Page 51 of Roaring Spell

And I sit in the dark, holding his hand, watching over the man who threw himself in front of magic for me.

It’s terrifying.

It’s wonderful.

It feels like falling.

I don’t try to stop.

TEN

TORIN

When I’m well enough to walk, half the sleuth helps me back to my cabin. The door keeps opening without a knock. I’ve stopped locking it—partly because the sleuth checks on me constantly, partly because there’s only one person whose visits I actually want, and she doesn’t believe in waiting for permission.

Sakura appears in my doorway carrying a pot larger than her head.

“You’re awake.” She kicks the door closed and marches toward my kitchen. “Good. I made soup.”

“I don’t need⁠—”

“You need to eat. Anouk said your bear is burning through calories to heal the burns.” She sets the pot on my stove with a decisive clang. “Soup has calories. Therefore, soup. Also—” She doesn’t look at me. “Anouk confirmed the Registry device discharged completely in the backlash. It’s gone. The second siphon is destroyed.”

I exhale slowly. One less thing threatening this town.

“Soup,” she says again, firmly, before I can respond.

“That’s not how healing works.”

“It’s exactly how healing works. I’m an energy healer. I have expertise.” She starts opening my cabinets. “Where do you keep your—why is everything organized by color?”

“It’s efficient.”

“It’s chaos. The spices are next to the plates. The bowls are with the coffee mugs.” She finds a bowl. “There’s a system here, but it was designed by someone with very unique priorities.”

“Bears have unique priorities.”

“Bears have questionable organizational skills.” She ladles soup with aggressive efficiency. “Sit up. Eat.”

I sit up. The movement pulls at the healing skin. I hide the wince, but she sees it anyway—her eyes narrowing with concern she immediately masks with irritation.

“Slowly.” She crosses the room and hands me the bowl. “The burns are still healing.”

“I’m fine.”

“You absorbed a magical explosion. You’re not fine.” She curls into my reading chair—the one that’s molded perfectly to my shape over fifteen years. She looks small in it. Determined. Beautiful.

“Eat.” She points at the bowl. “Before it gets cold.”

I eat.

The soup is excellent. Rich, savory, herbs I don’t recognize and a warmth that spreads through my chest like comfort made tangible. She watches me eat with the focused attention of someone who’s decided my well-being is her personal responsibility.

She’s taking care of us. Tell her.

I’m eating soup. Give me a minute.

“This is good.” I scrape the bowl. “Where did you learn to cook?”