Page 9 of Hiss and Tell (Harmony Glen #2)

Chapter Nine

S ebastian

It strikes me again that, just like yesterday, Tuesday’s storytime feels different without Milo’s enthusiastic presence in the front row. The children settle into their usual spots, but Tyler keeps glancing toward the door as if expecting his best friend to appear.

“Where’s Milo?” asks Grace, one of the regulars, her lower lip starting to tremble.

“He’s taking a little break from storytime,” I say gently, my sanctuary effect automatically flowing to ease the children’s disappointment. “But he’ll be back soon.”

Mrs. Randall, her mouth pursed in its perpetual state of disapproval, observes from her usual spot near the information desk as she makes a note on her clipboard. Even my snakes seem subdued, their usual animated preparations for story magic lacking their typical enthusiasm.

The dream manifestation feels harder today, requiring more conscious effort without Milo’s wonder to amplify the magic. When I create a small dragon to accompany today’s tale, it seems dimmer somehow, less vibrant than the spectacular displays Milo’s presence usually inspires.

“The dragon looks sad,” Tyler observes with four-year-old honesty. “Like he misses someone.”

“Maybe he does,” I admit, letting the spectral creature settle on my shoulder. “Sometimes when our friends aren’t with us, everything feels a little less bright.”

After storytime, my supervisor Jenny approaches with her tablet and the perplexed expression that means bureaucratic complications.

“The board wants preliminary attendance numbers for next month’s budget meeting,” she says, glancing around the nearly empty children’s section. “And they’re specifically asking about incident rates affecting our reputation in the community.”

My snakes coil tighter against my scalp. “One incident in eighteen months hardly—”

“I know that. You know that. But Mrs. Randall’s been circulating concerns about your…

unconventional methods.” She glances around nervously.

“Some board members worry that your dream manifestations might frighten smaller children. Others question whether someone with your particular background can maintain professional boundaries with struggling families. They’re asking if the library needs programming that draws attention to our more… unique community members.”

The coded language stings, but it’s nothing I haven’t heard before. In many people’s minds, my Gorgon nature makes me either a curiosity to be managed or a liability to be contained. They can’t see past what I am to understand what I offer.

Jenny’s voice drops. “Sebastian, they’re looking for reasons to cut weekend programming. The budget’s tight, and children’s services are always the first target.”

The weight of professional pressure settles on my shoulders. All those years of carefully maintaining peace, of making myself smaller and less threatening, and it might not matter if the board decides these programs are expendable.

“What do they want to see?”

“Innovation. Community engagement. Proof that we’re adding real value, not just providing childcare.” She leans forward. “The question is whether you’re ready to show them what you’re really capable of.”

After she leaves, I stare at the empty reading circle where Milo should be sitting.

My snakes sense my agitation, moving restlessly as I process the implications.

How many children would lose their safe space if the board cuts programming?

How many families like Aspen and Milo, who depend on the library as their sanctuary, will be lacking important community support and resources?

My phone buzzes with a text from Aspen: How did storytime go? Milo keeps asking when he can come back.

I stare at the message, remembering her fierce protection of her son, her willingness to enter a fake relationship just to restore his access to something that brings him joy. The board wants innovation? Community engagement?

Maybe it’s time to stop hiding what makes our programming truly special.

Maybe it’s time to show them exactly what kind of magic happens when people believe in possibilities.

I text back: Tell him I’m working on something special. And… thank you. For Sunday. The date was fake, but the fun was real.

Her response comes quickly: Looking forward to our next “business meeting.”

This gives me the courage to forge ahead. Speaking of … Would you like to have dinner tomorrow night? Somewhere nice for our first official public appearance?

The three dots last only a few moments before her response comes through. Only if you promise not to knock over any water glasses.

I make no such promises. See you at The Lucky Goat at seven?

That small emoji does something strange to my chest, makes me wonder if this arrangement might become something more than just mutual assistance. But I push the thought aside.

Some dreams are too dangerous to consider.

Some possibilities are too precious to risk.

For now, it’s enough to focus on the fight ahead—proving to the board that magic has a place in our community, that wonder is worth funding, that some programs are too important to lose.

Even if it means revealing exactly what kind of magic I’m capable of.