Page 9

CHLOE

T he ancient grandfather clock in my living room ticked away, marking each second of my quiet meltdown with mechanical precision.

I stood in the center of my cottage, still wearing the clothes from our weekend at the Sands estate, unable to move past the entryway.

My suitcase remained untouched by the door while Frosty bustled around, already unpacking his three bags with methodical efficiency.

"You should have seen Augustus's first edition of Magical Herbology Through the Ages," Frosty said, carefully arranging his tiny bow ties on the special rack I'd made him. "The man has taste. And did you notice how the binding was reinforced with actual dragon skin? Not that cheap imitation stuff."

I nodded mechanically, my eyes scanning my humble cottage.

The worn sofa with its faded throw blanket.

The mismatched mugs hanging from hooks in my tiny kitchen.

The stacks of books that served as impromptu side tables.

After a weekend in Lincoln's childhood mansion, my cozy home felt. .. different. Smaller. More precarious.

"And the enchanted card catalog? Jezfucnuboobles, I nearly laid an egg when he showed me how it could—" Frosty stopped mid-sentence, his head tilting as he finally noticed me. "Chloe? Hello? Earth to witch?"

My breath caught in my throat. The walls seemed to be closing in, not with the familiar comfort of my sanctuary but with an oppressive reminder of how different Lincoln's world was from mine.

Images flashed through my mind—the grand staircase of the Sands estate, the staff in their crisp uniforms, Augustus's casual mention of board expectations.

Then, unbidden, the memory of my parents' ice castle in Connecticut. The cold, formal dinners. My sister Jenny's perfect posture and practiced laugh. My father's dismissive glance whenever I spoke. The crushing certainty that I didn't belong.

"I can't—" My voice came out as a wheeze. "I can't breathe."

Frosty was at my side in an instant, his feathers brushing against my leg. "Head between your knees, right now. That's it."

I sank to the floor, following his instructions.

"Breathe with me," he commanded, his voice surprisingly gentle. "In through the beak, out through the tail feathers."

I couldn't stop my hands from shaking as I took several deep breaths. Frosty's feathery presence grounded me enough to function, but the panic still hummed beneath my skin.

"Better?" Frosty asked, his beady eyes fixed on mine.

"Not really."

Frosty fumbled for his phone. "Siri, call Roger, the therapist with the penis paintings."

"They're abstract expressionist interpretations of human sexuality," I corrected automatically, as the phone began ringing.

Thirty minutes later, Frosty and I burst through Roger's office door without knocking. The waiting room had been empty—a small mercy since I probably looked like I'd been dragged backward through a hedge.

"Well, well, the hermit emerges for an unscheduled appearance," Roger said, looking up from his desk. Today he wore a Hawaiian shirt so loud it practically screamed. "Must be serious."

I paced the length of his office, pointedly ignoring the new addition to his wall art collection—something with swirls of red and flesh-toned protrusions that I refused to interpret.

"I went to Lincoln's family estate this weekend."

"And you didn't burst into flames? Impressive."

"His grandfather has a library bigger than my entire house." I continued pacing. "The silverware probably costs more than everything I own. They have staff, Roger. People whose job is to... to... exist around them and do things!"

Roger leaned back. "And this is troubling because...?"

"Because!" I threw my hands up. "He belongs there! In that world of wealth and power and important publishing people and family legacies. And I'm just—" My voice cracked. "I'm just me."

"Just you?" Roger repeated. "Define 'just you' for me."

"A witch who lives in the middle of nowhere with a talking rooster.

A woman who wears the same three oldy ratty sweatshirts in rotation.

Someone who panics at dinner parties and uses sarcasm as a shield and can't even—" To my horror, tears sprang to my eyes.

"I'm not enough, okay? I've never been enough. "

Roger watched me with unusual stillness. Then he opened his desk drawer and pulled out a Magic 8-Ball.

"What are you doing?"

"Ask it if Lincoln thinks you're enough."

"That's ridiculous."

"Humor me."

I grabbed the toy. "Does Lincoln think I'm..." I couldn't finish.

"Go on."

"Does Lincoln think I'm enough?" I whispered, shaking the ball.

"Signs point to yes," Roger read when I showed him. "Now, is that more or less reliable than the evidence Lincoln's actually given you?"

The question hit like a bucket of cold water.

"What evidence has Lincoln given you about his feelings?" Roger pressed.

"He... brought me to meet his grandfather. He said he's never brought anyone home before."

"Interesting. What else?"

"He gave me a job. He sends me first editions. He calls at midnight just to hear my voice."

"Hmm. Sounds terrible." Roger scribbled something on a notepad. "Homework: make a list of every concrete action Lincoln has taken to show his commitment to you. No interpretations, just facts."

"But—"

"No buts. Facts only. And Chloe? The fear that you're not enough—that's not about Lincoln. That's about your family."

I sank into the chair, suddenly exhausted. "I know."

I left Roger's office with his words rattling around in my brain like loose change. The homework assignment felt like a middle school project, but I couldn't deny its potential usefulness. Not that I'd ever admit that to Roger.

Two days later, I found myself pushing a shopping cart down the cereal aisle of Assjacket's only grocery store, Supernatural Sustenance.

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as I debated between granola that tasted like cardboard but was healthy or the sugary cereal Frosty preferred that would probably kill us both eventually.

"Chloe Woolsworth! There you are!"

I froze, a box of Lucky Charms halfway to my cart. Marigold's voice carried across the store like a foghorn, drawing the attention of every shopper within a fifty-foot radius.

"We've been looking everywhere for you!" Marigold barreled toward me, her pink floral dress fluttering behind her.

Three other women followed in her wake—Bethany from the bakery, Eleanor who ran the flower shop, and Susan who I only knew as "that witch with the parrot familiar who gossips more than she does. "

"I've been right here, buying cereal," I said, gesturing vaguely at the shelves. "Not exactly hiding in a witness protection program."

"So," Marigold leaned in conspiratorially, "we heard you visited the Sands estate! How was it? Is it true they have gold-plated bathroom fixtures?"

"And a room just for shoes?" Eleanor added.

"And magical servants who can read your mind?" Susan's eyes were wide with excitement.

I clutched my shopping cart handle like a lifeline. "It was... big. And old. And had a lot of books."

"That's it?" Bethany looked disappointed. "What about Augustus Sands? Did he like you? Did he give you the family jewels to try on?"

"The family what now?"

"You know," Marigold winked dramatically, "to see if they suit the future Mrs. Sands."

The cereal box slipped from my fingers and crashed to the floor, spilling magical marshmallows that began floating upward.

"Mrs.—? No. Absolutely not. We're just dating. It's new. There were no jewels." My voice had reached a pitch only dogs and possibly Frosty could hear.

"But wedding bells must be on the horizon," Susan pressed. "Lincoln Sands doesn't just bring anyone home to meet Grandfather Augustus."

"No bells. No horizons. No wedding anything." My usual sarcastic shield failed me completely as panic rose in my chest.

"Ladies, if you'll excuse us," a familiar voice cut through the interrogation. "I need to borrow Chloe for an urgent... magical consultation."

Zelda appeared at my side, looping her arm through mine and steering me away from the crowd. Her timing was so perfect I could have kissed her.

"But we weren't finished—" Marigold protested.

"Magical emergency," Zelda called over her shoulder. "Very hush-hush. Witch business."

Zelda steered me toward the bakery section, safely out of earshot from the gossip squad.

"You looked like you needed extraction from a hostile situation," she said, examining a display of muffins.

"Thank you. I was one more wedding question away from turning someone into a toad." I leaned against the bread rack, trying to slow my racing heart.

Zelda's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Been there. When Mac and I got together, the whole town was planning our wedding before we'd even had a proper date."

"How did you handle it?"

"Told them all to mind their own damn business." She selected a blueberry muffin and placed it in her basket. "But privately? I was terrified. Opening yourself to love after you've built walls is the bravest magic there is."

I stared at her, surprised by the candor. "I'm not sure I'm that brave."

"Nonsense. You let that rooster into your life, didn't you? Anyone who can tolerate Frosty's cooking experiments has courage to spare."

My phone buzzed in my pocket. Lincoln's face appeared on the screen.

"Go on," Zelda nudged me. "I'll guard your cart."

I stepped behind a display of enchanted pasta that sang Italian arias when cooked properly. "Hey," I answered, my voice softening automatically.

"Chloe." His face appeared on video, hair disheveled, tie askew. The usual warm light in his eyes had dimmed, replaced by something that made my stomach drop.

"What's wrong?"

He ran a hand through his hair. "The building that houses our headquarters is being sold. The new owners are terminating all leases within thirty days."

"That's... sudden."