Page 24 of Magical Mission

“I know.”

Her lips curved faintly. “Good.”

And just like that, the cozy warmth of the hall tingled with something electric beneath the surface.

Like the calm before a storm.

But for now, the laughter drowned it out.

And I let the sensation wash over me because tonight was for new beginnings.

Tomorrow? Well… that was another story.

Chapter Six

If someone had told me a month ago that I’d be presiding over a magical dinner party for a crowd of midlife witches, vamps, shifters, and assorted magical creatures, I’d have smiled politely and checked their tea for suspicious herbs, illegal in many states.

And yet here I was.

In a banquet hall I hadn’t even known existed until ten minutes ago.

The doors had appeared behind a previously blank stretch of wall, as if the Academy finally realized it needed to feed its new students.

And what a dining room.

The ceilings arched high above like a cathedral, but instead of stone or timber, they shimmered with a celestial mural that moved with the hour. Right now, stars lazily blinked overhead in a navy sky that occasionally shimmered with glowing constellations.

The long tables curved in a gentle spiral, instead of the usual straight lines, because the room itself encouraged everyone to face each other, to talk, to laugh, to lean in.

And they were.

Oh, they were.

The hum of voices was a joyful buzz punctuated by bursts of laughter. There was the occasional clang of a goblet tipping over, and someone explained gently to a kitchen sprite that sheneededher squash flambéed.

I didn’t even know that was a thing.

The kitchen sprites were everywhere. Never taller than a teapot, moving in bursts of speed and sparkle, their hats askew, their expressions deeply judgmental. They balanced platters taller than themselves and delivered everything from smoked walleye pies to levitating cheese platters, never missing a beat.

One glared at me when I tried to help.

“Hands off, Headmistress!” it squeaked in a voice like old parchment. “You're not cleared for soup duty!”

And that was when I realized how easily I understood sprites now.

I was stunned that I could understand it. Usually, we communicated in hand gestures and things getting shoved in my face.

I blinked. “I didn’t even touch the ladle—”

The sprite narrowed its eyes and pointed two fingers at its eyes, then at me, before zipping off to rescue a tray of hard cider from a student who had clearly never encountered a pitcher that poured itself.

Across the tables, women sat in groups of four and six and ten, plates piled high, glasses clinking, spells flickering midair as someone tried to levitate a dinner roll and instead launched it into a friend’s hair.

I spotted Vivienne painting a sigil onto her goblet with melted chocolate. Mara was halfway through explaining how her ex turned into a chicken during their final argument, and I fondly thought about my barking ex-husband.

I had found my people.

Limora sat with one elbow resting elegantly on the table, listening with quiet amusement as Opal muttered to a pie that had begun humming softly.