Page 16 of Roaring Spell

“Impressive.” She settles into the chair across from my reception desk—Torin’s chair, though she doesn’t know that—and folds her hands in her lap with the ease of someone who’s comfortable taking up space. “I’d love to hear about your gift. Elemental sensitivity is quite rare. The coven hasn’t had a weather witch since Dorothea. Five years now, was it? Terrible, what happened to her.”

I tell her what I tell everyone: some of the truth, none of the worst of it. Uncontrolled surges, yes. Emotional triggers, yes. Still working on the fine-tuning.

She listens with the focused attention of someone genuinely interested. Asks questions. Good ones—how far does my sensitivity extend, can I detect magical disturbances beyond weather, has it ever responded to external sources rather than internal ones.

An hour later, she leaves with the same warm smile she arrived with, pressing my hand and telling me Mistvale is lucky to have me.

I feel welcomed. Seen. Like I might actually belong here.

Friday evening, I’m closing up when my phone buzzes.

Leire: “I hear you have a new shadow.”

Anouk: “The bear? Interesting choice for a monitor. He doesn’t usually volunteer for anything.”

I glance toward the window. Torin left a while ago, but I can still see the slight indentation in his chair. Still smell the woodsmoke and pine that clings to him.

Me: “He’s assigned to monitor me. It’s not a thing.”

Zeph: “Ha.”

Leire: “Mmhmm. Sure.”

Anouk: “He’s never shown interest in anyone.”

Zeph: “Until now apparently.”

Me: “It’s not a thing.”

Anouk: “Is it?”

Me: “Yes!”

Zeph: “She used an exclamation point. She’s lying.”

Leire: “Oh, Torin? He’s a sweetheart. Total teddy bear despite the grumpy exterior.”

Me: “He’s not grumpy. He’s just... quiet.”

Anouk: “You’re already defending him. Fascinating.”

Zeph: “Called it.”

Me: “I hate all of you. Also he put out Ember yesterday when she caught fire in my studio. With his jacket. Didn’t even blink.”

Zeph: “Wait he smothered Ember? That’s hot. The irony I mean. Phoenix. Smothered. Fire jokes.”

Leire: “You love us. Also, he writes poetry.”

I drop my phone.

Scramble to pick it up.

Stare at the screen.

Me: “He what?”

Leire: “Poetry.”