Page 4 of Alpha Charmed

I consider lying. Consider the diplomatic deflection I’ve perfected over eight years of council politics.

“No,” I say instead. “I don’t.”

His expression doesn’t change. “Neither do I.”

For a moment, we just look at each other. My magic stirs beneath my skin—restless, reaching, doing things I don’t authorize.

“We should talk.” His voice is quiet. “Not here. Not now. But soon.”

“Tonight,” I hear myself say. “The apothecary. After closing.”

He nods once. Turns. Walks away without another word.

I watch him go and try to ignore the way my heart is pounding. The way everything just became significantly more complicated.

“You look like you need cobbler.”

Grandmother Peach materializes beside me on the path back to the apothecary.

“I don’t need cobbler.”

“Everyone needs cobbler, dear. It’s one of the universal constants. Like gravity, or the way cats always land on their feet, or the tendency of young witches to make poor romantic choices. This is condolence cobbler. It’s different from regular cobbler.”

“How is it different?”

“It has more sympathy.” She presses the dish into my hands. “There’s a difference. A significant one, in fact.”

The warmth seeps through the cloth. Peach cobbler, if the scent is any indication—butter and sugar and the perfect sweetness of summer fruit preserved at its peak. Grandmother Peach’s cobbler is legendary. Mood-adjusting, they say, though no one can quite explain how or why. The Familiar Registry she runs has walls lined with records and baked goods in equal measure.

“Mathilda’s death wasn’t natural.” I don’t know why I say it. The words just emerge, as if Grandmother Peach’s presence has loosened a lock in my chest that I didn’t realize was fastened.

“No.” Grandmother Peach’s face doesn’t change. “It wasn’t.”

I stare at her. “You know.”

“I know many things. Most of them are quite boring. The interesting ones tend to be dangerous.” She adjusts the ribbon holding her hair back with fingers that don’t tremble despite her apparent age. “I know that Mathilda was one of the few who remembered. Now she’s gone. I know that you should be careful who you trust, dear. Not everyone who mourns is grieving.”

“Remembered what?”

“More than I can say. Less than you’ll need.” Grandmother Peach reaches out and presses a charm into my palm alongside the cobbler dish. A small, warm piece of metal humming with magic stronger than anything I’ve felt in years. Protection, layered and ancient and woven with craft so old, it predates the coven itself. “Trust the mountain, and the wolf can help. If you let him.”

My fingers close around the charm. “Caius Sternwolf is the last person I need help from.”

“He’s exactly the person you need help from.” Grandmother Peach’s smile deepens, showing teeth that are perhaps a bit too sharp for a simple matchmaker. “That’s why you’re so determined to refuse it.”

“That doesn’t⁠—”

She’s gone.

I stare at the cobbler in my hands, then at the charm. Both are undeniably real. Both are warmer than they should be.

Back at the apothecary, I lock the doors. Bryony left hours ago—the shop’s evening quiet wraps around me as I climb the stairs to my private office, the familiar creaking of old wood the only sound besides my footsteps.

I set Grandmother Peach’s cobbler aside on my desk. Eat exactly three bites because it would be rude to waste it, and also because it’s devastatingly good—the perfect balance of sweet and tart, the crust somehow still flaky despite being wrapped in cloth for hours. The warmth spreads through my chest and settles the jangling that’s been loose since dawn. Since the ruined potions. Since the funeral.

Since Caius Sternwolf’s gaze caught mine across a crowd and saw too much.

I push that thought aside and open Mathilda’s letter.