Page 143 of Magical Mischief

“Then you’re exactly where you’ve always been,” I replied. “Safe, surrounded by herbs and wind chimes and stubborn goblins. But if ithaschanged… don’t you want to know?”

She looked at me, and for once, there was no teasing in her eyes. Just quiet, deep thought. The kind that settled low in your belly and made the air feel charged.

“I’ve spent most of my life just beyond the gate,” she said. “It never felt like a prison. I had enough magic. I had purpose.But some nights…” Her voice drifted. “Some nights I dreamed of the corridors. The hush of old stone. Like a heartbeat, I wasn’t allowed to follow any longer, but I never thought I’d come back as a teacher.”

I swallowed hard. “Follow it now.”

She stood. Not fast. Not dramatic. She just rose, set her mug down, and reached for the shawl that hung on the hook by the door.

“Help me with my boots,” she said.

I did.

And then we stepped out into the snow together.

The walk back was slower. She didn’t rush. She moved like someone walking toward something sacred—cautious, measured, full of quiet expectation.

When we reached the edge of the Butterfly Ward, she stopped.

The invisible line shimmered faintly, same as it always had. She raised her hand toward it, palm open.

And then she stepped forward.

No resistance. No recoil.

Just a breath of warm air against our skin as the Ward parted for her like silk.

She looked back at me with wide eyes, and I felt my heart stutter.

The Academy hadfinallyopened its doors to her.

Nova walked in.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

The kitchen wasn’t grand like the library or solemn like the central hall. It didn’t have the cool hush of the herbarium or the precise stillness of the old spell archives. But ithummed. Itbreathed. Itlived.

Just like the rest of the place.

When Nova and I pushed through the swinging doors, the warm air hit us like a wave of cinnamon, roasting root vegetables, and bubbling broth. I immediately felt my shoulders relax. The kitchen smelled like stories of people gathering, waiting, and filling time with food until something else began.

The ceilings arched high and crooked, and pots floated gently overhead, clinking now and then like wind chimes. The windows were round and uneven, and one of them appeared to be stuck half-open. Rows of copper pans lined the walls, their surfaces scuffed from years of heavy use. The floor was slate tile, worn smooth in patches by generations of hurried feet.

And the kitchen sprites had already gotten word.

They darted through the air, their little wings flickering like sparks. They wore aprons, most stained, and tiny chef hatsthat leaned dangerously to one side. One was already dragging a bowl ten times the size of its whole body across the counter, grumbling in a language that sounded like rustling parchment.

Grandma Elira clapped her hands twice and rolled up her sleeves.

“Alright, lovelies, let’s get this moving. We’ll need hot cider, apple tarts, something savory that doesn’t argue too much on the way down, and extra rolls. Nova’s finally crossed the threshold and we’re going to feed her like we mean it!” My grandma clapped her hands as her gaze landed on Nova.

“Should I mention that I never got a feast like this?” I teased.

My grandma chuckled. “True, but I could never pin you down long enough to try.”

A sprite zipped past her head, tossing a ladle into the air. My grandma caught it mid-spin and turned to the nearest cauldron.

“Bella,” she said, nodding toward a rack of ingredients, “you’re good with mixing. Get me three eggs, a scoop of that gingerroot paste, andnotthe slippery salt this time. I want the tarts to stay in one piece, and let’s whip it up.”