Page 83 of Impawssible Magic

“Of course, you did.”

“Don’t be grumpy. It’s unbecoming.” She tilts her head. “I also brought answers. Well. Some answers. Partial answers. Teaser answers, really. Think of them as appetizers for the main course of revelations coming later.”

“Grandmother Peach.” Leire appears behind me, wearing my shirt—again—and nothing else. Her hair is a disaster. She looks beautiful. “How did you know we were here?”

“I’m the matchmaker witch, darling. I know where all my matches end up.” She sweeps past us without waiting for an invitation, depositing the cobbler on my kitchen counter and immediately beginning to rummage through cabinets. “You need more plates. And forks. Where are your forks? A man your age should have a proper fork collection.”

“Left drawer.” I close the door. Share a look with Leire that communicates volumes.

“Found them!” Grandmother Peach produces plates I’m certain I don’t own and begins serving cobbler with the efficiency of someone who’s done this thousands of times. “Sit, sit. Eat. Then we’ll talk about the documents.”

“Documents?”

She slides a leather folder across the counter. It’s old—the leather cracked and faded, the edges worn smooth. “Found on one of the Preservers your Protection Network captured. Caius was very thorough with the interrogations. I made copies before returning the originals to him—this is my set.”

“You copied evidence from an ongoing investigation?”

“Borrowed the originals, copied them, returned them promptly. There’s a distinction. Also, Caius knows I did it. He made that disappointed face he does—you know the one, like a very stern wolf who’s discovered someone left the gate open—but he didn’t actually stop me.”

Leire picks up the folder. Flips it open. Goes still.

I move to look over her shoulder. The pages are yellowed, covered in cramped handwriting that switches between languages—some I recognize, some I don’t. But certain words jump out.

The Severing.

Mate potential.

The old pairings, severed but not destroyed. Sleeping. Waiting.

“What is this?” Leire’s voice is barely a whisper.

“History.” Grandmother Peach takes a bite of her own cobbler, expression serene. “Or rather, history that was erased. The Preservers have been around for a very long time, dear. Longer than Mistvale. Longer than anyone remembers.”

“What’s the Severing?”

She smiles. That infuriating, knowing smile. “Not yet. You’ve done the first part—the hard part. Proven that witch-shifter matings can still form despite everything they did to prevent it. But there’s more to come. Other witches with mate potential. Other pairings waiting to ignite.”

“Other witches.” Leire sets down the folder. “How many?”

“That remains to be seen.” Grandmother Peach finishes her cobbler, sets the plate in my sink with a decisive clink. “Your magic is different now, yes? Stronger? More stable?”

Leire nods slowly.

“The claiming anchored you. Like a familiar would, but... more.” She pats Leire’s cheek with grandmotherly fondness that somehow feels calculating. “You’re the first. But you won’t be the last. The magic is waking up, children. It’s been sleeping for a very long time, and now it’s waking up.”

She’s already heading for the door, moving faster than someone her apparent age should—then pauses. Turns back. For just a moment, the bright warmth dims to something older. Something that has been carrying a very long burden for a very long time.

“I’ve been waiting for this for two hundred fifty years.” Her voice is perfectly calm. “I tried twice before. The Preservers were faster, those times.” A beat. “They won’t be faster anymore.”

The warmth returns like a lamp being turned back on. She beams at both of us with the serenity of someone who has just watched several centuries of patience pay off.

“Good cobbler was worth the wait, I think. Keep the documents. Study them. But don’t try to solve everything at once. You’ve earned a rest. Take it.”

“Wait—” Leire starts.

But Grandmother Peach is gone. The door closes behind her, and when I yank it open, there’s nothing but empty porch and pale morning mist. No footprints in the dew on the grass. No lingering scent trail. Just silence and the distant call of birds.

I stare at the empty doorway. “She does that.”