Page 62 of Roaring Spell

“A cell,” I say quietly. “Like the one that targeted Leire.”

“Exactly like that.” Anouk sets down her wine. “The Preservers operate in isolated groups. Losing one cell doesn’t compromise the others. Valesh’s been in Mistvale for twenty years—long enough to recruit, to position, to build a network of believers.”

“Twenty years of planning. And now they’re targeting me.”

“They’re targeting what you represent.” Anouk’s eyes are sharp. “A witch with the potential to claim a shifter. A match that would strengthen the Warding Line. Everything they’re trying to prevent.”

“I haven’t claimed anyone.”

“Not yet.” Zeph grins. “But we all know it’s coming.”

The door opens without a knock.

“Don’t mind me, dears.” Grandmother Peach lets herself in, a fresh cobbler already finding a home on Leire’s counter like it’s always lived there. “I heard about the studio. Terrible business. Terrible, clarifying business.”

“How did you even—” Anouk starts.

“Best not to ask.” Grandmother Peach settles into the armchair as though she’s been part of the evening all along, fixing me with that particular attention of hers. “You’re angrier than I’ve ever seen you, dear. Good. Anger is honest. Grief pretends to be smaller than it is. Anger doesn’t bother pretending.” She pats my knee. “Don’t let anyone talk you into being smaller about this. Not even yourself.” She rises just as abruptly as she arrived, cobbler forgotten on the counter. “Mind the bear tonight. He’s had a difficult day too, in his own quiet way.”

And then she’s gone—out the door before anyone thinks to ask how she knew to come, or where she’s off to next.

Zeph pours more wine. “To cryptic old women and their impossible desserts.”

We drink.

The others leave in stages.

Zeph first, swaying slightly, promising to “destroy anyone who threatens my friends” with cheerful menace. Anouk next, already composing investigation notes in her head, her goodbye brisk and efficient.

Leire looks me over with a maternal eye. “You should sleep,” she says, but makes no move to usher me toward the door.

I rise from the couch. “I’m falling for him.” The admission comes out quieter than I intend. “More than I know how to handle.”

“I know.” She squeezes my hand. “So stop handling it, and let it happen.” She opens the door. “Goodnight, Sakura.”

I walk home through misty streets, the golden light of lamp posts casting soft shadows on the cobblestones. The mist drifts around my ankles—not agitated, not worried. Calm. Content.

The mist has opinions about you two.

Maybe it does. Maybe the whole town does. Maybe even the weather itself has decided I belong here, with these people, in this place.

With him.

My studio comes into view—dark, damaged, waiting to be rebuilt. And there, on the front steps, a massive shape sitting guard in the moonlight.

Torin.

He stayed. Like he said he would.

“You should be sleeping,” I call out.

“So should you.” He stands, brushing off his jacket. “Leire’s wine is famous for its side effects.”

“I feel fine.”

“You look exhausted.”

“Flatterer.” But I’m smiling. “Thank you. For staying.”