Page 7

CHLOE

I smoothed down my emerald shirt for the hundredth time as Lincoln guided us through corridors that seemed to stretch and curve in impossible ways. Paintings on the walls shifted subtly as we passed, the subjects' eyes following our progress with unmistakable curiosity.

"Just through here," Lincoln said, pausing before a set of massive oak doors carved with intricate runes that pulsed with a faint blue light. "Grandfather spends most of his time in the library."

"Of course he does," I muttered. "Nothing says 'intimidating patriarch' like surrounding yourself with ancient tomes of forbidden knowledge."

Frosty adjusted his bow tie—yes, he'd insisted on wearing a bow tie. "I'm ready to make my intellectual debut. Do you think he'll appreciate my discourse on post-modern magical theory?"

"I think he'll appreciate if you don't set anything on fire," I whispered.

Lincoln pushed open the doors, and my sarcastic defenses crumbled.

The library was... magnificent. Three stories tall with spiral staircases connecting different levels, but that wasn't what stole my breath.

Books—hundreds of them—floated gently between shelves, reorganizing themselves.

Some hovered open in mid-air, pages turning by invisible hands.

Globes of soft golden light drifted near reading nooks, and a massive fireplace crackled with flames that shifted between all colors of the rainbow.

"Lincoln, my boy!"

The voice drew my attention to a sitting area near the fireplace.

Rising from a high-backed leather chair was a man who could only be Augustus Sands.

White-haired but tall and straight-backed, he wore a smoking jacket that seemed to shimmer with constellations when he moved.

His eyes—the same light golden-brown as Lincoln's—sparkled with vitality that belied his apparent age.

Before I could prepare myself, Augustus crossed the room with surprising speed and wrapped me in a warm embrace.

"Chloe Woolsworth! At last!" He pulled back, hands on my shoulders, examining me with undisguised delight. "The witch who's captured my grandson's heart. I've been absolutely dying to meet you."

"I, um—" My usual arsenal of witty retorts abandoned me completely.

"And this must be the famous Frosty!" Augustus turned to my familiar with the same enthusiasm. "Lincoln tells me you're quite the martial artist."

Frosty puffed up his chest. "I've mastered seventeen forms of combat, sir, including three that I invented myself."

"Marvelous! You must show me your technique later." Augustus guided us toward the sitting area. "Chloe, Lincoln mentioned you have an impressive collection of magical texts. Tell me, have you ever encountered Grimshaw's Compendium of Practical Enchantments?"

I blinked in surprise. "Actually, yes. I have a first edition, though the binding is falling apart."

"A first edition! Remarkable. I've been searching for one for decades."

As we sat, Augustus asked about my garden, my favorite authors, my thoughts on modern magical theory. Not once did he mention my family or background in that probing, judgmental way I'd expected. He listened—really listened—to my answers, his eyes lighting up when we discovered shared interests.

I watched in amazement as Augustus leaned forward, genuinely interested in my thoughts on magical theory. This wasn't at all what I'd expected. Where was the intimidating interrogation? The subtle digs about my family background? The implied question of whether I was good enough for his grandson?

"And what do you think about Willowbranch's assertion that intent amplifies magical resonance?" Augustus asked, his eyes twinkling.

My mind went completely blank. I'd read Willowbranch's work years ago but couldn't remember a single detail under pressure. The silence stretched awkwardly as Lincoln shot me a concerned glance.

"If I may interject," Frosty said, strutting forward importantly.

"Willowbranch had some fascinating theories, but his collection of rare manuscripts is nothing compared to what I'm seeing here, Mr. Sands.

" He gestured with his wing toward the floating books.

"Is that a first edition Morgenstern on your third shelf? The gold embossing is unmistakable."

Augustus's face lit up like a child on Christmas morning. "You have an eye for bindings, sir! Indeed it is. Are you a collector yourself?"

"I dabble," Frosty said modestly, though I'd never once seen him show interest in rare books. "Though my wingspan limits my shelving options."

Augustus laughed heartily. "Come, you must see my pride and joy." He led Frosty to a glass case where a massive tome rested on velvet. "The original Bartholomew's Bestiary, with hand-painted illustrations."

"Barth-oh-lomew," Frosty pronounced carefully. "One of my favorites. His work on magical creatures is unparalleled, especially his chapter on... um... mystical chickens."

I bit my lip to keep from laughing. There was no such chapter.

"Indeed, though I've always been partial to his section on sea serpents," Augustus replied with a perfectly straight face. "Lincoln, why didn't you tell me your girlfriend's familiar was such a literary scholar?"

Lincoln caught my eye and winked. "Frosty's talents are innumerable. Wait until you try his biscuits and gravy."

"You cook as well?" Augustus clapped his hands together. "Magnificent! I insist you join me in the kitchen tomorrow morning. My chef makes an excellent breakfast, but I'd love your input."

"I would be honored to share my culinary secrets," Frosty said, bowing so low his comb nearly touched the floor. "Though I must warn you, my recipes have been known to cause spontaneous marriage proposals."

The tension in my shoulders melted away as Augustus's booming laugh filled the library. Somehow, my ridiculous feathered companion had accomplished what I couldn't— transformed this meeting from an ordeal into something that felt remarkably like... family.

The dining room took my breath away. Crystal chandeliers floated without chains, their light dancing across a table that stretched longer than my entire cottage. Place settings arranged themselves as we entered—silverware hopping into perfect alignment, napkins folding into elaborate swan shapes.

"This is..." I struggled for words that wouldn't betray my anti-magical upbringing.

"Completely excessive," Lincoln finished for me, squeezing my hand. "Grandfather believes formal dinners require at least seventeen pieces of silverware per person."

"Tradition matters, my boy." Augustus guided me to a chair that pulled itself out. "Though I've reduced it to fifteen pieces in my progressive old age."

Frosty strutted to a specially elevated seat with what I could only describe as rooster swagger. "The proper silverware arrangement demonstrates civilized breeding," he declared with mock pomposity.

I stifled a laugh. My familiar had clearly been watching too many period dramas.

As enchanted serving dishes floated around us, Augustus leaned forward conspiratorially. "Did Lincoln ever tell you about his first attempt at magical publishing?"

Lincoln groaned. "Grandfather, please?—"

"He was seven," Augustus continued, eyes twinkling. "Decided to 'improve' my first-edition spellbooks by adding his own illustrations. Turned every familiar in the Northeast purple for a week."

"The spell diagrams clearly needed visual enhancement," Lincoln defended himself, cheeks flushing.

"My publishing visionary," I teased, delighted to see this new side of him.

Augustus waved his hand, and a leather-bound book appeared. "His original artwork. I preserved it, naturally."

Lincoln buried his face in his hands as Augustus showed me childish drawings scribbled across ancient text. "I was going to be the next great magical illustrator."

"Instead, you revolutionized magical publishing," Augustus said, his tone shifting to genuine pride. "Started with just that small investment from me—what was it? Ten thousand?"

"Five," Lincoln corrected. "And you made me sign a proper business plan."

I paused mid-bite. "You built your company from five thousand dollars?"

Lincoln shrugged modestly. "Grandfather taught me the value of earning my way. The family vault was off-limits until I'd proven myself."

"He slept on a futon in a studio apartment for three years," Augustus added. "Refused additional help even when that dreadful merger nearly bankrupted him."

I looked at Lincoln with new understanding. All this time, I'd assumed he was born into publishing royalty, handed a company on a silver platter.

"Speaking of rare texts," Augustus said, "I've been meaning to show you my collection of Arithmancy manuscripts. They're quite valuable—both monetarily and magically."

The dinner concluded with a dessert that literally sparkled—some kind of magical soufflé that tasted like my first night of freedom in Assjacket. Lincoln excused himself to take an urgent call from New York, leaving me alone with his grandfather.

"Walk with me, Chloe," Augustus said, offering his arm with old-world charm. "I've something special to show you."

I glanced at Frosty, who waved a wing dismissively. "Go ahead. I'm discussing poultry rights with the chef."

"Sure, Mr. Sands," I said as Augustus led me down a corridor lined with portraits that followed our movement with their eyes.

"Please, call me Auggy or Grandpops, we're family after all. Besides, Lincoln's ancestors," he explained. "Judgmental lot, even in paint form. I tend to be more relaxed than that stuffy lot of wiccans."

My heart swelled with emotion. No one had ever treated me with such warmth and kindness, especially my own family. But this man welcomed me into his home and has treated me like royalty…like family. "Thank you, Mr. … Grandpops," I said sheepishly in a choked voice full of emotion.

"You're very welcome, my dear," Grandpops said with a smile as he gently squeezed my arm.