Page 24 of Roaring Spell

“Has it been this bad before?”

She wraps her arms around herself. “Only since I came here. Only in certain places, it seems.”

Certain places. A pattern.

Before I can respond, commotion outside draws my attention. Through the broken window, half the square seems to be converging on the studio.

Sunny arrives first, armed with pastries. “Heard there was weather! Emergency scones!”

Ember appears with candles, smoking slightly around the edges. “I brought aromatherapy! Fair warning, I might combust if the emotions get too intense.”

“The emotions are already intense,” Sakura manages weakly.

“Oh good! Then you won’t notice when I catch fire.”

Marcus and Thalia drift up from the coffee shop with an enormous carafe. “Emergency caffeine,” Marcus announces. “Mandatory after magical exhaustion.”

“Also,” Thalia adds, surveying the damage with ancient eyes, “the mist changed colors a few minutes ago. Usually means a significant development.”

“The mist is very chatty today,” Sakura mutters.

“The mist,” a new voice observes, “is always chatty. Most people just don’t listen.”

Then Sunny, brightly: “So! Emergency scones, everyone?”

The cleanup takes hours.

The townsfolk help—Sunny organizing the snack distribution, Berry alphabetizing scattered romance novels by author because “the shop will be upset if they’re out of order,” Ember helpfully not catching fire despite the emotional intensity. Marcus and Thalia provide steady caffeine and occasional dry observations about the structural damage.

“This wall will need replastering.” Thalia traces a scorch mark with clinical interest. “Lightning damage. Very dramatic.”

“Very ‘forbidden passion,’” Marcus adds.

“There’s no forbidden passion,” Sakura protests.

By evening, the studio is at least functional. The townsfolk drift away with promises of more pastries and comfort novels and emergency caffeine whenever needed.

Finally, it’s just us. Sakura collapsed on her battered couch. Me standing by the door, uncertain whether to stay or go.

“Thank you.” She looks up at me. “For not running.”

“You were screaming. Running wasn’t an option.”

“Everyone else runs.”

“Everyone else is wrong.”

She stares at me for a long moment. The silence between us feels alive, charged with everything we’re not saying.

“Why do you care?” Her voice is quiet. Raw. “I’m just a witch you were assigned to monitor.”

A dozen lies present themselves.

I tell her the truth.

“Because when you look at me, I feel seen. And I haven’t felt that in a very long time.”

Silence stretches. She doesn’t look away.