I don’t walk. I lunge.
She drops her bag without caring where it lands and catches me with both arms, pulling me in so hard I lose my balance for a second. I can smell hand soap and lavender and something warm that has nothing to do with magick and everything to do with home. Her hands are on my hair, my shoulders, my back—like she’s counting bones to make sure none are missing.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she whispers, voice shaking. “Look at you.”
My throat closes instantly. The words I meant to say—I’m sorryandI missed youandI didn’t mean to leave you alone—pile up behind my teeth until all I can manage is “Hi.”
She laughs, small and breathless, and presses a kiss to my forehead the way she used to when I was small enough to fit under her chin without trying.
“I’ve been dying to see you,” she murmurs. “I hate that it’s taken this long.”
Guilt slides in like a knife—sharp and familiar.
She pulls back just enough to look at me properly. Her gaze travels over my face, the faint shadows under my eyes, the way my posture has changed—straighter, stance steadier.
Her mouth tightens for a heartbeat. Then she lifts her hand and cups my cheek, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth like she’s smoothing away something that isn’t there.
“You look… different,” she says softly. “In a good way. Coming here was the right choice, right? You’re happy?”
My eyes sting. I blink hard, annoyed at myself, at my own emotions. “Yes. I’m fine,” I say automatically.
Her brows lift—Rosalind Farris, patron saint of calling bullshit with kindness—and she gives me that look that says she hears what I won’t say and is choosing not to press.
Instead she exhales, steadying. “Show me,” she says, voice brightening with effort. “Show me everything.”
I nod, swallowing. I am excited—nervous, but excited—to show my mother around. To let her see everything I’ve learned. To introduce her to my friends and show her the pieces of my life she hasn’t yet been able to be a part of.
I reach for her bag, and she swats my hand away. “Absolutely not. I’m your mother, not a porcelain doll.”
I only laugh and take her hand in mine.
We pass under the archway where ivy is just beginning to bud, pale green against stone. Mom’s gaze sweeps over everything: the buildings, the banners, the students moving in clusters, the faint shimmer of wards in the air—ifyou know where to look. She’s trying to take it all in, and I can almost see her mind catching on details and filing them away—the same way she used to memorize the names of my classmates after one brief mention.
“You weren’t exaggerating,” she murmurs.
“I never exaggerate,” I deadpan.
She sighs, just once. “I wish your father could have seen all this.”
That lands like a punch I don’t know how to take. My grip tightens around her fingers. For a second I can’t breathe.
She squeezes my hand once—gentle, wordless.I know.
We make it to the center of the quad, now returned to its original state. The stone stadium is no more. Picnic tables have been set up for the visiting parents. Other families are already settling in—jokes and laughter rising, a few tears slipping loose.
Mom turns in a slow circle, then looks at me again. “You’ve been here all this time,” she says quietly. “And I couldn’t even picture it.”
My chest squeezes. “I… I’m sorry. I should have written more, or called?—”
She interrupts me, her expression softening. “Oh, please, honey. I know you’ve been busy.”
I’m about to say something—something honest, something ugly—when I feel a distinct shift in temperature that happens only when a certain person steps into my orbit.
My mother stiffens beside me in a way so subtle no one else would notice.
“I don’t believe it. Is that…?”
I follow her gaze.
