Page 167 of Magical Mischief

She turned away, moving to the shelves lining the far wall.

Her hands began to work without needing instruction from her mind. She pulled down bundles and jars, crushed a few things between her fingers, and discarded others with a shake of her head. A bowl appeared in her hands, and she moved to the brazier in the corner.

She lit a charcoal disc with a flick of her thumb and layered the herbs in, one at a time.

Lavender.

Mugwort.

Rose petal, just one, the edges dried and curled.

The smoke lifted in slow spirals, dark and fragrant. It wrapped around the room like a shawl pulled gently over our shoulders.

Nova returned to the center table and selected two crystals. One was a deep green with veins of gold, the other a soft violet that caught the light and fractured it across the floor in watery shapes. She placed them beside the smoking bowl and stood still momentarily, her hands resting on the table's edge, eyes closed.

Then she turned back to me.

I straightened on the window seat, heart hammering harder now. Not from fear. From anticipation.

She knelt beside me and reached for my hands. Her touch was gentle. Cool fingers, steady pressure. Her thumbs settled in the center of my palms.

“You’re sure you’re tied?” she asked.

“No,” I whispered. “But I need to know.”

She nodded once. “Alright.”

Nova closed her eyes first.

I followed, letting the weight of my lashes pull everything into darkness. I listened to her breath. Let it guide mine. The scent of the herbs pressed around us, heady and rich. Not heavy, never heavy, but grounding.

Anchoring.

Then she spoke.

Words I didn’t know.

Soft syllables, low and rhythmic, layered like water moving over stone.

They didn’t pierce. They wrapped. Her voice moved through me like thread through cloth, tugging gently, sewing something together that I hadn’t realized had frayed.

“If there is a tether,” she murmured between those strange, old words, “if anything holds fast to the heart, to the mind, or the soul… it must rise now. It must show its root. It must name itself.”

The air shifted.

Not all at once.

But just enough to know something was listening.

At first, it was just the rhythm.

Nova’s voice, even and low, steady as the breath moving in and out of her lungs, weaving through the air like smoke. The words didn’t register as language, just sound. Syllables that lapped at the edges of my thoughts, brushing gently like waves. Soft. Reassuring.

But then something shifted.

The words began to echo.

Not around the room—inside me.