Page 90 of Magical Mischief

Some were cracked and brittle. Others still hummed faintly under my boots.

I didn't have a plan yet.

Not even close.

But I knew one thing. The Maple Ward was trying to survive.

It was trying to pass something on.

And whatever it was… it wasn’t done.

The thought settled into my bones. Solid. Quiet. Certain.

I glanced back toward the sapling.

“You’re not ready yet,” I whispered. “But you will be.”

There was no reply, of course. Just the soft creak of an overhead branch shifting slightly, almost like a sigh.

I let my fingers brush over the old tree’s bark once more before leaving. The door didn’t resist. It stayed open as I stepped through and closed behind me with a softclick.

Back in the hallway, everything looked the same. But nothing felt the same.

Bella’s story about the tree grabbing her wasn’t just mischief. It was a cry. A last reach. Not to be saved, maybe, but to benoticed.

Well. Now I’d noticed.

And I wasn’t going to forget.

Chapter Twenty-Two

The library was warmer than usual.

Not temperature, exactly, but more like the hush of early morning sunlight and old magic had thickened, layering over the shelves like a wool blanket. Dust floated lazily in the air, catching gold in the light from the high windows. I pushed the door closed behind me and let the silence settle.

It was the kind of quiet that made you whisper, even if you were the only one there.

I made my way past the tables, most empty except for a few half-finished scrolls and a teacup that looked like it had gone cold two days ago. The book sprites must’ve been distracted. Usually, they kept this place tidier.

I ran my fingers along the spines of the older volumes. The ones with cracked leather and faded lettering. I wasn’t even sure where to start. The Maple Ward wasn’t exactly a popular topic. Most records I’d seen in the past barely mentioned it. Just a paragraph here or there, usually sandwiched between more glamorous accounts of the Flame Ward or the Butterfly Ward.

But I wasn’t looking for drama. I was looking for roots.

“Not often I see you wandering these shelves without a cup of tea and a mood,” a voice said behind me.

I turned and found Grandma Elira stepping into the light, her robes trailing like soft smoke behind her. She didn’t look surprised to see me, just amused.

“I’m trying something new,” I said. “Rather than being rushed and hurried, I thought I’d roam.”

“Ah, uncaffeinated research?” She arched a brow. “How’s it going?”

I laughed. “Well, I’m less jittery or maybe that’s because my dad isn’t being held captive by Gideon.”

She stepped closer, brushing one hand along a row of thin green-bound tomes. “What are you looking for?”

“The Maple Ward,” I said. “Its history. Anything on how it works? Why is it failing?”

That last word caught her attention.