Page 10

T HREE WEEKS AFTER LYRA’S birth, our home has settled into a new normal—or at least, as normal as a household containing two witches, a troll, and a magically gifted infant can be.

Lyra continues to display remarkable magical abilities for her age. One afternoon, she recreates a miniature solar system of diapers revolving around a container of wipes while I’m changing her.

“Gravitational manipulation at three weeks,” my mother says with poorly disguised pride as she expertly captures a floating stack of diapers. “The Blackthorn twins didn’t manage that until they were six months old.”

“Mother, please don’t turn my daughter’s magical development into a competition.” I sigh, though I too feel a flutter of pride at Lyra’s precocious abilities.

“It’s not a competition when there’s clearly no contest,” she says pertly, tucking the diapers securely into a drawer enchanted to resist Lyra’s gravitational tampering.

Atlas wisely remains silent on this topic. He’s become adept at navigating between my occasional postpartum emotional storms and my mother’s confidence in her grandmotherly expertise.

“How is our little magical prodigy this morning?” he asks instead.

“Hungry and opinionated,” I say as Lyra waves her tiny fists impatiently. “Like her mother and grandmother.”

This earns me a rare smile from my mother. “The Greenwarth women have never been known for their patience, though your father used to say it was simply because we always knew exactly what we wanted.”

This casual mention of my father, who passed away when I was still at the finishing academy with Cala Caldera, years after his divorce from Mom, surprises me. She rarely speaks of him, and never with the fond tone she’s just used.

“I don’t remember him saying that,” I say carefully, settling into the rocking chair to feed Lyra.

“You wouldn’t.” She straightens already perfect stacks of baby clothes. “He said it to me privately, usually after you’d worn him down with your particular brand of stubborn determination as a child.”

The image of my serious, scholarly father being worn down by my childhood persistence brings an unexpected lump to my throat. “I wish he could have met Lyra,” I say softly.

“He would have adored her,” says my mother, her voice uncharacteristically gentle. “He always had a special fondness for strong-willed females, even if he couldn’t always live with them.” She smiles for a moment before returning to organizing baby clothes.

Atlas, sensing the emotional current in the room, discreetly murmurs something about checking the protective wards and slips out, leaving my mother and me in a rare moment of shared remembrance.

“I’ve been meaning to give you something,” she says after a moment, reaching into her robe pocket. She withdraws a small silver locket on a delicate chain. “This belonged to your father’s mother. It’s traditional to pass it to the first daughter when she has her first child.”

She places the locket in my free hand. It’s heavier than it looks, warm with old magic that tingles against my palm. “It contains a preservation charm for memories. If you place a strand of Lyra’s hair inside, it will create a magical impression of her at this age that you can revisit years from now.”

I’m touched beyond words by this unexpected gift. That she kept it and passed it on even after their divorce and somewhat standoffish relationship that I remember, surprises me. “Mom, I... Thank you.”

She waves away my gratitude with characteristic dismissiveness, but her eyes are softer than usual. “It’s tradition,” she says simply. “Besides, I have no use for sentimental trinkets at my age.”

The moment is interrupted by a gentle knock at the nursery door. Atlas peers in, his expression apologetic. “Forgive the interruption, but Minerva is here for Lyra’s one-month magical assessment.”

“It’s only been three weeks,” I say.

“Apparently she’s been called away to assist with an unexpected magical birth in the neighboring town. She thought it best to conduct Lyra’s assessment before leaving.”

My mother immediately switches to efficient mode. “The assessment should be conducted in neutral magical space. The living room would be best. Atlas, please move any amplifying crystals or enchanted objects that might interfere with an accurate reading.”

As they bustle out to prepare, I finish feeding Lyra, burp her, and change her into a special assessment gown my mother embroidered with protective runes. By the time we join the others, the living room has been transformed into a proper magical examination space.

Minerva Nightbloom, the magical midwife who delivered Lyra, stands in the center of the room. Her silver hair is twisted into its usual elaborate knot, and her eyes—currently a calm blue—brighten when she sees us enter.

“There’s our special girl,” she says, approaching with hands outstretched. “May I?”

I carefully transfer Lyra to her arms. The midwife immediately begins a series of gentle magical passes over Lyra’s tiny form, murmuring incantations under her breath. Small colored lights appear above different parts of Lyra’s body—silver above her head, purple near her heart, and a fascinating swirl of both colors around her hands and feet.

“Magnificent,” Minerva pronounces after several minutes of examination. “Her magical core is fully formed and unusually stable for her age. The integration of witch and troll magics is proceeding beautifully. See how the energies weave together rather than remaining separate?”

She points to the swirling patterns, and indeed, the silver and purple energies twist around each other in an intricate dance rather than remaining distinct.

“Is that unusual?” asks Atlas, watching the lights with fascination.

“Quite,” says Minerva. “In most mixed heritage magical children, the different magical signatures remain separate for the first few years, gradually integrating as the child learns to control them. Lyra appears to have natural integration already.”

“What does that mean for her magical development?” asks my mother, her expression caught between professional interest and grandmotherly concern.

“It means she’ll likely have fewer of the typical struggles mixed-heritage children face—less magical instability and fewer uncontrolled outbursts as she grows,” Minerva explains. “Though given the strength of her core, she’ll still require specialized training to harness her considerable power.”

As if to demonstrate this point, Lyra chooses that moment to sneeze, and the magical lights above her form expand explosively outward, temporarily transforming our ceiling into a miniature night sky complete with twinkling stars and a crescent moon.

“Case in point,” I murmur, gazing upward at the celestial display.

“Harmless manifestations,” Minerva assures us as the ceiling slowly returns to normal, “And actually quite controlled for her age. Most magical infants would have set something on fire or transformed furniture with that much power.”

“She turned a table into a cradle once,” Atlas says proudly. “At the bakery, before she was born.”

“That was me,” I remind him. “During pregnancy.”

“Ah, yes,” he acknowledges with a smile. “Though I maintain she was a contributing factor.”

Minerva completes her assessment with a few more magical tests, then carefully records her findings in an enchanted journal. “I’ll leave you with a developmental guide,” she says, handing my mother a small golden scroll. “It outlines what to expect over the coming months and suggests appropriate exercises to help channel her growing abilities.”

“I’m familiar with standard magical developmental protocols,” my mother begins, but Minerva cuts her off gently.

“This isn’t standard, Ms. Greenwarth. This is specifically tailored to Lyra’s unique magical signature. I’ve only seen this particular combination once before, nearly fifty years ago—another witch-troll child, who grew up to become one of our realm’s most respected magical innovators.”

This information silences even my mother, who accepts the scroll with unusual humility.

After Minerva departs, with promises to return for a follow-up assessment when Lyra reaches two months, we gather in the living room to discuss what we’ve learned.

“An exceptional magical core,” my mother summarizes, already studying the developmental guide with intense focus. “With proper training, Lyra could become extraordinarily powerful.”

“Power isn’t everything,” I say gently, remembering the pressure of growing up with my mother’s high expectations. “What matters is that she’s healthy and happy.”

“Of course,” my mother says, though I can tell the concept of magical achievement without pursuit of power is somewhat foreign to her. “There’s nothing wrong with helping her reach her full potential though.”

Atlas, who has been listening quietly, finally speaks up. “Perhaps we can find a middle path. We’ll encourage her natural gifts while allowing her the freedom to develop at her own pace.”

“A philosophical compromise,” says my mother, with only minimal sarcasm.

“Exactly.” Atlas beams, choosing to ignore her tone. “As Aristotle taught us, virtue lies in the middle way.”

My mother rolls up the scroll with a sigh that’s more theatrical than genuine. “I suppose there’s some wisdom in that approach, though I maintain that structured magical education should begin early.”

“We have time to figure it out,” I remind them both, gazing down at Lyra, who has fallen asleep in my arms as tiny sparks of magic occasionally dance across her silver-white hair. “She’s only three weeks old.”

“Three weeks and already manipulating gravitational fields,” murmurs my mother, unable to completely suppress her pride.

***

T HIS BECOMES THE PATTERN of our days—my mother suggesting increasingly structured approaches to Lyra’s magical development, Atlas advocating for a more organic, philosophical path, and me attempting to find balance between their perspectives while focusing on the immediate needs of a newborn with unpredictable magical abilities.

To my surprise, my mother extends her stay beyond the originally planned month, explaining that “proper magical foundations require consistent guidance.” I suspect her reluctance to leave has less to do with concern for Lyra’s magical education and more with the unexpected bond she’s formed with her granddaughter, but I don’t challenge her reasoning.

Instead, our household settles into a surprisingly functional routine. Atlas continues managing Fae Fitness, though he adjusts his schedule to be home more. My mother takes over much of the magical childcare during morning hours, implementing what she calls “foundational sensory exercises” that seem suspiciously like simply talking to Lyra about different magical theories while showing her enchanted objects.

I gradually return to my own work, brewing simple potions and preparing herbal remedies at a small workspace Atlas set up in our kitchen before transitioning to a few afternoons a week at the shop. I haven’t yet had time for more matchmaking, but I leave that in the hands of the other witches and beings in Evershift Haven, at least for the time being.

Whatever I’m doing, if it’s at home, Lyra watches from a specially designed bassinet that hovers near my workbench, occasionally causing ingredients to float or bottles to glow when something catches her interest.

“She has your intuition for herbal combinations,” my mother says one afternoon, watching as Lyra’s magic causes a sprig of lavender to dance in harmony with a vial of moonstone essence—ingredients that do indeed work well together. “I always said your instinctive approach to potion-making was your strongest magical talent.”

The compliment, delivered in my mother’s matter-of-fact tone, nearly causes me to drop the mortar and pestle I’m holding. “You did?” I ask, unable to recall a single instance when she praised my intuitive brewing methods.

“Of course,” she says, genuinely surprised by my reaction. “Why do you think I insisted you continue with advanced potions despite your resistance? Your natural talent was obvious.”

“I thought you were just being controlling.”

My mother purses her lips. “Perhaps my methods of encouragement were somewhat...firm, but the talent was undeniable.”

This glimpse into my mother’s thought process—the revelation that what I interpreted as criticism might have been her version of support—shifts something fundamental in my understanding of our relationship. It’s not enough to erase years of feeling inadequate under her exacting standards, but enough to see her actions in a slightly different light.

That evening, as Atlas rocks Lyra to sleep while softly reciting Socratic dialogues, his version of bedtime stories, I find my mother in the garden, carefully harvesting moonflowers for a protective tincture she’s been preparing.

“Need help?” I offer, joining her in the silvery light of the waxing moon.

She hands me a small pair of enchanted shears without comment, and for a while, we work in companionable silence, our movements synchronized from years of similar shared tasks during my childhood.

“I’ve been thinking,” my mother says eventually, “About what the midwife said regarding Lyra’s unusual magical integration.”

“Mmm?” I encourage, carefully trimming a perfect bloom.

“It occurs to me that her ability to naturally harmonize different magical signatures might be influenced by her environment.” My mother gestures vaguely toward our home, where warm light spills from the windows. “Specifically, by witnessing the way various magical approaches can complement each other rather than compete.”

I pause in my harvesting, surprised by this insight. “You mean because she sees witch magic and troll magic working together?”

“And different styles of witchcraft. Your intuitive approach, and my structured techniques. Perhaps the combination creates a more balanced magical foundation than either would alone.”

The admission costs her something—I can see it in the slight stiffness of her posture—but the fact that she’s made it at all feels monumental.

“That’s...remarkably philosophical of you, Mother.”

“Don’t tell your husband,” she says dryly. “I’ll never hear the end of it.”

I laugh, and after a moment, my mother’s lips twitch in what might almost be a smile.

“I’m glad you stayed.” The words emerge before I can overthink them. “It’s been good for Lyra, and for me.”

My mother doesn’t respond immediately, but when she does, her voice holds an unfamiliar softness. “I’ve learned some things as well. Your Atlas is not what I expected.”

“He surprises people that way.”

“He’s a good father and clearly devoted to you both. His magical knowledge is also more extensive than I anticipated.”

Coming from my mother, this is practically a declaration of adoration. I accept it as the peace offering it is.

“Perhaps I could return periodically,” she says, focusing intently on a particularly perfect moonflower. “For short visits. To assist with Lyra’s magical development as she grows.”

“I’d like that,” I say honestly. “Lyra should know her grandmother.”

The conversation shifts to lighter topics—the best methods for preserving moonflower essence, and the magical properties of herbs grown under different lunar phases—but something has definitively changed between us. It’s not a complete transformation, but a step toward mutual understanding that seemed impossible just months ago.

When we return to the house, arms full of silver-glowing blooms, we find Atlas in the nursery, Lyra asleep on his broad stone chest as he sits in the oversized rocking chair my mother enchanted to support his weight.

“She wouldn’t settle in the crib,” he whispers, his large hand gently patting our daughter’s back. “Apparently, philosophical discussions about the nature of reality make excellent lullabies.”

My mother shakes her head, but there’s no real disapproval in the gesture. “At least wait until she’s walking before introducing existentialist theories,” she murmurs. “Magical development follows cognitive pathways.”

“Of course,” he says solemnly. “We’ll stick to basic metaphysics for now.”

To my delight, my mother actually rolls her eyes, a surprisingly human gesture from someone who prides herself on perfect composure.

“I’ll prepare the moonflower tincture,” she announces, taking the harvested blooms from my arms. “It needs to steep under direct moonlight for maximum potency.”

As she leaves, Atlas carefully shifts Lyra to a more comfortable position. Our daughter sighs in her sleep, and tiny motes of silver-purple light dance above her head, forming shapes that look remarkably like the constellations visible through the nursery window.

“Your mother has been almost pleasant today,” he says quietly. “Should I be concerned about potential enchantment or identity theft?”

“Very funny.” I settle onto the ottoman beside his chair. “I think she’s finally coming to terms with us—this family, our choices...all of it.”

“Ah.” Atlas nods. “People change, especially when confronted with new experiences and relationships.”

“Like becoming a grandmother,” I say.

“Exactly. Roles redefine us in ways we can’t anticipate.” He looks down at Lyra with tender adoration. “Just as becoming parents has changed us.”

“For the better, I hope.”

“Undoubtedly. As Nietzsche observed—”

“If you quote Nietzsche right now, I will turn you into a wishing well,” I say with a wink.

Atlas chuckles softly. “Fair enough, but I maintain philosophers have much to teach us about child-rearing.”

“Save it for your father-daughter lectures.” I reach out to stroke Lyra’s silky hair. “I’m sure she’ll be appropriately philosophical by the time she can speak full sentences.”

As if sensing she’s the topic of discussion, Lyra stirs slightly in her sleep, her tiny fingers flexing against Atlas’s chest. A small burst of magic escapes her, causing the stars painted on the nursery ceiling to briefly animate, shooting tiny comets across the magical constellations.

“She’s going to be extraordinary,” I whisper, watching the magical display.

“She already is. As are you.”

He reaches for my hand, his stone fingers warm and gentle against mine. As our hands connect, our magical signatures respond, creating a soft glow where skin meets stone—purple witch-light and silver earth magic combining to form a warm illumination that perfectly matches the color of our daughter’s magical aura.

In that moment of perfect harmony, with my husband beside me, our daughter sleeping peacefully between us, and even my mother finding her place in our unconventional family, I feel a completeness I never thought possible.

As the enchanted stars continue their slow dance across our nursery ceiling, I silently thank whatever twist of fate or magical accident led me to walk into Fae Fitness that day, seeking troll sweat for a fertility potion. Some might call it coincidence. Others might call it destiny.

Atlas would undoubtedly point out, citing yet another ancient philosopher whose name I’ve already forgotten—perhaps it’s simply the natural order of the universe bringing together exactly the right elements at exactly the right time to create a new kind of magic.

******