I catch my reflection in the mirror before I leave the room. Lines at the corners of my eyes that weren’t there a decade ago. Stubble shadowing my jaw. The sheriff staring back at me looks composed enough. That will have to do.
The manor’s hallway is washed in morning light, pale gold filtering through tall windows. A memory surfaces without warning. Me at fifteen, sprawled on the floor of the old study with books open around me, chalk dust on my fingers from copying runes again and again until they stuck. Aunt Etta knocking on the door well past midnight, telling me to sleep, telling me I could learn more in the morning.
I’d ignored her then, convinced that if I understood my magic well enough, I could control every variable. That if I studied hard enough, nothing would ever slip.
It feels like a lifetime ago.
The scent hits me halfway down the stairs. Toasted bread, herbs, something sweet and warm. My stomach answers with an unhelpful growl. I take another step, then hear laughter. Light, familiar, and another voice layered with it. Male. Smooth. My gut tightens.
Aunt Etta stands at the counter, hands wrapped around a teacup, her hair pinned back in a way she only bothers with when company is present. Silas Thorn sits at the small table, long legs stretched out, dressed far too comfortably for someone who arrived with a Council agenda. He’s wearing a robe.
Myrobe. What a fucking asshole!
“Well,” I say, keeping my tone even as I reach for the coffee pot. “Good morning.”
Aunt Etta beams like this is the most natural thing in the world. “Good morning, sweetheart. You look exhausted.”
Silas lifts his cup in a mock salute. “Morning, Sheriff. I had no idea you Willowbrook types started business this early.”
I pour coffee, black, and take a long swallow. “We don’t. Emergencies do.”
Aunt Etta’s hand settles over Silas’s for a brief second, her smile fond. “He was just saying how impressive it is that you keep everything running here. Such responsibility.”
Silas glances down at their hands, then back at me, amusement flickering across his face. “Your aunt has been educating me.”
I ignore the robe, the hand, the way irritation pricks at the base of my skull. “I’ve got a few stops to make. Hospital. Foxglove & Finch. I’ll see you around noon.”
He arches a brow. “Already assigning me a schedule?”
“Already telling you mine.”
My aunt laughs softly. “Then Silas can stay and keep me company. We were just getting to the good part of the conversation.”
I don’t ask what the good part is. I grab an apple from the bowl on the counter and take a bite, the tart sweetness cutting through the coffee. “Where’s Amara?”
Aunt Etta tilts her head, thinking. “She was up about an hour ago. Had some cereal, said she felt nauseous, then went back to her room.”
My jaw tightens. “How did she look?”
“Grumpy as usual,” Aunt Etta says, entirely unbothered.
I nod, tamping down the urge to push. “I’ll check on her.”
Silas stands, rolling his shoulders like a man entirely at ease. “I’ll see you later, Sheriff.”
“Don’t redecorate,” I mutter, already turning away.
The hallway feels longer on the way to Amara’s room. The manor creaks softly under my steps, wood settling, old bones remembering other mornings like this. I stop outside her door and lift my hand, hesitating for half a breath before knocking.
“Amara,” I call. “It’s me.”
No answer.
I knock again, firmer. “Open up.”
The door cracks open, just enough for one wary eye to peer out. “What?” she mutters.
“You okay?”
