Page 107 of Magical Mischief

“In the garden,” I whispered.

“Not just the garden,” she said softly. “It goes deeper.”

She let go of my right hand and reached behind her, drawing a dark blue velvet cloth embroidered with twisting silver thread from a nearby basket. She laid it between us and gestured for me to sit cross-legged.

I obeyed.

She gathered a small dish from a low shelf, three clear stones, a candle in a copper holder shaped like a leaf, and a tiny jar of what looked like ash. She placed each item with care around the velvet in a crescent shape.

“This is a spirit press,” she said, kneeling across from me. “Not for summoning. Just listening. It’ll show us what’s been left behind. Who’s brushed against you. And whether it was the living… or something else.”

Her voice had dropped into that strange calm she got when she worked magic—softer than a whisper, but stronger somehow like the words were falling straight into the room's bones.

The candle flared as she lit it. The flame curled sideways before settling into a steady burn. She tipped the ash into the bowl and murmured a word I didn’t recognize. Smoke rose…not gray, not white. Silver. Thin and curling in odd patterns, like it couldn’t quite decide where it wanted to go.

Then she picked up one of the stones and placed it on my chest.

“Don’t move,” she said gently. “And if anything speaks to you, don’t speak back. Not yet.”

That did nothing to steady my heartbeat, but I nodded.

The room changed.

Not suddenly. Not with a jolt. But like water warming by degrees.

The edges of everything softened. The shelves bowed in ever so slightly. The walls leaned closer. The glow from the crystals deepened, but the light didn’t reach me. I felt as though I sat in the eye of something watching, something ancient and quiet, something waiting and bending my reality.

Nova’s eyes fluttered closed again.

Her voice dropped into chant, not song, not language either. Just sound. Shapes carried on breath, old as roots. The candle pulsed in time with her words, and the smoke thickened.

That’s when I felt it.

Not outside me.

Inme.

A pull. A pressure. Like someone brushing their hand against my shoulder from the inside. Not malevolent. Not yet. But not kind either.

I stiffened.

Nova’s voice didn’t falter. She took my hands again, and suddenly her eyes snapped open. Still clouded. Still distant.

“Maeve,” she said softly. “It’s near.”

“What is?” I asked, but the sound of my voice felt too loud. Like I’d cracked something delicate.

“Not a spirit,” she murmured. “Not a ghost. This isn’t memory residue or a lingering sorrow.” Her gaze bore into me. “It’scurious.”

The air behind me shifted. Not wind, exactly. Just space… moving.

I didn’t turn.

“I’m not alone, am I?” I whispered.

Nova shook her head. “No. And I don’t think you have been.”

Something passed between us like a ripple of water when a stone breaks the surface. The candle flame flared sideways, smoke twisting in a sudden arc. One of the crystals overhead cracked softly. It is not broken; it is just a thin split and a hairline fracture through amethyst.