Page 31 of Impawssible Magic

“To make sure nothing happened after you left. The brewery attracts attention during coven gatherings.”

“And what, exactly, did Zeph mention?”

“She said you were discussing me when Sakura accidentally made it rain.”

“We were discussing protection assignments in general.” My voice comes out slightly strangled. “Yours wasn’t even the main topic.”

“She said your crystals rearranged themselves into a heart shape.”

“Coincidence.”

“And that the mist turns pink around your shop when I’m nearby.”

“That’s—the mist does whatever it wants—I can’t control ambient magical phenomena—this is slander⁠—”

His almost-laugh cuts off my spiraling. “Relax. I’m not... I was just curious.”

“Curious.” I’m definitely blushing. Absolutely crimson. My face is probably visible from space. “Well. Curiosity satisfied. Can we talk about literally anything else? The weather? Politics? The ongoing cheese dispute? Anything?”

“The archives probably contain records of the Severing. Whatever that is.”

“Great. Perfect. Let’s do that.”

The Registry’s crooked Victorian facade rises before us, and I’ve never been so grateful to see a terrifying magical building in my life.

Grandmother Peach is waiting. Because, of course, she is.

“Ah.” Her voice comes from everywhere and nowhere as we enter. “I wondered when you’d come.”

She materializes from behind a filing cabinet that definitely isn’t large enough to hide her. She’s wearing lavender, all lace and fabric that shifts between purple and silver depending on the light. Her smile is warm. Her eyes are knowing.

I really wish her eyes weren’t always so knowing.

“Come, come. I have cobbler fresh from the oven, and the archives are dusty.”

“We’re actually here to—” Aslan starts.

“To research the Preserver Mark, yes.” She’s already moving toward the back of the building. “I know. I’ve been expecting this. The kettle is on.”

Aslan and I exchange looks—his resigned, mine bewildered.

“Does she do that to everyone?” I whisper.

“Everyone,” he confirms.

Grandmother Peach’s kitchen exists in a separate reality. Warm light, copper pots hanging from exposed beams, the smell of peaches and brown sugar so thick, it’s almost visible. There’s a small table set for three, because apparently, she’s psychic in addition to everything else.

“Sit, sit.” She pushes bowls of cobbler toward us before we can argue. “Eat first. The archives have been there for centuries. They can wait another ten minutes.”

The cobbler is perfect. Warm, sweet, with a lattice crust that shatters under my spoon. I take one bite and understand immediately why Sakura cried.

“Oh.” The sound escapes before I can stop it. “That’s illegal. That should be illegal.”

“Unreasonable.” Aslan sounds personally wronged, staring at his bowl with an expression of pure betrayal. “This is unreasonable cobbler.”

“Family recipe.” Grandmother Peach settles into her chair with a serene smile. “Seven generations. Patience and love.” She sets down her spoon. “Also a touch of magic. Don’t tell anyone.”

We eat in silence. The cobbler makes everything feel softer. Warmer. Less terrifying.