened. “Whatever it is, I can handle—”
A sharp thump sounded from the front of the shop.
We both froze.
Another thump. This time accompanied by a high, urgent whine.
Bracken shot to the edge of the table, fur puffed. Something’s wrong.
My stomach dropped. I knew that sound.
We bolted from the reading nook, weaving through the shelves. My heart was already racing before we rounded the last stack and saw him.
Mitch.
Zara’s golden retriever was on his hind legs, paws scrabbling desperately at the front window, nails squeaking against the glass. His harness hung crooked, the lead trailing uselessly behind him. His eyes were wild, foam flecking his mouth as he barked, frantic, at the sight of us.
“Mitch?” I breathed, horror slicing through me.
Because Mitch never went anywhere without Zara.
Ever.
And if he was here alone…
Something was very, very wrong.