Page 91 of Magical Mischief

“You’ve felt it too?” she asked.

“I’veseenit.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “You went into the Ward?”

“I didn’t go in on purpose,” I said. “It opened for me.”

That stopped her.

“Grandma, the tree—” I exhaled slowly. “It’s dying. Whatever’s left of its strength, it’s holding on by threads. But there’s a sapling. Just one. Small, but alive.”

Her face went still in that way she did when something hit her hard.

Not blank, exactly…just suspended.

“A sapling?” she repeated. “Inside the chamber?”

I nodded.

She stepped back slightly, steadying herself with a hand on the table.

“That means… oh, Maeve. That means it’s trying. It’s still trying.”

I waited.

“It must’ve known. It must’ve understood that it would vanish entirely if it didn’t pass on part of itself or didn’t root something new. The Wards aren’t just protections, they’re living. They’rewoven into us.If the Maple fades completely…”

“The others fall with it,” I said.

She nodded once. “Eventually. The Maple connects the rest. Its roots run beneath Stonewick, Maeve. Beneath the school, the village green, the edge of the northern cliffs. It’s the quiet pulse beneath everything.”

I felt the weight of it settle across my chest. “So, if the Maple Ward dies…”

“It won’t just be this Ward that collapses,” she finished. “It will unravel everything. Piece by piece.”

As if in response to her words, a pair of book sprites popped their heads out from the top of a shelf. One had paper stuck in its hair. The other had ink stains on its cheeks like war paint.

They blinked at us. Then scurried down the shelves, muttering and squeaking, darting in and out of the bookcases like caffeinated squirrels.

“I think we’ve been heard,” I murmured.

Elira smiled faintly. “They’re faster than any index.”

Sure enough, within minutes, one of the sprites had dropped a thick leather-bound book onto the nearest table with a sound that echoed louder than seemed appropriate. The other was already flipping pages, clearly impatient for us to catch up.

The book’s title had worn away, but the inside was surprisingly crisp. The pages smelled like maples and something even sweeter.

I leaned over it while Elira pulled a stool next to mine.

The entry came about halfway through the book. A hand-drawn map of Stonewick covered two full pages. Except instead of the usual roads and landmarks, it showed something entirely different.

Roots.

Dozens of them. Thick, branching lines drawn in dark ink, spreading out from a central circle labeledHeart Grove.

“That’s it,” Elira said, pointing to the center. “The original maple. The one that anchors the rest.”

“The one I visited, and these…” I traced one of the lines that extended beneath the village bakery. “These roots go everywhere.”