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And he’d find it, before it found her.

21

DELILAH

The market street was busier than usual.

Delilah had only stopped for rosemary and sleeproot, but now she found herself walking slower, her bag hugged close to her hip, the weight of whispered words catching on her like burrs in wool.

“Did you hear she’s back for Wren’s estate?”

“Well, what else would bring her crawling home after all these years?”

“Some folks just can’t stay away when there’s something to claim…”

She paused at a corner stall, pretending to inspect a jar of pickled starfruit, but her ears rang. Her jaw locked so tight her molars ached.

They didn’t even lower their voices.

It shouldn’t have stung. She’d left. She hadn’t explained why. Maybe they were owed a whisper or two.

But itdidsting. It burned.

She made it as far as the next alley before she ducked off the cobbled path and leaned her back against the cool stone wall, clutching her bag like it might hold the courage she was losing.

Her chest tightened. Breath came in short, useless bursts.

Inheritance.

Like she hadn’t scraped together every coin in Salem just to get back. Like she hadn’t come running the second Wren called, heart in her throat and roots in her hands.

She squeezed her eyes shut. She needed somewhere quiet. She needed a damn minute.

The Spellbound Sip was soft as memory. Always was.

A little too warm, full of smells that clung to the skin like perfume—baked fig, smoked cinnamon, whispering mint. And magic. Always that hum of background charm, subtle as breath, altering the flavor of each drink to suit the soul.

Delilah stepped in, the bell chiming soft and melodious overhead.

Nerissa glanced up from behind the bar, her eyes—sea green and just shy of knowing—flicked to Delilah’s face.

She said nothing. Just reached for a mug and started to brew.

Delilah sank into her favorite corner seat near the wide window and dropped her bag. Her shoulders shook. She hated that. Hated being seen soft. But Nerissa didn’t call attention to it.

Instead, she brought over a tall ceramic cup swirling faintly with gold and pink steam.

Lemon mist. Flirtation. Comfort. A gentle nudge toward joy.

Delilah took it with both hands and murmured, “You ever just wanna hex a whole room?”

“All the time,” Nerissa said, settling into the seat across from her, her voice like silk dragged through lake water. “But then I remember karma always has better aim.”

Delilah gave a watery laugh and sipped.

It tasted like sunshine and honeyed citrus and something else—something nostalgic. Her shoulders loosened by inches.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.