Page 27

DELILAH

T he sun rose soft and pink over Celestial Pines, dusting the mountaintops in honey light. A gentle fog clung to the hollows, reluctant to let go of the night. Birdsong filtered through the half-open shutters of the apothecary, and the smell of wild mint and clover tea filled the air.

Delilah stood at the basin, rolling the stiffness from her shoulders. Her hands ached from channeling too much magic too fast, but she didn’t regret it. Not one bit.

Rollo was alive.

Sleeping, but alive. He hadn’t stirred much since waking the night before, but his pulse had steadied. The poison had set into his bloodstream like tar, clinging in a way that made the healing slower than it should have been.

Still, he was breathing.

And that was more than she could’ve asked for yesterday.

She wrapped the sachets in linen bundles, humming low under her breath. The apothecary smelled like sage smoke and beeswax and just a hint of lemon balm—the kind of scent that made her think of safety. Of home.

Wren had stirred earlier, enough to drink half a mug of enchanted elderflower tea before mumbling something about fae taxes and falling back asleep.

A knock at the back door pulled Delilah from her thoughts.

Junie Bell poked her head in, curls piled on top of her head in a chaotic bun, a strand of orange ribbon tangled somewhere near her temple and her cheeks already flushed from either the spring wind or the stress of organizing too many townsfolk.

“You still alive in here?” she called, grinning as she stepped into the apothecary’s warm hearth scent.

“Barely,” Delilah said, wiping her hands on her apron and flicking a bit of dried lavender off her wrist.

Junie had been her best friend once—back when moonvine wreaths and first crushes felt like the world’s biggest worries.

They’d grown apart when Delilah left for Salem, but the bond hadn’t unraveled completely.

And now, with everything stirring under the surface of Celestial Pines, it was slowly stitching back together.

“Good,” Junie said, rolling her eyes with fondness. “Missy’s got the charm rings laid out on the town green. Said if you don’t come now, she’ll assign someone else to the root protection sets and make you do the last-minute dress blessing.”

Delilah groaned. “She wouldn’t.”

Junie smirked. “Oh, she would. You know Missy gets twitchy without full control of the ceremonial layout.”

Delilah laughed softly, grabbing her basket of charm tools and slipping a kiss to Wren’s temple before following Junie out the back.

Missy Harrow was exactly where Delilah expected her to be—planted at the base of the old warded gazebo like a general overseeing her troops.

Her dark curls were bound in a sleek braid wrapped in silver cord, and she had the fierce look of someone who’d wrangled magic students and town council egos before breakfast. Delilah had learned spellcraft from her as a teenager—Missy had run the town’s charm circles since before Delilah could write her name in moon sigils.

And now, like nothing had changed, she greeted Delilah with a dry smirk and a half-chewed sprig of clover between her teeth.

“About time,” she drawled. “We’ve got three dozen ward rings to charm and not enough hands.”

Delilah settled cross-legged beside her on the embroidered picnic cloth, fingers already reaching for the thistle thread and star-grass. “Don’t tell me you started without me.”

“I’d rather tie protection charms with wet string than do the whole set solo,” Missy muttered. “Where’ve you been?”

Delilah glanced up, hesitating.

Junie filled the silence. “She and Rollo met with the council this morning.”

That drew Missy’s eyes like a hawk spotting prey. “And?”

Delilah exhaled. “We told them everything. Garrick’s return. The corrupted sigils. Rollo’s attack. The spreading sickness in the land.”

Junie added, “They listened. Nodded. And said they’d handle it. ”

Missy snorted, spitting the clover to the side. “Of course they did.”

“They don’t want to disrupt the ceremony,” Delilah murmured, focusing too hard on the knot in her charm loop. “Said the town needed the unity. The magic of celebration.”

“Unity doesn’t mean silence,” Missy muttered. “It means honesty. Trust. That’s what makes the Pact strong—not pretending danger isn’t knocking on the ward lines.”

Delilah didn’t argue. She couldn’t.

The weight of secrecy pressed on her chest. The knowledge that Garrick still slithered unseen, twisting the land with every shadowed step, made her want to scream.

But she focused on the charms.

Knot by knot. Sigil by sigil.

They worked in a rhythm, the three of them. Missy handed off ring bases. Junie chanted the soft protection spells. Delilah threaded her magic through like weaving a tapestry.

Their shoulders brushed. Their laughter returned in fits and starts. For a while, it felt like old times.

Almost.

“Rollo okay?” Missy asked quietly, not looking up.

Delilah’s hands stilled for a breath before resuming. “He’s healing. Slower than normal.”

“The poison?”

“Still lingering. But he’s stubborn.”

“He always was,” Junie said with a small smile, nudging Delilah with her elbow. “You two always fit best in the middle of a mess.”

Delilah’s smile was tight but sincere. “He’s trying.”

They all knew what that meant.

Trying to be brave. Trying to be honest. Trying to love without fear.

Delilah wasn’t sure either of them had quite figured it out yet—but they were trying together.

And for now… that mattered.

By noon, laughter rose over the market booths.

Kids darted around with chalk in hand, drawing sigils on cobblestones.

The Spellbound Sip handed out lemon mist iced teas and warm blackberry scones.

Even the town’s stone fountain glittered, enchanted with glimmer-moss that made the water sparkle like starlight.

It felt like Celestial Pines again.

Almost.

After their charm batch was complete, Delilah walked home alone. The breeze had picked up, tugging petals from the blossoming moonvine along the fences.

She paused near the eoutskirts of the sanctuary.

The trees still whispered. The land still felt raw, wounded in places.

But she’d bound one of those wounds with her bare hands. And Rollo was resting just beyond that line of trees.

She pressed a palm to the sanctuary gate, murmuring a soft blessing. “Keep him safe.”

Then she turned back toward the apothecary, heart a little lighter.

By dusk, the town shimmered.

The ceremonial firepit crackled at the center of the green, encircled by hand-dyed quilts and enchanted wind chimes that rang without breeze. The Council stood in simple robes, masked as tradition demanded, offering nothing but smiles and words of hope for spring’s blessings.

Delilah stood outside of the crowd, wrapped in Wren’s shawl, her hair woven with wildflowers Missy had tucked in earlier.

She didn’t feel whole. But she felt steady.

And when she saw Rollo approaching, one arm bound tight across his ribs, Junie’s arm slung protectively around his waist like a human crutch, she almost laughed and cried at the same time.

He looked like hell. But he was upright. And his eyes were on her.

She stepped forward. And he smiled, slow and warm, like he didn’t see the crowd or the fire or the ceremony blooming around them.

Just her.