Page 2

Chapter 1

I t wasn’t even the tenth morning bell, and Maeve was already glowing.

I spotted the telltale shimmer from the corner of my eye, a soft golden light pulsing against the shelves. I didn’t react. Not at first.

Instead, I finished weighing out a portion of powdered indigo, carefully tipping it into a parchment envelope for the waiting customer. “Sealed tight,” I said, pressing wax along the edge. “This batch is finer than your last order. It should give you a deeper saturation.”

The old archivist, Edwin Fairweather, hummed in approval. “Ah, excellent, excellent. I do appreciate a rich color—”

A delighted giggle rang through the shop.

Finally, I looked up.

Maeve, balanced precariously on a stool behind the counter, had her arms spread wide, palms up. Light spilled from her skin in flickering waves, gold shifting to soft amber, then back again.

“Maeve Byrne,” I said, voice low. “What did I say about glowing?”

Maeve gasped, eyes going round with dramatic guilt. “Not in the shop!”

“Not in the shop,” I agreed.

“But—” She flexed her fingers. The glow pulsed brighter. “Feels wiggly.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. Some mothers worried about sweets or scraped knees. I worried my niece might set herself on fire.

Maeve clapped her hands, sending another ripple of golden shimmer into the air. “I glow, Mister Edwin!” she announced proudly.

Edwin chuckled, tucking the packet of indigo into his satchel. “She’s a lively one, that’s for sure.”

“She’s something,” I muttered, reaching for a damp cloth. "Come here, May."

She giggled, wholly unrepentant, as she wobbled on the edge of the stool. I caught her around the middle before she could topple. The warmth of her magic buzzed against my skin like the lingering hum of a struck bell. Not hot, not painful—just... Maeve.

I released a slow breath, smoothing Maeve’s hair and setting her back on solid ground. "Hands in your pockets," I instructed.

She scrunched her nose. "Why?"

"Because magic is like ink. If you spill too much, it stains."

That got through to her. Maeve’s eyes widened, and she shoved her hands deep into the folds of her skirts. I didn’t know if it would actually help, but it made both of us feel better.

Edwin finished counting out his payment, stacking the coins neatly on the counter. “You ought to take her to the Guild,” he mused. “They know a thing or two about guiding young magic.”

“Thanks.” I forced a smile, collecting the coins. “But we manage.”

It was true. We managed—just barely.

I stacked the coins absently, my fingers smudged with ink and indigo dust, and glanced at Maeve, who had begun humming to herself, rocking on her heels. Her hands stayed shoved deep in her skirts, but faint golden wisps still curled around her collar like morning mist. Not something I could scrub out.

The Guild of Arcane Practitioners. They claimed to guide magic users, to keep things safe and controlled. But Maeve’s magic wasn’t something learned—it was something felt, something born into her. Wild and untamed, shifting and rippling like the surface of a pond. Magic wasn’t rare. But Maeve’s? That was something else.

Something that reminded me far too much of Finola.

My sister had always been drawn to magic—not the careful, measured kind the Guild approved of, but the kind whispered about in dark corners. She had loved the thrill of things she didn’t fully understand, collecting trinkets and charms, chasing secrets she had no business chasing.

Then, one day, she had chased something too far, and left me with Maeve.

I glanced at my niece, at the way her red curls bounced as she twirled in a slow circle, as if she could still feel the magic swirling around her.

"She’s young," I said finally, sliding the last coin into my till. "It’ll settle in time."

Edwin made a polite noise that didn’t quite agree, but he didn’t push, either.

The shop door swung open with a creak, letting in a gust of cool air before it was filled by the whirlwind that was my best friend.

"By the Seven, Rowena, you look like you've been wrung out and left to dry." Iris Vayne swept inside, skirts shushing over the wooden floor, a steaming clay mug cradled in her hands. “Which, knowing you, isn't even an exaggeration.”

“I’m fine,” I said automatically.

Iris snorted. “Liar." She thrust the mug toward me. "Here. Don’t ask what’s in it—just drink. And before you whine, no, it won’t put you to sleep. Not that you’d allow yourself that luxury.”

I took the mug warily. The scent was sharp and earthy, with an underlying note of something citrusy—probably nettle and ginger. I took a careful sip, the warmth curling through my chest.

"See?" Iris watched me, far too pleased with herself. "Not poison."

"Debatable," I muttered.

She smirked but didn’t say anything more. She didn’t need to. She’d known me long enough to recognize when I was barely holding myself together.

It had been three years since my father had died, leaving the shop in my hands. And nearly that long since Finola left Maeve on my doorstep, vanishing into whatever reckless mess she’d tangled herself in.

Since then, it had been me, Maeve, and this shop. A life of ink stains and balancing ledgers, scraped knees and bedtime stories, of chasing spilled ink pots and tamping down unexpected sparks of magic. Of working past midnight just to keep us afloat.

Maeve bounded to Iris’s side, tipping her head back dramatically. “Auntie Iris, I glowed again.”

“I know.” Iris bent down to tweak Maeve’s nose. “I felt it all the way down the street.”

Maeve beamed, utterly delighted, but I could see Edwin shift uncomfortably beside the counter. Too much attention on Maeve’s magic meant more eyes watching her—and watching us. That was the last thing I needed.

I cleared my throat, setting the herbal brew aside. “You’re running late today.”

“I was gathering herbs.” Iris opened the basket slung over her shoulder and plucked a white bloom from its depths. "And, as it happens, I have the perfect little task for you, Miss May."

Maeve perked up instantly, hands shooting out of her pockets before she remembered herself. She clasped them together quickly, rocking on the balls of her feet. “What is it?”

Iris grinned, placing the blossom in Maeve’s palms. “You remember what I taught you? Press the petals in your fingers, just so,”—she mimed crushing the delicate bloom lightly—"until the oil seeps out. Then bring it to me."

Maeve nodded solemnly and scurried to the side table, setting to work with all the careful determination of an apprentice given their first real task.

Edwin gave a small chuckle, adjusting his satchel over his shoulder. “She’ll make a fine herbalist yet,” he mused.

“Over my dead body,” I muttered, swiping the cloth over a faint smear of ink on the counter. The last thing this family needed was another Byrne chasing power she couldn’t control.

And the last thing I needed was to see history repeat itself in a girl with golden hands and my sister’s smile.

“Well,” Edwin said, clearing his throat. “As always, Rowena, your inks remain the finest in Everwood.”

“Glad to hear it,” I replied. “Safe journey back.”

He gave a polite nod before seeing himself out, the shop door swinging shut behind him, leaving only the scent of parchment and old vellum in his wake.

Iris wasted no time. “You’re exhausted,” she declared, perching on the edge of my counter and folding her arms.

“I’m fine.”

“I know when you’re lying. You’ve got that tight little line between your brows.”

I exhaled through my nose, turning my attention to the shop ledger, though the numbers swam before me. “Of course, I’m exhausted. Taxes are higher than last season, orders are thinning, and Maeve needs boots that actually cover her ankles before the autumn rains come.” I snapped the ledger closed. “What would you have me do instead? Close up the shop? Let my father’s work fade into nothing?”

Iris softened, reaching for the discarded herbal brew and pressing it into my hands again. “No,” she said gently. “I would have you breathe. Just for a moment.”

I hated how perceptive my friend was sometimes. The ache had settled in weeks ago, creeping into my bones like damp seeping through old parchment. At first, I told myself it was just the season changing, the lingering chill of early autumn clinging to my skin. But then came the headaches, the moments where my vision swam if I stood too fast, the way my hands had started to tremble if I worked too late into the night. I’d been tired before. This was something else.

I settled onto the rarely used stool behind the counter and took another sip of the tonic.

Iris beamed like she’d won a battle. “You know, you let yourself dream once,” she mused. “What happened to that?”

“I was fifteen,” I muttered, rolling my eyes.

“You used to scribble notes in your margins,” she continued. “Maps. Routes. Places beyond Everwood.”

I swallowed, heat curling low in my chest. “That was before,” I said. My fingers curled around the cup, absorbing its warmth. “Before Finn left.”

Iris didn’t flinch. "Before Finn left," she echoed, her voice softer now. "Before May. Before the shop became more weight than dream."

I stared into my cup, willing the warmth to seep deeper, past my fingers and into the knots in my chest. "Dreams don’t keep a roof over our heads," I murmured. "They don't pay rising taxes, or buy boots that fit."

"No," Iris admitted. "But they keep people alive in other ways."

I snorted, shaking my head, but I didn't argue.

Across the shop, Maeve let out an exaggerated sigh. "This is hard," she declared, holding up her pinched fingers. "Sticky.”

"That's how you know it's working," Iris said with a knowing smile. "Keep at it."

Maeve groaned dramatically but went back to mashing the petals between her fingers, whispering something to herself as she worked. Watching her, the weight in my chest eased—just a little.

Iris nudged me lightly with her elbow. "Humor me," she said. "If things were different. If you didn’t have the shop, or taxes, or—" she waved a vague hand toward Maeve, "—responsibilities aside, where would you go?"

I almost didn't answer. But the words were there, waiting. "Valara," I said. "The floating markets. The old inkwells along the Black River." I hesitated, lowering my voice. "The Forgotten Library."

Iris let out a soft laugh, something knowing glinting in her gaze. "You still think it's real."

I lifted a brow. "And you don’t?"

She shrugged, but there was mischief in the motion. "If it is, you're the one most likely to find it."

I scoffed, setting my cup down. "Not in this lifetime."

"Not with that attitude."

"Iris."

She grinned. "What? Just saying, nothing is impossible. Stranger things have happened than a lost library waiting to be found."

Some part of me wanted to argue, to cite logic, reason, the practical truths of my life. But another part of me, smaller and quieter, wanted to believe her. I could almost picture it—almost feel the pull of it.

But then—

"Oh, rot!" I shot up so quickly that the tonic nearly sloshed over the rim.

Iris blinked. "That’s a strong reaction to self-reflection."

"No," I groaned, already moving toward the back counter. "Corwin’s parchment stall—I was supposed to pick up an order before midday."

I dug through the mess of receipts and ledgers, my pulse kicking up as I realized just how late it had gotten.

"If I don’t get there soon, he’ll sell it to someone else," I muttered.

Iris sighed, leaning back. "Rowena—"

"Not a word," I warned, already reaching for my coin pouch.

"Just saying, if you keep running yourself ragged, one day your body’s going to force you to stop."

I waved her off, bending down to scoop Maeve into my arms. "And yet today is not that day."

Maeve, delighted at being hoisted into the air, threw her arms around my neck. "Where we goin'?"

"To the market," I said, pressing a quick kiss to her temple before settling her on my hip. "And you, Miss May, are sticking to my side like glue."

Iris shook her head, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like a warning.

But I was already pushing open the door, stepping into the crisp morning air, Maeve still humming against my shoulder.

And just like that, the moment was gone.