Page 65 of Haunt Me, Maybe

“What did he say?”

Aven chuckled. “Wes thinks small illusions will be safe enough.”

“Yes!” Briony pumped her arm, then cleared her throat and pretended to busy herself with wiping the countertop. “I mean, go for it. It’s fine, or whatever.”

Aven hesitated. The ribbon warmed on my skin and pulsed with her uncertainty. Then, she nodded once and exhaled.

“Okay. Small. Very small.”

She moved toward the far wall, rolling her shoulders like she was bracing for impact. I recognized the signs—how she steeled herself before using magic, like it was something that would push back if she wasn’t careful.

She closed her eyes and took a breath. I felt the ripple immediately, and it was already so much more controlled than when we started. It was quiet and contained, threading carefully into the space instead of being flung outward.

The café’s energy rose to meet it, like a low chorus joining a solo. Her magic unfolded carefully. Golden leaves spiraled into the air, catching light that wasn’t there and drifting lazily as if autumn itself decided to take shelter inside. The leaves dissolved into shimmering dust that settled over the room.

Briony let out a low whistle. “Okay, that is unfairly pretty.”

It was. And it was a fine warm-up. But I’d seen her perform that exact illusion about fifty times already. I knew she could do it without surging or even if her emotions were out of control. She needed to be adding to her arsenal, not playing.

“Cute,” I said.

Aven cracked one eye open. “You did not just say cute.”

“I did.” I smirked. “You beautify things instinctively; it’s your comfort zone.”

Her jaw tightened—not angry, but stubborn. “Because it’s safe.”

“Exactly. Now try something that isn’t.”

She straightened, glanced at Briony, who watched with the confused frown of someone who could only hear one side of the conversation, and then looked back at me. A little less defensive.

“Like what?”

“Concealment,” I suggested. Wait. I had no idea how much magic that took. “Or is that too big?”

She shook her head slowly. “It shouldn’t be. I’m just…bad at it.”

“That’s why we practice.”

Aven swallowed, and the ribbon pulsed again, sharper this time. I gestured toward a small table near the window. Jaw set, she nodded. Her magic tightened and focused inward. Air compressed, like the café was holding its breath.

The table wavered.

It didn’t vanish—it blurred. The edges softened, and its colors bled into the background like wet paint.

Aven’s fingers flexed at her sides. “I don’t like it.”

Well, that was obvious.

“I know.”

“It feels like lying to the world.”

She definitely struggled with this. Fenn probably lectured her about it, laying on loads of sarcasm.

I softened my voice, “Sometimes lying keeps you alive.”

That landed. Determination took root, and she reached again—but once more her magic stuttered, and the table wobbled like it couldn’t decide what it wanted to be. Her frustration was plainly visible and hot, like a brand around my wrist.