Chapter 8
The morning sun slanted through the cabin windows, casting long shadows across the worn wooden floor.
After a quick breakfast, he’d finally mastered not burning the toast, Marcus stood in the center of the living room, having pushed the orange shag couch against the wall to create space.
He’d traded his usual suit for khakis and a somewhat wrinkled blue Oxford: his version of casual after five days without an iron.
“We need to prepare you for court,” he announced as Hazel emerged from the kitchen, mug of tea in hand.
Her hair was twisted up in a messy bun, secured with what appeared to be a pencil, and she wore faded jeans and an oversized sweater that kept slipping off one shoulder.
Azrael trailed behind her, tail twitching.
“I know how to testify.” She settled cross-legged on the couch. “I tell the truth, the Truth Stone glows, done.” Azrael jumped up beside her, clearly planning to supervise.
“The supernatural court system is more complex than that.” Marcus pulled a legal pad from his briefcase; of course he’d brought legal pads to a safe house. “You’ll face cross-examination from Blackwood’s lawyers. They’ll try to discredit you, make you emotional, twist your words.”
“Let them try.” She took a defiant sip of tea.
“This is exactly what I mean.” He set the pad aside. “That attitude will hurt your credibility. The court expects a certain… decorum.”
“You mean they expect me to perform like a good little witch?”
“I mean, they expect you to present your testimony clearly and calmly.” He gestured for her to stand. “Let’s practice.”
She groaned but uncurled from the couch. “Fine. But if there’s curtsying, you’re on hairball duty.”
“No curtsying required.” A flicker at the corner of his mouth. “Just stand here.”
He positioned her in the center of the room, then slowly circled her, assessing. “Shoulders back. The Truth Stone responds better to a confident posture.”
“My posture is fine.”
“You’re slouching.”
“I’m comfortable.”
“You’re defensive.” He stopped behind her. “May I?”
She tensed. “May you what?”
“Adjust your stance.”
A pause. Then, “Make it quick.”
Marcus placed his hands on her shoulders, gently guiding them back and down. Her warmth seeped through the soft sweater. His fingers lingered a moment longer than necessary.
“Better?” Her voice came out slightly strangled.
“Yes.” He stepped back quickly, focusing on his legal pad. “Now, they’ll ask you to state your name for the record.”
“Hazel Wickwood.” She maintained the posture he’d shown her.
“Full legal name.”
She sighed. “Hazel Briar Wickwood, licensed hedge witch of Willowbrook, Maine.”
“Good. Now tell me what you witnessed on the night of October tenth.”
She started strong, describing her entry into the forest, but as she approached the murder itself, her natural storytelling instincts took over.
Her hands moved expressively, her voice rose and fell with emotion, she added editorial comments about Viktor’s “dead shark eyes” and “villain monologue energy.”
“Stop.” Marcus held up a hand. “You’re editorializing.”
“I’m providing context.”
“You’re providing an opinion. The court wants facts.
” He demonstrated, standing straight and speaking in measured tones.
“On the night in question, I observed Viktor Blackwood in conversation with an individual I recognized as fae by their distinctive silver hair and luminescent skin. Mr. Blackwood produced a blade of obsidian…”
“Boring,” Hazel interrupted. “You sound like a robot.”
“I sound like a credible witness.”
“You sound like you’re reading a police report.” She mimicked his stiff posture. “Beep boop, I observed the defendant committing murder most foul, executing statute violation 7.3.2, subsection boring.”
A laugh escaped before Marcus could stop it. “I don’t sound like that.”
“You absolutely sound like that.” She grinned. “Look, I get it. Be serious. Don’t call Viktor a ‘murderous piece of pond scum’ even though he is. But if I testify like a demon lawyer, they’ll know something’s wrong.”
He considered this. “You have a point. But you still need more control. Let’s try again. This time, stick to facts but maintain your natural speech patterns.”
They practiced until her stomach growled, loud enough that even Marcus’s professional composure cracked into a smile.
By the time they broke for lunch, she could deliver her testimony clearly while still sounding like herself.
The pencil had fallen from her hair during practice, leaving red waves tumbling around her shoulders.
“You’re actually good at this,” she admitted, assembling sandwiches in the kitchen while he sat at the small table. “The teaching thing.”
“I’ve coached many witnesses over the centuries.” He accepted the plate she handed him. “Though none quite as… challenging as you.”
“Challenging. That’s one word for it.” She bit into her sandwich. “Your turn this afternoon.”
“My turn?”
“To learn something. Your magic is too rigid. If we face something that doesn’t follow your precious legal codes, you need to be able to adapt.”
Marcus wanted to argue that his magic had served him perfectly well for five hundred years, but her expectant expression stopped him. She’d subjected herself to his teaching all morning.
After lunch, she led him to the small yard behind the cabin.
Autumn sunshine filtered through the trees and dappled the ground with gold, though the air held a crisp bite.
She’d changed into leggings and a fitted long-sleeve shirt, practical for magical instruction. She shivered slightly in the cool air.
“Okay.” She stood in the center of the clearing. “Show me a basic defensive shield.”
Marcus centered himself and raised his hands, speaking the Latin incantation he’d learned centuries ago. A shimmer of golden energy formed around him, precise geometric patterns interlocking in perfect symmetry.
“See, that’s your problem.” Hazel circled him the way he’d circled her earlier. “All structure, no flow. What happens if someone attacks from an angle you didn’t anticipate?”
“The shield holds. It’s designed to…”
She flicked her wrist. A spark of purple energy shot at an odd diagonal, slipped through a gap in his pattern he hadn’t known existed, and made his shoulder tingle.
“Ow.”
“Baby.” She smirked. “That was barely a zap. Now drop the shield and let me show you something.”
He released the energy and watched her demonstrate. Instead of building a structured barrier, she let magic flow around her like water that adapted to each gesture she made.
“Folk magic is intuitive,” she explained. “You feel where the energy needs to go instead of forcing it into predetermined patterns. Try it.”
Marcus attempted to copy her movements, but his magic remained stubbornly organized. Golden energy tried to form neat lines even as he willed it to flow.
“You’re overthinking.” She moved behind him. “May I?”
He swallowed. “If you think it will help.”
Her hands settled over his, warm and slightly callused from years of potion work. She stood close enough that he felt her breath on his neck, her body heat against his back. The scent of cinnamon and lavender enveloped him.
“Close your eyes.” Her breath was warm against his ear. “Stop thinking about what the magic should do. Feel what it wants to do.”
She guided his hands through flowing motions, and slowly, his magic began to respond. The rigid golden energy softened. It swirled where it had once structured. To his ordered mind, it felt fundamentally wrong, but also… free.
“That’s it,” she said. “You’re getting it.”
The magic suddenly clicked, flowing naturally instead of forcing. His eyes flew open as warm golden light threaded with deep violet shimmered where their energies met, creating something neither structured nor chaotic, but balanced between the two.
“I did it!” He turned, grinning.
She was closer than he’d expected, her hands still over his, her green eyes bright.
Then she hugged him—quick, impulsive, her arms around his neck before either of them could think better of it.
His arms came around her automatically.
Then reality caught up. They stepped apart, her face flushed, his hands falling awkwardly to his sides.
“Good job,” she said too brightly. “You’re a quick study.”
“You’re an excellent teacher,” he replied too formally.
They stared at each other for another heartbeat before she spun away. “We should practice more. In case you need it. For the case.”
“Right. For the case.”
She backed up several paces, raising her hands. “Again. And this time, don’t think so hard, I can hear it.”
For the next hour, she pelted him with increasingly creative attacks: energy that curved like boomerangs, sparks that multiplied mid-flight, one memorable attempt that smelled like burnt sugar and made his teeth ache.
His shields evolved from rigid walls to something more fluid, bending without breaking.
“Better,” she said, not quite meeting his eyes. “You might actually survive a real fight now.”
“Your confidence is overwhelming.”
“Yeah, well.” She turned toward the cabin. “Sun’s getting low. We should head in.”
Dinner was a quiet affair, both hyperaware of the day’s charged moments.
They moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, no longer bumping into each other but consciously avoiding contact.
She made tea without asking, remembering his grumbled morning complaints about the lack of coffee.
He cleaned as they cooked, keeping her workspace clear without needing to be asked.
Afterward, they settled in the living room with their books.
Marcus had claimed one end of the couch with a water-damaged paperback someone had left in the kitchen drawer: a legal thriller that had seen better days.
Hazel curled in the armchair with a grimoire, occasionally marking pages with torn strips of paper.
Azrael sprawled on the rug between them, tail twitching lazily.