Page 28 of Magical Mirage (Stonewick Magical Midlife Witch Academy #6)

The hearth looked perfectly ordinary, if you ignored the way its stones seemed to absorb the light instead of reflecting it, or how the shadows inside the grate curled like lazy bats that might bite.

The fire wasn’t lit, but the air around it held a faint warmth, as though it remembered flames too well to let them go completely.

Twobble was standing in front of it like a stage magician about to unveil his grand finale. His little boots scuffed against the worn rug, and he glanced over his shoulder with a grin that was entirely too pleased with itself.

“There,” he said, motioning with both hands toward the fireplace.

I narrowed my eyes. “Yes, Twobble. I see it. It’s a fireplace.”

“Not just a fireplace.” He wagged a finger at me. “ The fireplace.”

I blinked. “You’re going to have to give me more than that, because right now all I see is somewhere to roast marshmallows.”

His toothy grin widened. “This is how we get to the real cottage.”

I folded my arms. “I thought this was the real cottage.”

“It is,” he said cheerfully. “The real goblin cottage. But the one like yours, the one that lives up in Shadowick, the same way yours lives in Stonewick, that’s on top of this one.”

I stared at him. “You’re telling me there’s another cottage, directly over this one.”

“Exactly!” He looked delighted, as though I’d just solved a riddle he’d been holding onto for years.

My brow furrowed. “So… you have a cottage just like this under the Stonewick cottage?”

“Of course.” He said it like I was the slow one here. “Where do you think those goblin tunnels go? My cottage looks like yours, which looks like the one on top of this, which looks like the one we’re standing in.”

“I…” My mouth slammed shut.

“That’s your problem, Maeve.” Twobble patted the air between us like he was consoling me. “You don’t think enough about where goblin tunnels go. And if you did, you’d realize they usually lead to snacks, shelter, or secrets. In this case, all the above.”

“I just can’t believe this is a replica of the Shadowick cottage above, which is a replica of mine.”

“Yes. Mine is a replica of yours, like this is a replica of the one above.”

“Which is a replica of mine.”

“Correct.” He nodded. “Make sense?”

I opened my mouth, closed it again, then said, “Honestly? I don’t know. This all seems far too connected.”

“That is life, Maeve.”

“Great,” I muttered. “So how exactly do we get to this… Shadowick version of my cottage?”

He beckoned me forward with an impatient wave. “Easy. Come here.”

And I was never so grateful I’d pushed Keegan back through the portal.

I hesitated, glancing from Twobble to the fireplace. It didn’t look dangerous, but I’d lived in Stonewick long enough to know appearances meant nothing. Still, curiosity tugged at me like a loose thread, and before I could talk myself out of it, I crossed the rug.

Twobble’s small hand was surprisingly warm when I took it. After all, we had to save Skonk.

“Hold on tight,” he said. “And whatever you do, don’t let go until we stop.”

“Stop?” I asked. But the question was still hanging in the air when the ground seemed to lurch beneath my feet.

The world tilted. My stomach swooped as if the floor had fallen away entirely. A rushing sound filled my ears, somewhere between wind and the deep churn of water, and the fireless hearth yawned wide to swallow us whole, only it wasn’t swallowing us. It was pushing us…up and up.

It wasn’t heat I felt but a strange pressure, like the air was folding around us, pulling us up…not rising, not exactly, but swimming through space as though it were liquid. Dark stone walls slid past in quick succession, slick with moss and etched with runes that pulsed faintly as we passed.

“Twobble,” I said through clenched teeth, “what is this?”

“Our elevator,” he replied breezily. “Well, more of an up-shaft, but ‘elevator’ sounds less alarming to newcomers.”

The ascent slowed, the rushing sound fading to a dull hum, and without any sensation of landing, we were standing still again.

My first breath was tight in my chest.

The air here was colder.

Heavier.

And when I looked up, the light, or whatever passed for it, was muted, as if it had traveled a long way to reach us.

We stepped out of the fireplace into a room that was… wrong.

It was a cottage. That much was true. The shape of the walls, the angle of the beams overhead, even the worn plank floorboards all echoed my cottage back in Stonewick.

But here, everything was darker. Not just in color, but in tone, as if the wood itself had soaked up years of shadow. The windows looked out on nothing but dense, black-leafed trees.

I froze, my pulse thudding in my ears.

This was not somewhere I wanted to be.

It took a moment to realize Twobble was watching me, his expression unreadable.

“This,” he said softly, “is the Shadowick cottage.”

I swallowed, glancing toward the window again. Even the light that filtered through those trees seemed reluctant to touch the floor.

“I’ve been here before,” I murmured before I could stop myself.

“Not exactly,” Twobble reminded.

The words landed like a boulder in my stomach.

“Why is this replica in Shadowick? I almost understood why goblins, our reluctant guardians, had them underneath, but this?” I frowned.

“You said it yourself. To guard.” His gaze was steady on mine now, all traces of mischief gone.

“Because when evil lives in a place like this, it doesn’t just sit in the corner and wait.

It seeps. It shifts. It takes new shapes.

And if you don’t keep it close, it finds ways to spread.

My kind here, we’re the cork in the bottle.

The shadow-keepers. We make sure nothing worse than what’s already here gets out.

Your cottage, which isn’t exactly your cottage, is the Stone Ward.

Well, Shadowick didn’t want to get left behind, so they mimicked it. ”

The weight of his words sank deep, twining with the unease in my chest.

I thought of Skonk then, unbidden. “So that’s how he could give us the map for Moonbeam.”

Twobble’s mouth twisted. “Oh, yes. He understands Shadowick deeply.”

The room felt colder.

Twobble turned away, walking toward the far wall. “Come on.”

I followed him through a narrow doorway into another room. My breath caught.

It was my kitchen.

Not literally, but close enough that my bones recognized it before my mind did. The same worn table. The same uneven shelf above the sink. But the table was darker, the wood warped with age and damp. The shelf sagged, and its jars were filled with things I didn’t recognize.

Twobble turned to me, and there was a glint in his eyes I couldn’t place.

I stared at him, my stomach turning.

It hit me, not just the resemblance between this place and mine, but the life it implied.

Whatever my cottage in Stonewick was, warm, messy, alive, this was its shadow.

And suddenly, so much made sense.

No wonder Skonk wanted the Academy to prevail. If this was the life he’d known, then perhaps he wasn’t just chasing trouble for fun. Perhaps he’d been trying, in his own crooked way, to reach for the light.

I looked back at Twobble, but he was already moving deeper into the cottage, his small frame swallowed by the dimness.

I took a breath and followed.

The silence in the cottage was different from the stillness of my own at home. In Stonewick, quiet could be a comfort, like the warm pause between sips of tea. Here, it was a waiting thing, thick, almost listening.

Twobble had already made himself busy, darting from shelf to shelf like an anxious magpie. He tugged open drawers, shifted mismatched chairs, and peered under the edges of threadbare rugs.

I trailed behind, letting my fingertips skim over the mantle. Dust coated everything, but not evenly. Some places had been disturbed. A small ring where a mug had once rested. A faint smudge on the shelf where a hand might have steadied itself.

“Doesn’t look like anyone’s lived here in weeks,” I said, though I wasn’t sure I believed myself.

Twobble popped up from behind a crate with a flourish. “Shadowick dust works differently. You could sneeze your way to oblivion, and it would still settle back exactly where it wants to be.”

“Comforting.” I crossed the room, drawn to a narrow writing desk by the far window. Most of the papers scattered there were water-stained or warped with age, but one lay crisp and white on top.

It wasn’t a letter, more of a list. My eyes skimmed the neat, deliberate handwriting:

· Flame Ward

· Wilds

· Gideon black syrup

And then, at the bottom, a single word written heavier than the rest.

Maeve

I felt the floor tilt.

“Twobble,” I called softly.

He was busy pulling open a cupboard door, but something in my tone must have reached him because he shuffled over, head cocked. “What’s that?”

I held the paper out. “You tell me.”

He scanned it, his normally lively expression dimming.

“Not Skonk’s handwriting,” he said after a moment. “Too tidy. He writes like a goose walked across the page with muddy feet.”

The back of my neck prickled. “So… who made this list?”

Twobble shrugged, but it was the kind of shrug people give when they’re stalling.

I studied the desk more closely. The chair was tucked in as if someone had just stood. A small candle sat beside a half-melted stub in a chipped holder, wax hardened mid-drip. And beside it was a thin, silver coin. Not goblin-made. Too polished. Too out of place.

“Twobble.” My voice was quiet now, steady but edged. “If Skonk lives in the cottage below this one, then who lives here?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer. He just looked at me, his round eyes unusually serious, and I knew before he spoke that I might not like the answer.

“Someone does,” he said finally, “and if they know your name…” He trailed off, gaze darting to the window as though expecting to see movement in the dark forest beyond. “Then we’d better hope they’re not home right now.”

“Why would someone keep a place like this?” I asked. “If it mirrors mine…”

“Not all mirrors reflect the same thing,” Twobble said, and there was an odd softness in his voice. “Sometimes they’re built for the watching. Sometimes for the waiting. Sometimes for the in-between.”

I didn’t like the sound of any of those options.

My gaze went back to the desk, to that one crisp sheet of paper. The list wasn’t long, but the last item, the one with my name, felt like a trap left out in the open. A warning or an invitation.

The button in my palm seemed to grow heavier. I closed my fingers around it and turned to Twobble. “If Skonk doesn’t live here, and you’re sure no goblin you know lives here, then…”

“Then you’re asking me something I might not want to answer,” he interrupted gently.

But the way his gaze scanned the door told me he had an idea.

And that, more than anything, made my heart beat faster.