Page 23 of Magical Mayhem (Stonewick Magical Midlife Witch Academy #7)

At least for the moment, I could tell myself Keegan wasn’t as bad as Gideon. Gideon had been pale as bone, shadows curling over his face like vines.

Keegan still had some color in his cheeks, some sharpness in his eyes. But as I reached to help him sit straighter, he pushed me off stubbornly and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

“Keegan—”

“I’m not an invalid,” he growled, bracing his hands against the mattress. He got as far as lifting himself halfway before his strength gave out. His shoulders sagged, his chest heaved, and he collapsed back into the pillows with a thud.

I bit my lip, heart lurching. “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

The door opened just then, and Ardetia slipped in with her usual quiet grace. Her sleek hair gleamed in the firelight, and she carried a small covered tray, steam curling out from beneath the lid.

“I thought I might find you here,” she said, setting the tray on the bedside table. “The kitchen sprites prepared broth and honey bread. They seemed quite insistent that he eat, and I’ve learned not to argue with them.”

Keegan scowled, though a flicker of humor touched his lips. “Sprites bossing me around. Perfect.”

Ardetia ignored him and helped him settle upright against the pillows, the motion practiced and smooth. She moved like a healer though she wasn’t one.

Keegan’s gaze cut back to me. “Maeve… don’t involve her. Don’t drag my mother into this.”

The words landed hard. I gave a curt nod, though my chest tightened. I didn’t agree. Not even close. Ardetia’s eyes flicked to mine, a glance sharp as glass, but she said nothing. She didn’t need to; the message was clear. She knew I wouldn’t obey that request.

Keegan bristled, his hand balling in the blanket. “I don’t want to rot here. I’m not meant to be locked in a bed while the world cracks. I need to move.”

I pressed a hand over his, surprised at the heat burning in his skin.

“Needing to move is good,” I said gently. “It means you’re fighting. But you’re not strong enough yet.”

His eyes flashed. “Then I’ll go to my inn. At least there I can breathe without the Academy’s humming in my skull.”

My pulse skittered. The thought of him storming into his hotel and straight into Gideon’s hidden presence made my stomach seize. I squeezed his hand harder. “No. Not yet. Please.”

The door creaked open again. This time it was my father, Frank, pushing it gently with his shoulder as he shuffled inside.

His bulldog body moved with the tired stiffness of someone who’d been carrying burdens too long, but his eyes warmed the moment they landed on me.

I’d left him in human form back at the cottage, but my mom must have worn him out.

He often shifted when he needed comfort.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “Is this a private gathering, or can a dad interrupt?”

Keegan let out a low laugh that sounded more like a cough. “Come in, old man. I was just hearing what your daughter has up her sleeve.”

My stomach dropped. “Keegan…”

“She’s planning to go sniffing after my mother,” Keegan said flatly. “As though dragging the Silver Wolf back into Stonewick will fix everything.”

The room stilled.

Ardetia’s brows arched, though she said nothing. My father’s gaze slid to mine, catching the defiance I couldn’t quite mask. For a heartbeat, I braced for him to scold me, to take Keegan’s side, to tell me to stop meddling.

Instead, he chuckled, rubbing at his whiskered chin. “Well, Keegan, if Maeve failed to mention something, it wasn’t your mother. It was hers.”

Keegan blinked.

“She’s currently annoying poor Miora at the cottage,” my dad went on, his mouth quirking into a sly grin. “I imagine the two of them are about three spells away from turning the kitchen into a dueling ground. If you want to see true chaos, lad, you should sit in on that.”

For the first time in hours, the corner of Keegan’s mouth lifted into a faint smile. It was weary, wry, but real. The worry in his gaze eased just slightly.

I let out a shaky breath, gratitude warming my chest. Leave it to my dad to disarm a room with nothing more than his blunt humor.

But it also made me realize how badly I needed to step out. To breathe. To move before the weight of Keegan’s plea and my father’s attempt at levity buried me whole.

“I should go,” I said quickly, rising from the edge of the bed. “There’s… work to do.”

Keegan’s eyes followed me, unreadable now. He didn’t argue.

I slipped toward the door, the air heavy with everything unsaid.

But I wasn’t alone. Ardetia fell into step behind me, her long fingers brushing her sleeves smooth, her silver eyes sharp as they fixed on me. We walked the hallway in silence until the hum of the Wards quieted enough for her voice to cut through.

“You’re running on empty,” she said plainly. “You must stop and eat something.”

I frowned, though the concern in her tone softened me. “I don’t have time to sit at a table and chew bread.”

“You don’t have time not to.” She stopped, turning me with a hand on my arm. Her expression wasn’t fierce or commanding, just… steady. “I’ve seen witches burn themselves hollow. Fire without fuel only smolders. You’re close to smoldering, Maeve. And do you know what happens after that?”

“No.”

“They just poop out.”

I chuckled and shook my head. “Is that the technical term?”

She nodded. “Of course.”

I let out a sigh, weary and reluctant. “Fine. Something quick.”

Her lips curved faintly. “Good. The kitchen sprites will be pleased. They made extra honey bread.”

And though the shadows still pressed against the Academy windows, though Gideon lay restless across town and Keegan’s mother stalked somewhere unseen, I let her lead me toward the scent of food. Just for a moment.

Because even warriors needed to eat before the next battle.

The banquet hall buzzed with a warmth I’d missed.

Lanterns strung along the beams flickered as their glow caught on crystal goblets and polished silverware.

Voices echoed through the vaulted space.

Midlife witches compared notes, laughed loudly, and reminded me that this Academy wasn’t just a fortress against shadows.

It was also, in its own way, a sanctuary.

The moment I stepped in, several familiar figures waved me over.

Lady Limora, all poise and grace with her violet shawl; Vivienne, still flushed from excitement about her new spellwork; Opal, already balancing two plates in her hands; and Mara, smiling warmly though her hair was slightly mussed from whatever classroom escapade she’d just come from.

They practically rushed me, their plates of food wobbling like Jello on trays.

“There you are!” Lady Limora exclaimed, eyes glittering as she took in my face. “Darling, you look stressed. Like the walking dead.”

I couldn’t help it. I laughed, covering my mouth with one hand. “Why does everyone keep telling me that? Do I really look that bad?”

“Yes,” Mara said flatly, though the twinkle in her eyes softened it.

“Positively dreadful,” Vivienne added cheerfully.

Opal leaned close, conspiratorial. “But in a glamorous way. Like one of those gothic heroines who walks through stormy castles with her gown trailing dramatically.”

I chuckled, shaking my head. “If only I had the gown.”

They laughed with me, the sound bright enough to momentarily drown out the storm rumbling above the Wards.

“Stella, Twobble, and Skonk are attending to their duties,” Lady Limora confirmed. “But Stella did send me over to bring back some honey bread. I think she’s worried Twobble might start gnawing on her.”

I chuckled.

Ardetia moved toward a cluster of kitchen sprites zipping around the edge of the hall. They were already darting from table to table, balancing trays of food larger than themselves, chattering in their high, quick voices. I saw her lean down to murmur an order. Their eyes lit up instantly.

They adored requests. It gave them an excuse to outdo themselves.

I knew from experience they wouldn’t just bring back soup and bread. They’d show up with sculpted butter in the shape of roses or a cake layered with spells to make the frosting twinkle.

I found a spot at one of the long tables, sliding onto the bench. Lady Limora perched across from me with elegance that made even sitting down look like a performance. Vivienne plopped beside her, while Opal and Mara settled in, plates clinking as they arranged themselves.

“Eat something,” Limora instructed, her tone leaving no room for argument.

“Yes, ma’am,” I teased, and reached for the nearest dish that looked to be chicken pot pie.

Ardetia returned just as I was cutting into it, sliding onto the bench with the same unhurried grace she always carried.

A few minutes later, the sprites darted in like a parade, balancing trays high over their heads.

Plates of roasted vegetables, small honey cakes, and bowls of herb-laden soup appeared in front of us.

One sprite winked at me as it set down a mug of spiced cider, then darted off before I could thank it.

“They love you,” Opal whispered.

“They love everyone,” I corrected, though warmth spread in my chest all the same.

For a little while, I let myself sink into the moment. The hall buzzed with chatter and laughter as students compared notes about spells and marriages gone awry, herbs that grew better than expected, or familiars who’d staged mini-rebellions in the dorms.

Lady Limora recounted a tale of a botched glamour spell that had turned a student’s hair into writhing vines for half an afternoon. Mara admitted she’d accidentally transfigured a pile of books into geese. Vivienne declared it a success rather than a failure.

I laughed until my sides hurt, letting the warmth of food and company wash through me. I tried, really tried, to see the Academy the way they did. A place of beauty. A second chance. A promise that midlife didn’t mean endings, but beginnings.

For a moment, it worked.

But then the laughter around our table stuttered, silenced. Lady Limora’s smile froze, her fork halfway to her mouth. Mara set her goblet down with a faint clink. Vivienne leaned closer to Opal, whispering something urgent.

The air shifted, hushed.

I frowned, mid-bite, then swallowed quickly. “What is it?”

No one answered. Their eyes weren’t on me. They were fixed just over my shoulder.

The hair on my neck prickled.

Slowly, I set down my fork. The chicken pot pie still steamed on my plate, rich and comforting. I cut another bite, trying for nonchalance, though my heart had already begun to hammer.

“Really,” I said, forcing a laugh. “Don’t make me guess. What’s…?”

I turned, fork in hand, to see what had stolen the room’s breath.

And then I saw her.

Not the Silver Wolf.

Someone else entirely.

The fork slipped from my fingers and clattered against the plate as my eyes locked on hers.

My mother.