Page 113 of Magical Mission

The air still held a bite, but it was the kind that made cheeks pink and eyes bright, not the kind that bit into bone and reminded a person it was a Midwest ice storm.

And the students? They lookedtransformed.

They spilled from the Academy’s gates in pairs and trios, colorful scarves fluttering and boots clattering down the cobbled path, already pointing to things like they’d never seen a town before.

Which, I supposed, in this context, they hadn’t.

They’d seen life.

They’d seen struggle.

They’d raised children, buried dreams, paid taxes, and made soup in houses that never once asked them to believe in magic again.

But this?

This was different.

Stonewick wasalivein a way few towns ever were. Sure, tourists enjoyed it from a superficial lens, but there was something different once magical folk entered the streets.

Magic drifted here in open windows and sat in teacups. It hummed beneath moss-covered roofs and lingered in the scent of cinnamon and dried lavender. And now, it belonged tothem.

Stella stood outside her shop in her flowing scarlet coat and a hat covered in enchanted spoons, grinning like a queen ready to welcome her court.

“Ladies!” she cried, arms wide. “Come in, come in, I’ve already set the kettles to gossip.”

The students giggled, delighted, even as one muttered, “Does she mean the tea is gossiping or that we’re supposed to?”

“Both,” I called, and they laughed again.

Keegan appeared beside me then, hands in his coat pockets, his pace easy, unhurried. “You look pleased.”

“Iampleased,” I said honestly, watching as three students burst into Stella’s shop with the kind of reverence usually reserved for ancient temples or bookstores with hidden doors. “I needed this.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I thought you might.”

We fell into step together as we moved further down the cobblestone stretch, the town slowly blinking into morning around us. A new bakery opened up down the road, and the baker’s cat was sunning itself on the windowsill.

“Oh, we need to make some candles,” one of the students exclaimed to her new friend as a set of wind chimes above the candlemaker’s door played a familiar lullaby.

“Are we allowed to pretend everything’s fine?” I asked, half-smiling.

“Just for today,” Keegan said, looking down at me with something softer than usual. “Tomorrow, we can hunt whatever shadow is misbehaving. But today?”

“Tea,” I said.

“And yarn,” he added, nodding toward Luna’s shop, where a few students were already hesitantly stepping into the doorway like they were afraid the wool might eat them.

One of them, a sprightly woman with curls the color of stormclouds, gave an audible gasp as she picked up a skein that twinkled in four different colors depending on how you looked at it.

“This one just called medarling,” she told the others, stunned.

“That means it likes you,” said Luna, appearing like a phantom between shelves.

“Wait,youheard it too?” someone asked.

Keegan and I shared a glance, and I grinned. “Should we warn them?”

“Nah,” he said. “Let them discover the disappearing skeins on their own.”