Page 4

SYLVIE

S ylvie pulled her long cardigan tighter around herself as Nicholas stepped over the threshold.

His presence filled the small space of her shop instantly—not just physically, but something else, an energy that made the violet band around her wrist pulse.

The little bell above the door jingled as it closed behind him.

"Don't touch anything that glows," she warned, watching him carefully.

"No promises," he replied, that infuriating half-smile playing at his lips.

Sylvie's workstation was covered with open books, scattered herbs, and half a dozen candles—most burned down to stumps. The one still flickering tall was black as midnight with runes etched in silver. A breaking candle. So far, utterly useless.

"I see you've been busy." Nicholas gestured toward the mess.

"Waste of perfectly good beeswax," Sylvie muttered, moving behind the counter. Having him here made her fingers tingle. The sensation crawled up her arms, not unpleasant but definitely unwelcome. "I've tried three different severance spells."

"Any luck?" He leaned against the counter opposite her, close enough that she caught his scent—pine and something wild.

"Does it look like I've had any luck?" She held up her wrist where the violet light still circled, matching his own. "It's getting stronger, not weaker."

Nicholas kept his distance, but his eyes tracked her movements as she flipped another page in the grimoire. "Maybe we're approaching this wrong."

"We?" She glanced up, one eyebrow arched. "I wasn't aware there was a we in this situation."

"There's definitely a we." He pointed between their wrists. "Unless you've got another explanation for why I couldn't concentrate all day, or why my tiger is currently purring like a house cat."

Sylvie paused. "Your tiger is...what?"

"Purring." Nicholas scratched the back of his neck, looking almost embarrassed. "He's never done that before. Usually he paces, or sleeps, or hunts in my head. But since this morning—" He gestured to the violet band. "—nonstop purring."

Something about his admission made her pause. Nicholas Whitmore, Celestial Pines' most notorious flirt, looked genuinely rattled. His usual easy confidence had cracks in it.

"That's...interesting." She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "My magic feels different too. Like it's...I don't know, reaching for something."

"For me?" His amber eyes flashed.

"Don't flatter yourself," she retorted, though something in her chest fluttered when he stepped closer.

She slammed the grimoire shut, dust motes dancing in the candle's glow.

"Look, I have a theory. The spell was supposed to be a love-warding candle.

Its whole purpose was to repel unwanted attraction. "

"And instead it did what? The opposite?"

"Not exactly." Sylvie drummed her fingers on the ancient leather book cover. "I think it recognized something and... amplified it."

Nicholas's brows furrowed. "Recognized what?"

The question hung between them. Sylvie felt heat rise to her cheeks and turned away, shuffling papers needlessly. "I don't know yet. That's why I need to break it."

"You're lying," he said softly.

She whirled around. "Excuse me?"

"Your pulse quickened. I can hear it." He tapped his ear. "Tiger senses."

"That's invasive," she snapped.

"That's biology." He shrugged. "Can we at least agree to be honest while we figure this out? Because something tells me dishonesty will only make the magic tighten its grip."

Sylvie sighed, shoulders sagging slightly. He wasn't wrong. "Fine. My aunt might know more. I'm seeing her tomorrow morning."

"Missy Sage?" Nicholas's eyes lit up. "The one who keeps peacocks and once crashed the mayor's dinner party on a borrowed hippogriff?"

Despite herself, Sylvie smiled. "That's the one."

"I like her style."

"You would." But there was no bite in her voice.

An awkward silence fell between them, filled only by the soft crackle of the candle's flame. Nicholas shifted his weight, looking uncharacteristically unsure.

"Do you want me to go with you? To see your aunt?" he asked eventually.

Sylvie considered it, feeling the strange new awareness between them. When he'd been gone all day, she'd felt hollow, distracted. Now that he was here, that sensation had eased, replaced by a different kind of discomfort—a hyper awareness of his every movement.

"No," she said finally. "I think it's better if I go alone. Aunt Missy can be... a lot."

"Fair enough." He nodded, then glanced around the shop. "Need help cleaning up before you close?"

The offer surprised her. "You don't strike me as the tidying type, Whitmore."

He grinned, and for once it seemed genuine rather than practiced. "I'm full of surprises, Sage."

For a brief moment, Sylvie let herself really look at him.

The way his dark hair fell across his forehead, how his amber eyes caught the candlelight, the strong lines of his jaw.

She'd always dismissed him as just another pretty face with too much charm and too little substance.

Now she wondered if there was more beneath the surface.

The violet band on her wrist pulsed, and Nicholas's did the same. Their eyes met, acknowledging the connection neither of them had asked for.

"Tomorrow, then," she said quietly. "I'll let you know what Aunt Missy says."

Sylvie's vintage Volkswagen Beetle puttered along the winding road that led to her aunt's cottage on the outskirts of town.

The morning air smelled of pine and wet earth—a storm had passed through overnight, leaving everything glistening.

She should have felt refreshed, but a dull ache had settled behind her ribs the moment she'd left the apothecary last night.

Away from Nicholas.

The thought made her grip the steering wheel tighter. "Ridiculous," she muttered to herself. "Absolutely ridiculous."

The road curved sharply, and Aunt Missy's cottage appeared—a ramshackle Victorian structure painted in shades that shouldn't work together but somehow did: lavender walls, teal trim, and a bright yellow door.

Wind chimes made of everything from crystal to silverware dangled from the porch rafters, creating a discordant symphony that somehow managed to be melodious.

Sylvie parked beside a garden overrun with herbs and flowers, many of which weren't native to this hemisphere—or this dimension. A peacock strutted across the lawn, its iridescent feathers catching the morning light.

"Good morning, Ferdinand," Sylvie called to the bird. It regarded her with what could only be described as judgment before continuing its royal procession across the yard.

The yellow front door swung open before Sylvie reached it.

"You're late, darling!" Aunt Missy stood in the doorway, her wild gray curls adorned with what appeared to be tiny silver bells and butterfly clips.

She wore a flowing emerald caftan over striped leggings and at least five different scarves.

"The tea leaves told me you'd be here twenty minutes ago. "

"The tea leaves need a watch," Sylvie replied, accepting her aunt's encompassing hug. Missy smelled of incense, vanilla, and something faintly metallic—probably whatever experimental potion she was brewing. "And I'm exactly on time."

"Details." Missy waved a dismissive hand, the dozens of bangles on her wrist clinking together. "Come in, come in. I've made moon cakes."

Sylvie followed her aunt into the cottage, which was even more chaotic inside than out. Books stacked precariously on every surface, plants grew from hanging macramé planters, and various crystals caught the light streaming through stained glass windows.

"So," Missy said, pouring tea from a pot shaped like a dragon into mismatched cups. "You've gone and bound yourself to a tiger shifter."

Sylvie nearly spilled her tea. "How did you?—"

"Please." Missy rolled her eyes, which today were lined with electric blue. "I felt the magic surge from here. Besides, your aura's all," she wiggled her fingers, "sparkly violet now. Very becoming, actually. Brings out your eyes."

"It was an accident," Sylvie insisted, pushing up the sleeve of her cardigan to reveal the band. "A love-warding candle gone wrong."

"Hmmm." Missy examined the violet light with keen interest. "Gone wrong, or gone right?"

"Wrong. Definitely wrong." Sylvie pulled her sleeve back down. "I need to break it."

"And why is that?" Missy perched on a velvet ottoman, her head tilted like an inquisitive bird.

"Because I didn't consent to being magically tethered to Nicholas Whitmore, of all people!"

"Ah, Nicholas." A knowing smile curved Missy's lips. "The handsome tiger who helps at that wildlife sanctuary. The one you've been deliberately avoiding at every town function for the past two years."

Heat crept up Sylvie's neck. "I haven't been avoiding him."

"Your nose twitches when you lie, dear. Just like your mother's did."

Sylvie sighed, absently touching the bridge of her nose. "Fine. Maybe I've been avoiding him a little. He's... distracting."

"Distracting." Missy's eyes twinkled. "Is that what the kids call it these days?"

"Aunt Missy, please. I need your help. I've tried every breaking spell I know."

"And nothing worked?" Missy sipped her tea, looking completely unsurprised.

"Nothing. In fact, it's getting stronger." Sylvie hesitated, then admitted, "I feel... strange when he's near. Like sparks under my skin. And when he's not around, there's this ache, like something's missing."

"Fascinating." Missy leaned forward, suddenly all business. "And how far apart have you been since the binding?"

"Just across town. Why?"

Missy hummed thoughtfully. "The discomfort will likely increase with distance. Magic has its own gravity, darling. Especially love magic."

"This isn't love magic," Sylvie protested.

"Isn't it? You were creating a love-warding candle. What's a ward but the inverse of what it's meant to repel? Magic is balance, Sylvie. Light and dark. Push and pull."

"So what you're saying is..."

"The candle recognized something between you and this tiger—something you've both been denying—and decided to... nudge things along." Missy punctuated this with a wink.

Sylvie groaned, burying her face in her hands. "There has to be a way to break it."

"Oh, I'm sure there is." Missy's voice turned sly. "But love magic doesn't break by logic, my dear. It breaks by heart."

"What does that even mean?" Sylvie looked up, exasperated.

"It means," Missy reached over to pat Sylvie's knee, "that sometimes the universe has better plans for us than we have for ourselves. Your mother learned that lesson with your father, you know."

Sylvie softened at the mention of her parents. "You never told me how they met."

"Didn't I?" Missy's eyes gleamed with mischief.

"Well, let's just say it involved a misfired spell, a very confused wolverine shifter, and three days trapped in a cabin during the worst blizzard of '89.

" She chuckled at Sylvie's wide-eyed expression.

"The point is, magic doesn't make mistakes.

It reveals truths we're too stubborn to see. "

"Nicholas Whitmore is not my truth," Sylvie insisted, even as the violet band pulsed gently around her wrist. "He's dated half the town."

"And yet, here we are." Missy spread her hands. "The candle chose him, Sylvie. Or perhaps more accurately, your magic chose him."

"My magic needs therapy, then." Sylvie stood up, pacing the cluttered room. "There has to be another way. A counter-spell, a ritual, something."

Missy watched her with thoughtful eyes. "The magic won't release until it's served its purpose. Whether that purpose is bringing you together or teaching you both some lesson remains to be seen." She paused. "Have you considered simply... exploring it? Seeing where it leads?"

"No," Sylvie said too quickly.

"Your mother was stubborn too," Missy sighed, rising from her seat in a swirl of scarves. "Come with me."