Page 147 of Magical Mischief

A pull. A rhythm against the edges of thought that only grew louder the quieter you became.

I recognized it from the first moment I was in Stonewick, at the cottage…

And I was quiet now.

After everything, the feast, the laughter, the warm glow of the kitchen and the way Nova had looked stepping over the threshold, I’d wandered down this hallway to clear my head. But something else had found me first.

A vibration against my ribs. Not a tremble.

Acalling.

I pressed my hand to the stone wall beside me and let my fingers drift lightly along the surface. The whisper was there.The hum ran underneath, soft and steady like a heartbeat, but the whisper… that was what tugged.

The moment I followed it, my pulse quickened.

It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t even really nerves. It was anticipation.

I knew, somehow, without knowing how, that the Academy wanted me to come. Not out of duty or destiny or any of the grand words people throw around when they’re trying to convince themselves they’re important. This felt quieter than that.

Personal. Like a friend reaching for your hand without needing to ask.

The whisper guided me down the corridor, each step deliberate. The sconces flickered brighter as I passed, as though they were stretching after a long sleep.

I followed the curve of the wall, my fingertips trailing across smooth carvings—stars, vines, patterns that looked like the edges of maps or the ends of spells. They lit beneath my touch, faintly glowing, then fading as I passed.

Not everything in the Academywokefor you. You had to be called.

The hallway narrowed, and the air changed.

Lighter.

Like someone had opened a window, though I saw none. The scent of something sweet drifted through, something between wild mint and sun-warmed tea leaves. Familiar, but not traceable.

Ahead, a door waited.

Unlike the heavy oak doors that filled most of the school, this one was slim and whitewashed, with carvings that curled along the frame like ivy. It didn’t creak when I opened it. It didn’t groan or resist. It simply welcomed.

I stepped inside.

The change was immediate.

The room was light. That was the first thing I noticed.

Not lit—light.

The way the air felt, the way the walls shimmered gently, the way the floor seemed to glow with its own memory of sunlight. There were windows, round and low, scattered like stars across the curved wall.

Through them I could see nothing but brightness. A soft, golden haze.

The ceiling arched high, impossibly high, with beams that looked carved from driftwood and inlaid with silver. Tiny winged lights, more like floating seeds than sprites, bobbed gently through the air, humming in tones too faint to catch.

There were no desks. No bookshelves. No chalkboard or lectern.

But there were cushions. Lots of round and square pillows in every color I could imagine had been scattered across the floor like someone had prepared for a gathering that hadn’t yet begun.

At the center of the room sat a small pedestal. Carved, yes, but simply. No flair. No grandeur. Just stone shaped to fit two hands, palms flat, as if waiting for a beginning.

I didn’t move to it.