Page 46 of Roaring Spell

SAKURA

Icatch myself staring at the door for the third time in five minutes and force my attention back to the treatment room I’m supposed to be preparing. Fresh linens. Clean crystals. The salt lamp that supposedly purifies the air but mostly just glows in a vaguely reassuring way.

My hands won’t stop fidgeting.

What is he doing right now? Is he okay? Did the watcher from last night come back? What if⁠—

“Stop.” I tell myself firmly. Out loud. Like a person who definitely has her life under control. “He’s fine. He’s busy. He has a job that doesn’t revolve around delivering caffeine to anxious witches.”

The crystals on my shelf rattle in what might be agreement. Or judgment. Hard to tell with crystals.

Outside, the sky is doing that thing where clouds gather with pointed intensity. Not raining yet, but threatening. A visual representation of my emotional state.

Great. Even the weather is moping about the absent bear.

I try to focus on work. Arrange crystals in patterns. Reorganize the salt in the salt room. Check the schedule for clients I don’t have because word of the thunderstorm witch has spread and bookings remain sparse.

By nine-thirty, I give up pretending.

My phone buzzes.

Torin: “Second siphon. Registry. One hour. Bring your elemental sensitivity.”

Relief floods through me—he’s okay, he’s fine, he’s not dead in a ditch because of Preservers or overnight poetry sessions.

Me: “Did you seriously text this instead of just showing up with coffee?”

Torin: “Coffee’s already at the Registry. Hurry.”

Of course it is.

The Familiar Registry rises from the mist like a Victorian fever dream—three stories of robin’s-egg blue paint and climbing roses, held together by spite and accumulated magic.

Torin is waiting outside.

He looks tired. Dark circles under his eyes, tension in his shoulders. The mist gathers close around him with anxious silver undertones—even the atmospheric magic seems worried about him.

But when he sees me, something eases in his face—softens—in a way that makes my breath catch.

“You’re here,” he says.

“You asked me to come.”

“I did.” He adjusts his stride to match mine without comment—still. Always. “Anouk thinks the siphon is buried near the property line. The magical concentration here would make it more powerful.”

“That’s why my episodes were always worse here.” The realization crystallizes. “The siphon was amplifying my sensitivity to the distortion.”

“Exactly.” He glances at me. “How are you feeling? The episodes have been calmer since we found the first one.”

“Better.” I hesitate. “I actually slept last night. Not just stared at the ceiling and spiraled.”

“Good.”

“How about you?”

His silence is answer enough.

“Torin.”